Chloe and Salyanna: Intro

an extraction from 'Cardomon'
a novel by James (Ben) Mielke

Chloe had an eye for good property and stylish living, as well as a talent
for dickering with realtors; Pyteman Daelmeron let his wife find their
condominium and she made a score, securing forty thousand cubic feet three
stories above Rim Deck and overlooking a bustling neighborhood of restaurants
and cabarets where life boiled at all hours. With financing through their
employer's private bank, the unit was actually the property of Glatz
Enterprises, but they garnered a finder's fee and a percentage of appreciation
for as long as they occupied it-deep space real estate never loses value,
it is a finite commodity in an infinite market.

They worked together as Transient Business Paraprofessionals, a job title unique
to the corporation. They were specialists in quelling incipient resistance to
the company and operated covertly; bribery, extortion and the occasional
assassination were their tools. They came to Crossroads Station on assignment
to break up a budding union among the staff of a cargo transfer facility.

It was an easy job, finished in under two years after the 'accidental' deaths
of nine organizers; and an even dozen others were en-route to prison, caught up
in a violent scandal involving narcotics traffickers and a huge cache of stolen
armaments. Everybody proclaimed innocence, blaming a mysterious black haired
woman the authorities never found. Pyteman and Chloe had performed brilliantly;
they drew the attention of the highest echelons in Glatz Enterprises.
Chloe woke slowly from her self-induced coma, vowing, as always, to trim back the
dosage next time and maybe remember some of the experience of being high. She took
a double shot of Manton single-malt and poured a second round before going to the
mirror to straiten up, sipping lightly as she spruced her kinky black hair with her
fingertips, then applied cobalt-blue gloss to her lips and matching shadow. She
finished the drink as she studied the results-not bad, if she did say so herself;
not that Pyteman would notice.

A third drink before going to the closet made her feel warm enough to dress lightly;
even her casual slacks had designer labels-genuine, not forged, thank you. Add a
blouse and a cloth cap-secured with a nine-inch hatpin-and she was ready to face
her husband.

Pyteman was at the console, just as she had left him three hours earlier. He was lost
in the markets, speculating, gambling, always losing; Chloe didn't let him manage the
joint accounts and held most of her own funds away from his knowledge. She was
penniless when he found her, now she kept him solvent, could easily buy him out many
times over. But she let him believe he was the breadwinner, life was simpler to manage
that way. Within the patriarchy of corporate power he held seniority and controlled
their professional lives.

She came up behind Pyteman and massaged the tension spot in his neck and shoulders.
"Making any money, dear?"

He snorted derisively, "Fucking market is rigged, I swear. Gotta be rich to ride the
dips-then you can't lose."

Chloe leaned in to his cheek. "You never have any fun with that. Take a break."

Pyteman scowled at the figures in front of him. "Just gotta finish this one thing-can't
dump now, I just cornered it, but if I wait too long it's gonna blow up."

"Let it blow up."

"Just a few minutes; after the next update from the Farenger Exchange. Fix us something
to eat, why don't you?"

Chloe was ready to use the hatpin but she never killed without being paid for it and
there was no profit in slaying her husband-not this night, at least, but she was looking
for an angle. She kissed his cheek and said, "I think there's fish in the freezer. Don't
be too long." She went to the kitchen.

There wasn't any fish, but there was a delivery service and Chloe keyed in the order while
having another drink. She looked at the clock, calculated opening time on Farenger and
decided Pyteman would be at least another hour on-line.

The food arrived during the middle of her fifth whiskey drink. She floated across to the
private elevator and rode to the lobby in a giggly mood. The delivery boy was pretty with
lively brown eyes. She took him into the elevator car, closed the doors and gave him a
personal tip for twenty writhing minutes on the floor. The boy delivered with good service.

Chloe straitened her appearance again; using the elevator's mirrored walls before riding
back up to her kitchen.

