New Faces in Town

A cargo vessel from Glatz Enterprises made an orbital call and cabled a pallet down to the spaceport landing field. It was a scheduled visit to deliver fresh merchandise for the warehouses, it also brought a new staff to manage the facilities.

The passenger module doors opened, a dozen people emerged. Mostly they were laborers, from the cut of the uniforms, though some displayed handguns on their hips. Two, the first out, a man and a woman, not obviously armed and in tailored clothes, separated themselves from the others.

The couple stepped to the ground and circled the landing pod. Their eyes were drawn to the Almanor, most prominant feature of the landscape.

The man frowned at the sight, his partner had a bemused look.
Bristly back-combed hair contained under a red beret secured by a nine-inch hatpin. A short pale woman, slight, restless limbs, red jacket, white blouse, skin tight black pants and heavy soled footwear. "Where's the welcoming?" she wondered.
"I think we're being snubbed."
"Indeed," thin lips in a semi-smile, coal black eyes twinkled.
"I bet Chockswindae got a fine reception." Also black haired, it formed a shelf over his brows and tapered to a ducktail at his collar. Brown eyes pugged out of a ruddy round face and had a rock steady stare, he rarely blinked. He wore a suit in Company colors: gray top, black bottom.

She sniffed: "A peasant's affair, I'm sure. Spit-roasted animal parts and wine brewed out of the weeds. Isn't that how they do things on the frontier?"

The man 'hmph'ed weak appreciation of her sarcasm: "I believe they do possess the rudiments of a civilized society."
"I doubt it."
"Let's put the crew to work and then scout the terrain."
"My feet hurt already."
"Poor Chloe. Get used to it, we'll be in this gravity for years."
"Have the men unload the car."
"Yes--we'll be needing it."
They turned back to the landing vessel. Their crew had started undogging tie-downs on the cargo containers. The man gave the workers instructions then took Chloe by the elbow and they moseyed away.
A quarter-mile to the blast wall opening and around the blockhouse into the open space beyond, a wide lane with blank warehouse walls on the opposite side. Followed the road to an intersection and down another street, multistory buildings on either flank. There wasn't a single person to be found.
Damage was evident, not a windowpane was unbroken. Glass littered the pavement, crunched underfoot.
The row of warehouses ended, replaced by modest dwellings, heavily vandalized, beyond repair.
The man sneered at the sabotage: "Fucking people had a real party here. We were supposed to live in one of these houses."
"Well you know how I love to redecorate... "
"Hah! You'll do this from the ground up."
"I'll make the best of it."
"I bet they destroyed the office, too."
"We should look into the warehouses ans see if they're intact."
"Yeah. Good idea."
They turned around, back to the tall buildings, nearest on the right had a large numeral '1' painted in black at a top corner. Behind the bars across the shattered windows there were only shadows.
A small door was inset into a tractor sized valve. The man had a key in his data tab and activated it.
Latch went 'click' and door swung ajar, swinging outward. A bright red seal pasted across the jamb broke, the metal panel clanged against the metal wall. Lights within flickered into brilliance as they entered, harsh white industrial illumination. The portal was low and the man stooped.
The space was a loading bay with five cement steps up onto the dock directly ahead. Behind the tractor door there was a three wheeled car ready to roll. An aisle lined with scaffold framed shelving stretched the length of the building. Beyond the broken glass in front nothing seemed disturbed.
They found an inventory kiosk, the computer blinked to life at their approach.
The pair reviewed the database and learned that the entire stock in all of the warehouses was secure.
Chloe: "Well that's one thing... Boss will be disappointed."
"Bankrupting them win a lawsuit would be too easy. If the lawyers do it all we don't get our slice."
"Huh--I know what you mean. This is nothing like the job at Crossroads."
"From scratch, too."
"I'm ready."
"Let's go back to the landing pad."
"Open the big door, we can take that car."
"Okay," he touched his key and the tractor gate rolled aside.
Into the two seat vehicle, nearly identical to one they had brought, and out the door, it closed as they drove away.
They stopped outside the blockhouse and entered the control room. To the communications terminal, he opened the local channel. "Calling the Firstown settlement on Cardomon. TRhis is Pyteman Daelmeron of Glatz Enterprises reporting. Have achieved planetfall and I endeavor to contact your authorities. Over."
The wait drew out for a minute, no response. He had been trying to establish communication for weeks with no acknowledgement.
Pyteman hissed a sigh of disgust. They returned to the car and drove out onto the landing pad, parked alongside the vehicle's twin.
Di ned that evening on cold field rations and slept in the passenger module alongside the crew. Chloe compensated for snores, farts and an uncomfortable seat with a strong dose of narcotics, traveled in ecstatic dreams.
Pyteman snored and farted the loudest.

