Early Cardomon Part II updated

                                     CHAPTER ONE

Erin Koip Orinitus rose from her camp bed, slipped into a warm robe and fetched her baby out of his crib. Sitting on the edge of the cot, holding Sikar II to her chest, she looked through the open front of her shelter tent down the short graded approach to Lucy’s estate, morning mist smoked the treetops and heavy dew damped the terrain.

A second cot adjoined Erin’s, standing head to head, it was empty, only holding disturbed blankets in a heap. Around the foot of her bed a folding mattress lay on the ground, a sleeping figure stretched across it.

Her empty hand took her pillow and threw it at the man, hitting the back of his shoulders.

“Wake up! Your wife is out running already, Grube is with her.”

Chilperic sat up and let the covers fall over his lap. He yawned and scratched a stubbled chin. “Don’t do that! I feel like I just got to bed.”

“Didn’t you? You were still drinking with those guys when Chris, Grube and I turned in. I bet you were up half the night!”

“Sometimes it’s the only way I can sleep.”

“You should relax with your wife, not with alcoholics. I don’t need you two here—go home and fuck, you’ll both feel better.”

“She hasn’t been in a good mood… ”

“So what? Just take her, she needs it. Sikar never asked about my moods and we had a lot of fun. Go—be a man.”

“Our marriage doesn’t work like that.”

“Your marriage isn’t working at all, as I see it. You’re up drinking with the guys all night and she’s out at sunrise running! Grube will move in on her before long—if he hasn’t already. I can’t let that happen—Grube is mine.”

“And how does he feel?”

“That’s irrelevant. Once I marry him, he will feel just fine.”

“You’re full of plans, aren’t you?”

“I’m looking to the future of my son. Sikar II needs a good father.”

“Grube isn’t half what his brother was.”

“Grube is strong enough—stronger than you. He’s quiet and determined and no, he doesn’t blister with passion like Sikar. Few men do—I don’t see any on this planet.”

“Isn’t that what you loved? How can you stand Grube in the comparison?”

“He has it and I’ll bring it out of him, if it kills him. For a man like Grube that’s the best life can be and he deserves the experience.”

“You will kill him, and yourself and probably your baby too.”

“Shut up, get dressed. Go get me breakfast.”

Chilperic gave her murder-eyes and a sneer braced by a nasty throat noise but he reached for his clothes and pulled them on, buckled a pair of shin-high brown boots, then went outside.

A second shelter covered a field kitchen with a chemical stove. He started a reagent flow to warm the catalyst grill and turned to a bucket of water. Shivers wracked him when he plunged his hands in and pulled up a cold splash to mop down his hair, a trickle ran down the back of his collar.

Filled a kettle, enough for a crowd, put it onto the heat, put a pan alongside and he dived into the larder box, came up with sweetroot, cheese, chicken meat and an onion. He grated, shredded, minced and chopped, threw it all into the pan and stirred, breakfast sizzled. Chilperic got out the coffee and set up a large pot.

The water boiled and he poured it, he heard the gate open and shut behind the sleeping tent and Lucy Haines joined him a moment later—right on time.

He filled her a mug. “How are your guests?”

She took the coffee. “Hungry.” Went to the stove and commandeered the cooking, tossed in a fat pinch of salt, sipped, stirred. She was leaner and grayer than she once was, tired looking downcast eyes moved continually, she never seemed comfortable.

Chilperic brought out bread and cut it. He put slices on a corner of the grill for toasting. “What do you guys do in there?” He poured two more coffees.

“Fight boredom—we’re losing.”

“Sometimes I hear shooting.”

“My target range. They have tons of ammunition.”

“They may need it. There’s still a lot of folks want to drag them out.”

“The first ones over the wall will die.”

“I know that.”

“Erin and you all are saving lives.”

“That’s not why we’re out here.”

“Does it matter?” She took the pan off of the heat. “This is done.”

Chilperic brought over bowls, he took two servings and the toast, put them onto a tray with the coffees and went back to the bedroom tent, Lucy helped herself, the pan remained half-full. She covered it and got a second skillet, started another round cooking and ate one-handed.

Outside the kitchen thirsty colonists gathered. There was a log ring and a small fire pit of cold ashes, people sat, others milled. Lucy carried the half-full coffeepot out to them.

A man followed her to the kitchen, he got mugs for everybody and went back out. He returned with the empty coffee pot and started making up a second one. “Nice morning, Lucy.”