Pyteman was sitting at the breakfast table finishing a cup of coffee and a sweet roll. He
watched silently while she took the covered trays of fish to the counter and went to the
cupboard for serving plates. He decided to speak as she brought the meal over: "Message
came over the network-we have a new assignment."

"Already?" She went for her own plate. "I was just starting to enjoy this place; has all
the conveniences."

"Good delivery service," Pyteman remarked before having another bite of fish that grew cold
waiting. "Won't be so cozy in the new gig. We're going to a pioneer colony to run a
spaceport. I'm afraid it will be rustic."

Chloe sat down opposite her husband. "The boondocks-are we being punished? I thought we did
a good job here."

"We did an excellent job and Mr. Glatz himself has sent commendations. And gave us this new
gig personally; it's very dear to his heart. This will make us; there's a fortune in
bounties offered, plus bonuses and incentives; we're taking two percent of a catalog outlet
just for base pay."

Chloe stopped eating and listened, money talk always commanded her attention. "So what is
the situation?"

"Pretty bad. Do you know Corman Braye? He's a company operative, not very bright."

"No, but continue."

"He's running the concession on this place-they call it 'Cardomon', like a spice-he's
running it into the ground. Bad labor situation, interference from colonists-very poor
discipline all around it sounds like. There are some runaway Glatz personnel-that's the
bounties-and bad attitudes in need of correction."

"Sounds complicated and political, maybe dangerous. What will we do?" Chloe forked a piece
of fish and dragged it through the congealing sauce, took it with a bite of bread from her
other hand.

"Basic subversion; tangle up their leaders-get everybody obliged to Glatz and work our way
in to the targets. We'll be there for years, I'm sure. We'll need to gather a lot of
intelligence before making a plan. The long range goal is complete takeover. Mr. Glatz has
a personal interest-a feud against one of the colonists; she's dead, I think, but left some
friends he wants justice from."

Chloe chuckled, "The Boss has woman trouble? What did she do?"

"Drew a knife on him and threw him into some mud-I didn't get a clear story but it's not a
bedroom drama. Some old grudge surfacing; you know, the Big Houses on Brahe-maybe it was
an assassination attempt."

"Old Money." She sneered. "All they do is sneak and fight and backstab."

"Keeps us employed."

"Get us killed some day, but we're living well until then." Chloe looked
down at her fish, which she'd scarcely eaten. It was all mashed and minced
by her fork; breadcrumbs coated it like dandruff. The sight violated her
senses and turned her off. The poor fish had even been tasty, she remembered,
now it was a drunk's vomit on the sidewalk, as far as she was concerned.

She rose and gathered her plate, taking it to the sink. The whiskey bottle
was conveniently at hand.

Pyteman kept eating, full of gusto. Cold, hot, fresh, or preserved, Pyteman
loved fish.


They departed two weeks later, taking a fast cruiser to rendezvous with a
corporate courier ship-The Lasher-bound for Cardomon. Then they had eleven
months in transit and used the time to study reports from Corman Braye and
the intelligence he gleaned about the colony. It was skimpy reading.

Chloe killed time and her senses with exotic drugs. She was extremely
interested in an order of hallucinogens derived from neurotoxins found in
natural organisms, refinements of otherwise deadly molecules that induced
ecstatic dreams. It was her only reliable method of getting to sleep.

Pyteman didn't miss her consciousness and understood that he was physically
safer when she was comatose. Chloe was as cold as deep space, but every once
and again her inner psychopath erupted. Marriage for him wasn't a personal
relationship, only a professional association. Someday he expected the
association to end, violently. Pyteman intended to be the survivor,
but so did Chloe.