The car they had brought was brand new, the interior had a funny odor that made them dizzy and gave Pyteman a headache, they used the car from the warehouse. It had a manual transmission option and Chloe drove, she enjoyed the feeling of shifting gears,the sound and sense of power.
She knew the route, only one main road between spaceport and town. Only one main road in the colony.
Most of her experience was in space, open vistas were exotic and she was glad a windshield and roof removed her from the landscape.
Pyteman was no help, rode in silence and watched the world slip by.
Little to see initially, a flat barren field on the left and pools of stagnant water lay opposite, dead dry shrubbery bordered the ponds. The area smelled like stale mud.
The road veered away from the flat land, wandered between low mounds and damp bottoms. They approached hills, round tops with sheer sides and scattered red trees. A sharp curve led into a short grade down and across a tiny streambed. An armored tractor lay on its left side at the bottom of the wash.
Through and past the hills into another low reach, the Almanor was visible on the right horizon. Then fields arose, tractors rumbled up dust in the distance.
Ahead of them was the end of a ridge, structures crowned the last summit. The road zigged and zagged and brought them into town.
Sheds, greenhouses, vacant lots, no people, they stopped in front of a green park with a large square metal building at its center.
Pyteman and Chloe got out and stretched. A paved walk led up to double doors, she opened them.
Dim narrow space within, obviously the foyer of a public building--empty of the public, or anybody else.
Walked back to the street.
Chloe: "Not promising... "
"It's a show."
"There must be somebody."
They strolled back to the edge of town and checked doorways--empty buildings with stripped out interiors. Most of the lots were vacant, bare cement pads, some held sculptures made from discarded construction material.
Final structure on the right, across from a garden space. Two doors near the far corner. Opened the first.
A woman within blinked at them, blinded by the sudden light. "Yes?" Thick blonde hair, tied back, a dusty smock, she carried a broom at port arms.
"I'm Pyteman Daelmeron, this is my wife Chloe. We're from Glatz Enterprises."
"Oh really? When did you land?"
"Yesterday."
"Nobody told me... Are you here to run the catalog sales?"
"Spaceport management--that is one of our responsibilities."

“About time--I'm running out of Everything. Can you take an order?"
"Not right now. I'm looking for the Administrator."
"Homer? I bet he's at a job site--he builds houses."
"Where?"
"I don't know--anywhere, he works all over town. Just follow the road," she waved broom to indicate direction. "There's a dozen neighborhoods on either side. Listen for construction noise, you can't miss him."
"Thank you."
"Are you sure you can't take an order? I'm out of whiskey."
"Can you write it out? I'll pick it up before we leave town."
"Yeah, okay... must be some paper around here." She went to the desk at her rear and rummaged drawers.
Chloe and Pyteman turned away, walked back to the car.
Chloe: m"If that's an example of local intelligence, we'll take this place over in no time."
"The town idiot. That's why she's doing menial work."
"What in all of the Galaxy possesses people to start these colonies?"
"Insanity, I suppose."
"Let's find the people we need to kill and get the job done. I don't want to wither away out in the boondocks."
"Patience, Chloe. This is a delicate job, we'll handle it with finesse. There may not even be any killing."
"Then why send us?"
"I wish you had studies the intelligence the Company gave us. There is high level Planetary Foundation interest in this colony because of some disaster--it's how the Boss got involved with the place. Everything we do, especially killing, must appear of indigenous origin. Glatz Enterprises must come out spotless."
"I feel naked without a crowd. How will we operate?"
"By making friends."
"I'm goood at that. But Chloe... "
"Yes?"
"Don't get pregnant."
"Why not? We made a lot off of that last kid."
"There's no market in a town this small."
"Yeah. I guess you're right. I'll be careful."
"It might help our plans if you make it dangerous. Tell your boyfriends that I'm insanely jealous--I'm a killer."
"I know you are."
"Make your sweethearts believe it."
"What about you?"
"The spaceport manager has to present an aura of refined power and stability--like a banker. I won't be able to socialize directly. Pyteman and Mrs. Daelmeron are here to show the bumpkins a few manners."
"'Pyteman and Mrs. Daelmeron?'" Chloe giggled. "The demur and dutiful wife?--I can play it, I can play anything."
"It's why I married you."
"Very useful, huh?"
"You've had fun, and gotten rich."
She still laughed: "Yeah... Rich... "
Like most of her humor, Pyteman didn't get it.