“Too chilly,” but she managed a weak smile. “The crowd is small today.”

“Yeah, the cold. It’s way foggy down in the canyons. Besides, this scene isn’t a novelty any more. People are getting back to routines.”

Her smile expanded a bit. “I had the World at my doorstep for a while. Small World that it is.”

He chuckled with her. “It’s easy to be famous on Cardomon.”

Lucy laughed. “Thanks, Sorgha. You lifted my cloud.”

The second pan of food was done and Lucy emptied it into a large dish, put a lid over it and went back to her house. Sorgha took the fresh coffee out to the crowd.

Not long after the runners came around the corner from the tractor road and trotted up the driveway, breaking pace. They stopped for cool-down stretches and went to the kitchen. The breakfast in the covered pan was still hot and they served it up, sat to eat.

When they finished they put on a kettle for dishwater.

As they washed up Chilperic brought the breakfast dishes out of the tent. He watched his wife with Grube as they stood side to side in synchronized motion, the man scrubbed, Christina rinsed and wiped. They were a perfect team, same height, same slender conditioned build, the same easy coordinated movement, so natural it looked rehearsed. They didn’t speak, didn’t need to, Chilperic saw two people very used to each other’s company. Erin’s comments filled his mind and he concluded that they were too comfortable together.

The landing pad was dimpled into the ground, a mile-square apron surrounded by a sloping berm with a forty-foot vertical drop on the far side—the blast wall. Beyond that lay the structures for spaceport operations. A mound of drying mud occupied one quarter of the apron, tractors with heavy trailers brought polluted soil out of the marsh and added to the pile. Heady chemical vapors wafted from the heap and roiled the air in a mirage pattern.

A landing was scheduled, the apron cleared of personnel, one man—Homer Blairsden—walked out to the designated parking site and deposited a beacon on the ground. He jogged back to the blast wall opening, turned and went through a door on the back side.

Inside was the control room for landing/takeoff operations, waiting within were Arrolon Stemple, Charlene Hanson and Naomi Mukourji, the welcoming committee.

Homer sat at the communication console: “Almanor, this is Cardomon, Blairsden reporting. Landing site is secure, you are clear to initiate planetfall.”

“Thank you Homer, Chockswindae here. We are on schedule to commence maneuvers in four minutes.”

“Very good.”

With the lights dimmed an optical system projected an image of the landing field across a blank wall—a camera obscura. The colonists sat in a row, awaited the ship.

The one previous visiting vessel, years before, had made a spectacular (and hazardous) display of power to announce the arrival of the Brahe Merchant Delevan Glatz.

Being of more modest and frugal temper, Hermione Chockswindae landed the Almanor in a simple ballistic arc. High density reaction fuel burned with supercompressed atmospheric gasses, most of the exhaust was water vapor and a steamy white cloud shrouded the vessel. It descended as a column from the sky, crosswinds blew wispy tracers into the jet stream.

The noise boomed across thirty miles of countryside but it was eerily quiet inside the blockhouse. It shook, and a monitor beeped at each thousand feet of descent but only a faint rumble penetrated the door.

The interval between beeps increased, stretched to a long minute and longer, vibration and rumble mounted and the vapors clouded over the camera obscura lens.

A final beep with a flattened tone signaled landing and the room went still. A red light above the door indicated toxic exhaust fumes lingered beyond, after a moment it turned green.

A quick check of the instruments showed Homer that the Almanor was within a half-inch of the landing target—close enough.

A tractor stood outside, the colonists boarded and drove toward the ship. She had simple lines, a tall black silo rising from a bell shaped base, the domed summit came to a point four hundred yards up in the sky, the body was fifty yards across and the bell’s diameter was one hundred yards.

As the tractor approached an opening appeared high on the Almanor’s flank, a davit extended suspending a cylindrical carriage ten yards wide. It traveled to the ground and the colonists drew up to it.

They climbed from the tractor and walked to the elevator car. It had sliding double doors that opened when they neared, there was a single occupant.

She stood in a relaxed posture, one hand by her thigh, the other below her chin, and had a gentle smile. Her clothes were simple and crisp, white trousers, short gray jacket, pastel orange blouse, they bore no insignia. Alert gray eyes glittered in deep shadowed sockets around a long thin wedge nose, a firm square jaw, poorly tamed white hair loose to brow, ears and neck, with skin pale from long exposure to only synthetic lighting. She blinked at the bright day: “I’m Hermione Chockswindae, Master of the Almanor. Permission to come to ground?”