Bred and born in a brothel, property of Glatz Enterprises from before conception,
Salyanna was raised to be a sex slave. She never saw her mother; they put her in
a nursery at birth, and fed her eroticising hormones all of her infant days,
growing breasts and enlarged vulva before she could walk. All of her toys were
phalluses. She was sexually initiated at age four and learned quickly that her
function in life was pleasing men. Thanks to the hormones and drugs she was
physically able to endure the constant violation of her body and if she worked with
appropriate enthusiasm-as they had trained her-she earned other drugs, the kind that
take away pain and make a mind numb. She enjoyed those drugs immensely, working long
hours for extra doses, living for the sensation of nullification. A good high felt
like years of comfort, snuggly, warm, and dreamy, the day's labor became an abstract
thing that happened to somebody else. It was the only life she knew, and she thought
it was good. It was true that the men were so often violent, many beat her without
even taking sex, and she was certain to be killed one day, but that was simply the
way of things.

Cloistered in the brothels she never saw the outside world, travelling to new planets
was a meaningless experience-just another boudoir-the same day's routine-waking, drugs,
food, housekeeping, drugs, work, drugs, work, drugs, work, drugs, drugs, drugs, sleep.
If she paid attention, she noticed that sometimes the clients were all farm workers,
and at other times miners prevailed, or spacemen-it made little difference to her, but
often they talked about themselves and they expected her to listen. Every now and then
a man claimed her as wife and he would fight off the other clients, leading to deadly
brawls that bookmakers covered-it was an extra revenue line for the pimps. She thought
the fights were thrilling and was honored to be in such demand, and usually the victor
was too exhausted to make her work-some even died in her arms, succumbing to their wounds.

Salyanna never worried about the quality of her life until she came to Cardomon.

By then she was a veteran brothel babe, no longer a little girl, but still smooth and
tender, her hypertrophic breasts and buttocks not yet sagging, her battered hips and knees
were intact. But her spine was starting to collapse from the unbalanced load on her chest
and she was actually growing shorter, humping her shoulders forward-old age was creeping up.
She had no idea of her age but an observer might think she was twenty standard years old.
The accountants with Glatz Enterprises assumed a twenty-five year life span for prostitutes
born into corporate service.

She noticed immediately that the brothel on Cardomon was a shabby place, small and hastily
built-no silk sheets here. The men were heavy laborers, taking their pleasure quickly,
rough and raw, speaking little, shuffling mechanically through her crib. She had four
cribmates: Kreesha, Honi, an old friend, Sinmin, and a eunuch boy half her age, Mabutu. Like
all cribs they formed a family, living together, chattering day and night, soothing each
other's hurts and sharing the good drugs. Kreesha sang sweet lullabies and Sinmin gave
massages, Mabutu was wonderful with cosmetics and hair styling and did makeovers for fun,
Honi and Salyanna danced. It wasn't the best of her times, but far from the worst.

Brothel babes never eat much and the reduced rations went unnoticed initially, but after a
time she discovered that she was constantly hungry- even when she was stoned. She felt tired
more easily and the work suddenly became a challenge. The men grew edgier, difficult to
satisfy, more violent as the weeks dragged on and she couldn't sleep. Narcotics kept her
physically numb, but weariness overtook her soul.

Then she heard stories of men running away, of a guard being killed-astonishing stories-why
would anybody behave so? Other men told her of dreams of leaving the farm, that people on
Cardomon waited to give them a home and a life of their own. She heard a word-freedom-and
she hated the sound of it, it made no sense. Without the brothel she had no home, no family,
no food, no drugs-where would these come from if she were alone? Her cribmates agreed, but
one or two babes also talked of a life outside, talked about freedom and of a different kind
of family. Those women cried often and were prone to suicide, Salyanna concluded that freedom
was a dangerous type of crazy, nothing she wanted any part of.

And the morning came, a late morning; she finished work only an hour before sunrise, when it
all turned inside out. Sleeping, strange noises woke her-a siren, gunfire, voices raised in
the emotions of combat. The whole crib went to the window and looked past the bars-bright
lights swept the yards. There was more gunfire and the window glass shattered, spraying the
room with splinters.

The cribmates all dropped to the floor, screaming. Mabutu crawled to the door, Salyanna
crawled behind a bed, pulling the mattress over her head, the other three women were
frozen with fear.