Neighborhoods were on spur roads that sprouted cul-de-sacs, uphill to view lots, downhill to sheltered dells and tumbling creeks. The main road adhered to the top of the steepest slopes on the narrow ridge, looped between hills and flats. Tall trees crowned the summits, brush filled the canyons, there was a stream every couple hundred yards. Home construction and remodeling went on all over. Homer Blairsden contracted three of the jobs but none of the crews had seen him that day
After two hours of dead end roads Chloe needed a rest and Pyteman took the wheel. He switched the systems to automatic and operated with no hands.
The forested landscape reminded her of children's stories from long ago, she wanted to see fantastical creatures and valiant heroes. She would have to wait until her bedtime drugs.
The further they traveled from the metal part of town the more traffic they encountered, all of it pedestrian, colonists used handcarts for heavy burdens. They stared at the car in passing, few volunteered right-of-way.
Eventually the main road looped a shoulder of hill and came toward a tall structure with a green flag on top.
The tower was at the inner turn of a drainage and spanned the creek, a fence projected from its sides and vanished uphill beneath the foliage. Everything was constructed of long willowy limbs interwoven and forming a trellis for grapes and berries.
The structure was the tallest in the colony and sat atop a log bridge decked with planks. There was an archway at the tower's base and a pair of gates stood open, folded back against the fence.
A short ways downstream the road crossed the creek with a metal pipe culvert. Pyteman stopped the car on the far side, next to a patch of lawn where a woman marshalled a half-dozen toddling children. She sat on a log bench and held aloft a large book full of colorful illustration. One finger led youthful eyes through the information.
Everything ceased with the approach of the car and curious eyes tracked the vehicle to its resting place.
The woman plucked a grass blade to mark her page and pt the book down, then rose to see the marvel. Children trailed behind but didn't crawl off of the green lawn.
The visitors were tired of getting in and out, Pyteman spoke through the open window: "We're looking for Homer Blairsden--do you know where he is?"
For a moment it seemed as if she hadn't heard, so fascinating was the sight of the car. But finally she looked at the passengers: "Homer's in the kitchen working on lunch."
"At last... " Chloe muttered.
Pyteman: "Can we see him?"
"Just go to the kitchen."
"Where is that?"
"Inside, of course. Go through the gate and bear left when the creek branches."
"Will you show us?--we've been wandering around all day."
"Sorry--can't leave the kids. Bear left with the creek fork, it's easy."
They exited the car, took a footpath to the tower bridge and went through. The route curved above the creekbank, a row of cabins overlooked it, gardens covered the opposite shore and more cabins above that. Twenty yards further the creek forked and so did the path. Left crossed a smaller bridge and immediately over it the trail split four ways.
They considered the choice and a man approached from behind, he had a baby in a papoose: "Coming through!"
They hastened from his step and Pyteman addressed him: "Excuse me, which way to the kitchen?"
The man stopped and turned, he stared rudely, finally answered with a question: "Which one?"
"I don't know. I'm looking for Homer Blairsden. I was told he's making lunch."
"Is he? The main kitchen is back the other way but I don't think that's the one... There's another one over here," he waved toward the four way division.
"Will you show us?--we don't know which path."
"They all go there. Follow me, I was passing that way." He took off at a jog, picked the trail nearest the creek.
Chloe and Pyteman fell in behind, the sudden shift to a trot quickly winded them. The man vanished ahead, he never looked back.
They trimmed their pace and continued, the uphill grade was steady and steeper than their legs were adapted to.
Midday, warm, but at least the trees kept them under shade.
Chloe gave out, spotted a trailside bench between rose bushes and dropped her seat down. A rail fence to the rear worked for backrest. Pyteman sat with her, he drew a handkerchief and dabbed his soggy brow.
Silen sitting, waiting for breath.
A larger than normal structure faced them, smoking flue pipe rose above the roof peak. A door was open and noises emerged: chopping, laughture, garbled speech.
Pyteman and Chloe got to their feet and went to the door.
The kitchen, very busy and very hot.
A loud male voice: " ...and Ruben thought he can save that apple. So he jumps into the hole and the mud sucks him up to the waist--completely stuck! We spent the rest of that lunch, and longer, pulling him out--he lost a shoe. It damn near took his pants down!"
A roomful of hilarity followed.
Four people at a long table flailing knives, three others at a double sink doing something under running water, adobe-brick stove centerpiece had two attendants.
Pyteman shouted: "I'm looking for Homer Blairsden>"