Homer: “Granted. One formality—are you carrying any weapons?”

“No, I present myself at your mercy.” She bowed her head.

“Thank you, my fellow settlers insisted that I ask. Welcome to Cardomon. I’m Homer Blairsden.”

Naomi came forward: “Quite silly, but under the recent circumstances, understandable.” She grinned and opened her arms: “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Hermione stepped from the elevator, received the hug and smooch.

Arrolon approached her with open hands, he wore his widest smile.

Hermione took the hands in hers and returned the grin: “You’re married, I understand. Happily?”

“Very, we have two children, and I love it.” He bent slightly, they touched shoulders and lip-kissed quickly.

“A pity, R & R in your company was always most rejuvenating. But I can share you with a wife and family. I trust you still have the first class cellar?”

“Best on the planet,” Arrolon said modestly. “We planted vines over the winter and the villa will be open by summers end.”

“Excellent. You certainly know how to live.” She broke from her former lover and turned toward the scientist: “I haven’t the pleasure… ”

Homer came back into the scene: “This is my wife, Charlene Hanson—she’s the colony’s biotechnician.”

Charlene was not as slender as she once was, Homer’s cooking, and her own, bulked her midsection and filled out her bosom, her face was round and moon-like, hair trimmed to an efficient shoulder length wedge, she pinned it back around the ears and her eyes tended to an outdoorsy squint. She smiled and hugged the visitor: “Welcome, have a pleasant stay.”

“Thank you. It’s a joy already, breathing fresh air and seeing new people.”

The group sauntered toward the tractor.

Once aboard the four seat vehicle Homer chose the odd-man role and rode with his butt to the front glass and his feet wedged against the center console. The machine lumbered away.

Homer: “We’re still working out a few logistics, as I discussed with you. There are a couple of tractors available for your crew, they’re parked just off of the landing pad. There’s only one road and the tractors are programmed, your people won’t need a map. Unfortunately I’m still having a hard time arranging lodging. There are two vacant cabins at the Children’s Hospice but only a handful of settlers are opening their homes. A lot of people in Firstown are wary of outsiders.”

Hermione nodded: “I understand. Still, my crew are trustworthy. They only want a little fresh air. If colonists have anything to sell, we love to shop. It’s an easy way to make friends.”

Naomi: “We should give you a big reception, but everyone remembers Delevan Glatz and they’d rather not extend a personal welcome. We have a small supper at the Hospice for tonight. You can share my cabin if you like.”

“That should be quite comfortable, thank you.”

Homer: “Have you any better notions of your itinerary?”

“Not yet. If I like it here, and you’ll have me, I would linger a while—a few extra weeks. It’s been a long time since we’ve been on the ground. I’m stateless and the Almanor has no home port.”

“I’ve been advised that the authorities on Hesperia have warrants for your arrest and extradition.”

“So take me, seize the Almanor.”

“Not after offering hospitality. Besides, we’re not under Hesperian jurisdiction.”

“You are fortunate.”

Arrolon and Charlene, Hesperians by birth, chuckled.

“The revenue policies of the Hesperian government favor large monopolistic enterprises from off-world. They taxed me right off of the planet.”

Homer: “Then you’re free.”

“At a price. With those warrants out most planets are barred to me. I usually do intra-space hauling. I ferry cargoes between the large stations and make ship-to-ship transfers. I have to scrape for every load, it’s a competitive field.”

“We are glad you were available.”

“And I’m glad to see blue sky again. Thank you.”

“The next ship from Glatz Enterprises will arrive in three weeks. They aren’t scheduled to land, but a new agent from the corporation will drop. He’s not expecting to encounter the Almanor.”

“We should make it interesting for this agent. Just one person?”

“There’s a man, Pyteman Daelmeron, and his wife Chloe. They have a small team of spaceport workers.”

“Armed?”

“Most likely.”

“I’ll keep my crew away from them, they don’t like lumpers or goons. We won’t start trouble, we won’t take it, either.”

“I’ll advise Mr. Daelmeron. I assume he intends to manage the spaceport and regulate the Almanor’s operations.”

“He can do what he likes with the spaceport, the Almanor is mine alone.”