Mabutu yanked the door ajar just as the explosion tore through the brothel, he fell down
again and flames roared over his head. The brothel burned, filling with hot smoke, choking,
scorching, Salyanna heard screams and huddled under the mattress, wedged into a corner of
the room, waiting to die. The smoke filtered in to her, burning her eyes, she shielded her
face in the crook of her left elbow, coughing.

There were hands grabbing her, pulling her away; sharp voices and strange faces of well-fed
people. They made her run to a place and then sit on the ground, asked her questions she
didn't understand and left her alone with other fire refugees.

She looked around and saw Mabutu sitting by himself. His silky black hair was singed, curling
up oddly around his head, his face covered in soot, he wore only knee-length shorts. She was
in a slip and her feet were bare, the rough tarmac scraped as she hurried over to him. They
hugged and sat together, crying.

The sun came up, the fires died, people stopped rushing and hustling, somebody noticed the
refugees and brought them food. They slept most of the day, lying on a blanket on the shady
side of a shed. After dinner, the hour when work normally begins with a hit of bracing drugs,
Salyanna fell ill, shivering feverishly and doubled over in stomach pain. Mabutu understood
withdrawal and nursed her, cooling her brow with damp rags, and holding her through the
violent spasms. It was a long sleepless night for them, turning cold by dawn, huddled under
the blanket. At sunrise Chowder came for them; he and Mabutu carried Salyanna to a bench seat
hanging from the rear of a tractor for a long bumpy ride to the Vale.

Anxious for his only friend, Mabutu scarcely noticed the welcome party, only taking interest
in the food-Salyanna couldn't eat but his appetite remained healthy. After the meal he
helped put her onto one of the two wheeled hand carts for the remainder of the trip. He
tried to jog alongside but the pace, even going downhill, winded his unconditioned body. He
made the porters stop the cart and take him onboard.

Mabutu rode with her to Branch House and demanded shared quarters; keeper of the Branch House
Synoveh put them in a children's bunkroom, separate from the other refugees. Mabutu sat up at
Salyanna's bedside, comforting her and keeping her clean. The Branch House family: Synoveh
and Marcus, their children, baby Sunrah and the rambler Luvin; Luenda, Peter, and the toddler
Edzelian; Taralisa and Suthra, with their kids, Rajin, Mellisa, and Amelia; and the tall dark
bachelor, Achen, tended them-all becoming familiar faces to Mabutu. He chattered with them
childishly, but cagily, watching them, giving little of himself and Salyanna.


Ten weeks before reaching Cardomon word arrived over the corporate network that Corman
Braye's concession was completely destroyed by hostile colonists. There was a sudden
increase to the roster of runaway Glatz personnel, and a significant increase in the
bounties offered for fugitive heads-dead or alive. But their work on Cardomon would start
from scratch, beginning with an emergency requisition of seven security officers from the
Lasher for a skeleton crew to operate the spaceport.


The sight of a new, older, boy, invading his territory stunned Luvin. For the first days,
while Mabutu was preoccupied with Salyanna's condition, Luvin watched him silently, summing
him up. In absolute years the newcomer was twice Luvin's age, but short and slight, with
underdeveloped musculature. And Luvin had his father's heavy muscles, with a short-necked,
blocky construction-a wrestler's build. He was used to intimidating the other kids; he liked
to knock them down, sit astride their chest and shake them by their hair, laughing at their
impotent resistance. He decided that the new kid must be taught who was boss.

Once Mabutu was going abroad and learning the terrain, Luvin found his moment, confronting
him behind the classroom, in the runway leading to the toilet shed. No adults were in sight;
Luvin waited behind a tree, popping out in front of the quarry as he went to the shed.

"Hey, wait up," Luvin said.

Startled, Mabutu almost stumbled. "Hi, what's going on?"

"Why are you in my house?" Luvin stepped up into his face.

Mabutu fell back a step and the antagonist stayed in close. "They told me to stay here-I think
it was your parents."

"Well, it's my house."

"Yeah, you said." Mabutu was still retreating.

"Don't you have a place?"

"No."

"I don't like you, you're weird."