Nobody heard him.
They entered the room and he repeated his announcement.
Somebody spotted him and the crowd went still.
A burly bald topped brown man, the voice from a moment earlier: "I'm Homer. What can I do for you?" He was at the chopping block in front of a pile of onions.
"Pyteman Daelmeron, my wife Chloe. We're from Glatz Enterprises. We came here to introduce ourselves."
"Oh yes. Heard you were coming. I'll be done here in a minute--can you wait? Garden seating outside... unless you like to cook... "
Chloe/Pyteman: "No thank you... "
"Go relax. I'll be right along."
Back to the bench, Pyteman's brow was wet again, he wiped.
Chloe: "I'm ready to blow the job. These people make me furious."
"Let it motivate you."
"How do we circulate with a brigade of simpletons?"
"Don't be fooled. There's a lot going on. The Boss's private secretary filed a report after they called here. He was very impressed--spoke highly of Homer and of a man called Jolrae Dorn."
"Who is he?--a goatherd?"
"A wealthy man is who he is. He used to run a fashion house, he would like to do that again."
"My kind of guy?"
"More like mine, I believe. And Fredegar indicated that Mr. Dorn is very fond of money."
"That makes him easy."
"We'll be looking him up."
Homer came out of the door, he brought a crowd. As he neared he also btought the sour redolence of onions. Three women followed him and a tall white haired gentleman Pyteman recognized from the reports--Arrolon Stemple, formerly of the Planetary Foundation.
Homer put out his hand: "That was Pyteman, you said?--and Chloe?"
The visitors rose, the crowd hedged them against the bench, they took the shake.
Homer continued: "My wife Charlene Hanson, Patty Garcia/Stemple, Arrolon Stemple and Hermione Chockswindae." There was a row of ready hands.
Afterwards, Chloe's fingers were raw.
Both visitors hesitated before taking Hermione's greeting.
Homer: "So what can we do for you?"
Pyteman spoke with a politician's smile: "Just here to let you see our faces. And to let you know that the catalog sales are open again. I was impressed by the measures taken to secure the warehouses."
"Rest of the place got a little busted up... "
"I understand it was a spontaneous civil disturbance," Pyteman said diplomatically.
"Something like that... " the Administrator resisted a smile.
"There will be an inquiry, of course. I have a lot to review. Spaceport security systems recorded the action. And I believe Mr. Corman Braye is at large in the colony?"
"Not at large--secure, like your warehouses. He isn't receiving guests."
"I would like to speak with him."
"You can try. He intends to leave on the Almanor with Hermione."
"I see," Pyteman eyeballed the merchant but kept quiet. He returned to Homer with his smile: "That's all dreary business--we'll catch up to it. Like I said--I'm here to reopen the catalog. What can I do for you?"
He got a return of head shakes and 'Nothing's.
Except Patricia: "Arrolon--we're out of chocolate... "
Her husband nodded: "Yes... so we are."
Pyteman activated his data tab: "I'll take the order right now and send it out tomorrow morning."
Hermione spoke up: "I've got tons of the stuff on the Almanor, Patty. I'll let you have it at cost. I got it in a salvage auction for vittually nothing--I was the only bidder."
Pyteman: "You have no commercial rights here--this planet is under an exclusive contract with Glatz Enterprises."
"What's commercial about trading with a friend?--for cost, I said."
"Everything you do is commercial... "
Homer stepped into the squabble: "Hermione's been welcomed as a new member of the colony. She's one of us and enjoys full rights."
"She's a fugitive."
"We're not recognizing the extradition warrant."
Hermione: "It's only a tax charge."
"She's invested in the colony and purchased property."
"A ridgetop lot next to Arrolon and Patty--you should see the view."
"She has an eighty person crew--also settling. And is interested in helping recruit other new colonists."
Arrolon spoke up: "Our roving Ambassador and Commercial Attache."
Pyteman felt his composure slipping and realized it was time to retreat. He was grateful Chloe was remaining silent, her sarcasm could poison their situation from commencement. "That is a fine title--may you serve it well. I only came to introduce myself, not dispute immigration policy. We should return to the spaceport, we have a lot of work. Please let the colony know that the catalog is open."
Homer: "I'll post it on the network. And you are welcome to stay to lunch. Pies are in the oven and we're serving in half an hour."
"Another time ," he linked arms with Chloe and the crowd opened to let them pass.
A silent hike down the path and under the tower.
The young woman with the infant class was gone. Two other children, slightly older, wandered around the car, touching it and giggling at distorted reflections off of the curved bright surfaces. A man sat on the patch of lawn, he played a wooden flute and monitored the kids.
Pyteman sneered as he nodded to the man, flute player never changed and the children backed away when the off-worlders clambered into their vehicle.