“Our contract with Glatz prohibits you trading here.”

“We’ll see about that.”

A bullet had gone through the fleshy upper thigh/hip transition on Jason’s right side, he was bedridden. Leon visited.

“How is it?” In a room of a Branch House cabin, shared with two other beds, the occupants were out, it was midday.

“Still way sore, like a rod of hot metal inside me. They give me herbs for the pain.”

“Do they work?”

Jason scoffed: “Just turns it from hot to cold and make it a kinda numb thing. Too numb, can’t feel my dick—that’s scary. I like to know it’s always there.”

With a wry chuckle: “Figured you need something.” Leon drew a pill bottle from his jacket pocket. “Chatty and me have real drugs. We cleaned out the spaceport dispensary after the fighting. I know what you want—flush—and we got it, but this ain’t the right place—too quiet. Some of the brothel drugs will keep you together ‘til you’re on your feet.” He gave over the vial, it held a mix of blue, red and white pills.

Jason took the gift. “Thanks, brother. You sure know how to help a guy.” He removed two blue pills and a white, swallowed them. “This will take me out of here for a while.”

Leon smiled and offered a small flask. “There’s good liquor around too. Gotta know how to find it, they keep it tucked away at their Drunkard’s Den. But I discovered somebody’s abandoned still up in a ravine. Me and Chatty use it, a couple other of the boys. We have a social hour in the afternoons.”

“I like that kind of society.” He emptied the bottle in two gulps: “Tasty.”

Smile evolved into another chuckle. “We need you to fill out the party. How long will you stay in bed?”

“I’m getting out a little already. They walk me down to the pond a few times a day. We exercise on the lawn. There’s a three-mile trail around the water, they say I’ll be walking that in another two three weeks.”

“Bet you never been in bed so long in your life.”

“I’m tired of it. All these nice people who just want me to be comfortable. Some of the women… ” He looked around, made sure they were alone, his voice dropped, his eyes sparkled: “Some of the women… I’ve never seen anything so plump and tasty. They wriggle it around just like the whores but if they even see me making eyes they run right out of the room. Why do they strut around if they aren’t asking for it?”

“These people think they are free, even the women. They show it off ‘cause they know down in their heart all women are whores. They don’t even think about it, they just tease you on some kind of automatic circuit. Even after all the time I’ve been here, I can’t get through to them. A couple babes gave me a good tumble right after I showed up, but that stopped, I don’t know why. I’ve been getting crazy in the balls. If there weren’t some of the old crew around and that home-still booze… I don’t how I’d deal with it.”

“How many boys are here?”

“Ten guards made it through the fight. They say that Corman and the other managers shot a bunch in the back. And you know that Hildy and Bobol are floating around.”

“That’s what lightweights do—float. Anybody interesting make it?”

“There’s Chatty, and Derek is up for fun, Rawl is here, too. All the others—floaters.”

“Are they at least acting like brothers?”

“It’s wearing thin on them. They want to fit in with these people.”

“Fit in? We should conquer them.”

Leon nodded: “That’s what we’re aiming for—you gotta be with us. Can’t do it without our main brother.”

Jason smiled back with conspiratorial eyes: “I’ll be with you soon enough.”

Infinitesimal pieces of It were missing, presumed dead, not an utterly unique phenomenon, but a rare and troubling one. For so many to vanish in one moment was downright disturbing. There was a pattern: these absences coincided with portions of It’s thallus associated with the new beings, the beings that had opened It’s awareness. It had a new memory, borrowed from a friend, of a missing Sister and a sense of tragic loss, the missing pieces invoked the pain in It, made It think with/of/like Luenda Mucetti. It needed to know, to find; the pieces weren’t merely missing, they were torn away and left raw scars in their place. It had no eyes nor tears, but it cried.

People visited often, mostly for sex, sometimes to wander, a few came simply to talk, those were It’s favorites.

                                                 CHAPTER TWO

        At first Luvin Greyn shadowed the new boy, Mabutu explored his new World. Cabins in two circles around a lawn, fountain at the center, a pond, a rim of rock trailed down from the basaltic ridge, a kid’s paradise of hiding holes and hollows, caves and climbable trees.



        On home terrain, Luvin easily flanked his quarry and kept below the view horizon. He routinely stalked the other children, as well, and stealth was his practiced motion, he was mastering the art of the ambush.