"I'm just a kid."

"I'm the big kid here-you're just a punk." He lashed his right hand out, palm forward,
bashing the older boy's chest.

"Hey, that hurt!"

Luvin slammed him a second time. "Yeah? Do something about it."

Mabutu tried to hit back but Luvin dodged then came back with a two-handed blow in the
center of Mabutu's ribcage. The bigger youth fell down after this hit and Luvin dropped
knee first onto his thorax. Laughing, he picked up Mabutu's head by the ear lobes, twisting.

Mabutu yelled loudly and Luvin dropped him.

"So that's just so you know," Luvin said. "This is my house and I don't like you here."
He got to his feet and ran away.


The next few weeks were very stressful and confusing for Salyanna. Withdrawal from the
drugs made her feverish, with sharp cramps and nausea, she stayed in bed for days, sleepless,
hallucinating, vigilantly nursed by Mabutu.

They stayed in a place called Branch House, in a small wooden room. Salyanna had the lower
berth of a bunk bed, Mabutu using the upper tier. People brought her food and cared for
her-they sang and played with children, it was delightful. She had never seen infants and
they surprised her with their funny noises and cute faces-hardly like a person at all! And
men who didn't fuck her, didn't try, or even express interest, they only wanted to help her.
She offered herself to the first man she met here-a man called Peter-and he sat down with
her, holding her in a long silent hug. He was shaking from emotion and tears ran down his
face.

"What's the matter?" Salyanna asked.

Peter was smiling behind the tears. "Yer such a pretty child-too innocent fer me! Y' don'
need t' throw yerself around any more, we love y' anyway y' wanna be. Besides," he chuckled.
"I kinda already got three wives an' a couple boyfriends-taking you on would make things
complicated."

This was gibberish in her ears. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"Y' don' really wanna make love with me?"

"Isn't that why you came to my bed?"

Peter bolted to his feet, abashed. "I came to change the sheets an' see if y' need anything."

"You want to please me?"

"Of course-this is a Hospice-a place to heal an' grow, yer a resident."

"Why?"

"'Cause y' need a home. 'Cause yer on my planet, lost an' alone."

"I'm not alone, I have Mabutu." Salyanna said defensively.

"Yeah, I met him, nice kid-he loves ya. We gotta help y' guys git goin' right. The world
is real different fer ya now." Peter looked to the window and a bright sunny morning
outside. "Have y' been out of this cabin?"

"I don't think so. I sleep a lot-I've been so sick!"

"Yer lookin' better now. Feel like goin' outside?"

"Can I?"

"Sure-Y' ain't a prisoner. Let's git ya outta this bunk." Peter leaned and reached to her,
extending a helping hand.

Salyanna put back her covers and took the assistance. She was unsteady, with weak legs and
bedborn stiffness. Peter had her sit in a chair while he found her some sandals-leaving her
alone for just a moment.

Mabutu entered the room. "You're up!"

Smiling, she rose and gave him a deep hug. "Where have you been?"

"Eating. They never run out of food here. Want me to get you some?"

"No. A man is taking me outside."

"If you're hungry, have him take you to the kitchen-you won't believe it!"

Peter took her to the kitchen and they had a late breakfast of sweet rolls, fruit and cheese,
dining at a table overlooking the pond. Mabutu joined them, eating again. Fresh food, fresh
air, happy sounds of children playing in the shallow water-brand new experiences,
overwhelming her, she was quiet, letting Mabutu chatter. He already knew most of the people
around and greeted them, introducing her-the parade of faces and names made her more confused.
But they all were friendly, even solicitous; the attention put her on edge.


That night she and Mabutu spoke before falling asleep:

"What do these people want from us?" Salyanna said to the slats of his bunk. Golden moonlight
glowed through the window on the east, reflecting from the floor.

"I think they really want to help us. Nobody has laid a finger on me." He lay on his tummy
with a pillow under his chest, talking to his mattress.

"You're a pretty boy-that's not natural."

"It's different here. They don't make you do things."