Neither of them spoke, they let the car retrace the road. It was mostly clear of traffic, people were having lunch or a nap.

Finally Pyteman broke the silence: “It’s a clever trick. The Boss didn’t anticipate them getting their own spaceship.”

“We control the spaceport… ”

“That only gives us a little power. We can set fees and regulate some comings and goings—if the Almanor belongs to a settler we have to tolerate her presence.”

“Even if Chockswindae competes against the Company?”

“No real competition. The Glatz catalog will undercut any price she offers, and is far more diverse. And we’ll extract cargo transfer charges with each ton she unloads.”

“Something tells me those fees will be difficult to collect. What about Hesperia? Can’t we get a warrant from them and slap a lien on the Almanor?”

“We mustn’t appear so unfriendly. Anyway, Chockswindae’s crew has us outnumbered seven times over, we’d never be able to enforce a lien—don’t expect the colonists to do it. It would be a tactical error, demonstrate impotence. What we need is a diversion, something that keeps Glatz Enterprises out of their minds when they see us. Brush up on your barkeeper’s skills and your friendly hostess smile.”

“Okay—I’m always ready to pour a drink.”

“Let’s go into the entertainment business.”

The conversation went still again.

Old Firstown and its metal structures neared, the blond woman stood in front of the last hut, she waved a paper at the car.

Pyteman stopped and lowered his window.

She had changed from her cleaning smock and combed the dust from her face and hair. Her white jacket was crisp and professional, draped from wide shoulders to narrow hips, trousers were black and heavy, light black shoes. Long fingered hand entered the car with her note. “Three bottles of Manton Highland Blend, if you would? And a bottle of that creamy green liqueur from Brahe—whaddayou call it? How soon will you deliver?”

Chloe: “Emerald Bliss… ”

Pyteman looked blankly at the paper, then out to the woman, struggled to recall seeing her before. His right hand took the slip: “I’ll bring it tomorrow afternoon. You have an account with us?”

“Yeah—Kaila Flexer.”

“Will I find you here?”

“I’m not working tomorrow. Can you come to my cabin?”

“I’m afraid I would get lost.”

Humor lit her eyes and twisted her lips: “Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you? I can program the car’s navigator for you… but maybe I should meet you here, save you the time.”

“Thank you.”