"No? What do they do?"

"I don't know, Sal. They're busy all the time-someone is always cooking something. A lot of
musicians."

"I want to get high-do they have any drugs?"

"Not the kind we use. There's some purple stuff they take for sex."

Thinking of sex and drugs, Salyanna saw the brothel surrounding her again and memories of
frenzied eyes filled her vision. "See? It is the same."

"They don't get mean like that-not that I can see. No one has any bruises."

She snorted, "Maybe they're all eunuchs."

Mabutu rolled over to laugh, getting his weight off of his ribs. "I can spot my kind-No,
no eunuchs."

"Are there any of our cribbies?"

That ended his jolliness abruptly. Mabutu went still for a moment, then spoke with quiet
hesitance, diving into a harsh recital of memory in need of blotting: "They all died-I
don't know how I got out. I ran from the room and it was all smoke, screaming people-we
ran from the flames into the shower room. I fell down and somebody tripped over me-I was
trapped under her and she was dead. They found me there." He realized Salyanna wasn't
listening, heard her below him, sniffling.

"I loved Honi," she wailed. "This was our third crib together, she was my sweetie!"

"I'm sorry. They all were beautiful-I miss them."

"I wish I died!"

Panic seized him at the thought of losing his one connection. "I need you, Sal-you're my
sweetie. Don't ever leave me."

Sobbing, Salyanna got out of her bunk and climbed the short ladder to Mabutu's bed. She
settled in, cupping his body with her fetal hug; it was very awkward, the bunk was small,
designed for children. They cried each other to sleep.


There was no reception at all for Glatz new representative, Pyteman Daelmeron. He and his
staff were alone in a vacant spaceport. Even the visiting cargo ship-The Almanor-stood empty;
Hermione Chockswindae and her crew were in town. Homer's workers had long since refurbished
the areas damaged by the fighting. The lights were on, the new staff were home, and nobody
called. Two days after the Lasher embarked, Pyteman decided to explore, going out in a
two-person vehicle with Chloe driving.


They drove to Old Firstown and walked around looking for Homer. He wasn't in his office, or
anywhere they could find. The only person they encountered was Kaila, cleaning the clinic.

"Hello," Pyteman announced, standing in the open doorway. After the sunlight he couldn't see
inside at first, only facing a shadow figure.

Strangers were unheard of; Kaila looked up in wonder, holding a broom at port arms. "Who are
you?"

"Pyteman Daelmeron-from Glatz Enterprises. I arrived on the recent ship."

"Did you? Are you settling?"

"No. I'm with Glatz Enterprises, the catalog sales." He made out her face, the squinting eyes
looked feral and unenlightened to him.

"Oh, of course. Like Corman."

"Sort of. I'm looking for your Administrator."

Kaila didn't remember the title. "Administrator... Oh yeah, Homer. Isn't he in his office?"

"No."

"Probably out working-he builds houses."

"Where?"

"Up the road, in town. Just keep going, you can't miss it. You'll find him somewhere." She
waved the straw end of the broom vaguely toward the north.

Pyteman stomped away, going back to the street. "That may be the stupidest woman I have ever
met," he told Chloe. They went back to the car.


Another hour of driving, turning back from a dozen cul-de-sacs, after eight more fruitless
conversations, they arrived at the Hospice, stopping in front of the gate.

A woman sat on a bench, playing a wooden flute, around her a flock of children tumbled around
on a patch of lawn.

"I'm looking for Homer," Pyteman shouted from the open car window.

The woman peered curiously at the vehicle, then looked at Pyteman. "He's in the kitchen
helping with dinner."

"May we come in?"

"It's an open house."

Pyteman and Chloe got out of the car and walked up to the gate. The woman put down her flute
and held up a songbook, calling for kid's attention.

They entered the Hospice and wandered, looking. A small girl pointed the kitchen cabin out.

Inside there was one main room and a pantry. People flew about, working on dinner-four in a
row, chopping at a counter-three at the sink-a small crowd churned around the ten burner
stove. It was warm, humid and smelled like food; all noisy with concentrated human energy.
The tongues chopped faster than the knives and laughter followed every third word.

The visitors were unnoticed by the busy crew. Pyteman yelled, "I'm looking for the
Administrator."

Homer was in the middle of the chopping row, behind a pile of onions. He looked up, "That's
me."

"I'm from Glatz Enterprises-can we talk?"

"I'll be done in a few minutes. You can wait in the gardens."


Pyteman and Chloe found a bench by a rose bed and sat down. "This doesn't look good," he said.

"These people seem like they're drugged or something." Chloe agreed.

"Or they're putting on a show."

"I don't see much profit here." She looked around the garden; roses on the right side behind
a short rail fence, a graveled path separated them from a row of tiny cabins framed by a
parti-colored picket fence; honeysuckle, hops, and morning glory vines climbed the drainpipes.
Chloe's cynicism sneered at the storybook atmosphere.

"Not immediately. Besides, the real mission is less commercial." Pyteman seemed indifferent
to atmosphere.

"We need to make money in the meanwhile."

"We should make out, they're good consumers, at least."

Homer emerged from the kitchen, joined by Naomi and Hermione; a sour redolence of onions
accompanied him as well. "I'm Homer Blairsden, this is the colony's Secretary, Naomi
Mukourji, and our newest settler, Hermione Chockswindae." Everybody shook hands. The
colonists stood in a semicircle.

"What can we do for you?" Homer asked.

"I'm supposed to ask you." Pyteman said brightly. He drew a book of order forms from his
jacket pocket.

Homer smiled nonchalantly, "I'm not looking for anything right now." He turned to his
companions, "What about you?"

"Nothing," Hermione said.

"I'm out of chocolate," Naomi remarked.

"I have the best," Pyteman said. "Congolese Dark. At full discount, too."

"Naomi, I've got ten caissons of the stuff on the Almanor," Hermione cut in. "I'll let
you have it for cost-any size lots."

"You can't do that," Pyteman said. "Glatz has a contract."

"Non-commercial private trade is allowed," Naomi said.

Chloe snapped, "Since when is a smuggler like Hermione Chockswindae non-commercial?"

"I'm famous," the merchant said with a grin.

"Notorious is a better word. There's a price on your head."

"Just taxes."

"I can trade with my friend," Naomi said flatly to Pyteman. "I don't need you."

"Not for chocolate," Pyteman agreed. "But there is a deal-Glatz Enterprises controls your
spaceport. If we're not satisfied, we can put a lien on the Almanor."

"Unenforceable," Hermione said.

"We'll see about that."

"You would need our cooperation," Homer said, returning to the conversation.

"The contract demands it."

"We're not enforcers for Glatz."

Pyteman didn't fluster easily, but he was almost at a loss for words, this kind of resistance
was unusual. Also, seated and surrounded by colonists looking down, he felt physically
disadvantaged. The encounter was finished, as far as he was concerned, it was time to break
away and regroup.

He gave Chloe a nudge and then stood up, she followed. "I'm sorry, we're not communicating
very well right now. There's no need for confrontation. We'll be at the spaceport, ready for
business."

Naomi asked: "What kind of crew do you have?"

"Minimal support staff. Me and Chloe, here. Seven more technicians at the port."

"Slaves?"

Chloe spoke up, curtly, "We're all free contractors."

"Chained by debt."

"Glatz Enterprises has secured my future."

"Chloe," Pyteman said. "Let's go." He turned to the colonists, "We do not use slave labor-never
have." He took her by the arm and led the way back to the car.

Once they were away Chloe spoke, "This will be a tough one."

"We have plenty of time, they'll fall."

"Corman left us a real mess, didn't he?"

"Attitudes will change. Consumerism softens resistance. Corman's intelligence indicates there
are friendly elements. We'll make contact."

"The place is so damned small-what's the point?"

"The point, my dear, is control-that is what we are here for."

"Ant hill."

"It may become a mountain."