When the
Coogan
nosed up to the main central jetty Darcy and Lori were relieved to see a considerable number of people working the fields.
Oconto hadn’t succumbed yet. Several shouts went up as the trader boat was spotted. Men came running, all of them carrying
guns.
It took a quarter of an hour to convince the nervous reception committee that they posed no threat, and for a few minutes
at the start Darcy thought they were going to be shot out of hand. Len and Gail Buchannan were well known (though not terribly
popular), which acted in their favour. The
Coogan
was travelling upriver, heading towards the rebel counties, not bringing people down from them. And finally, Lori and Darcy
themselves, with their synthetic fabric clothes and expensive hardware units, were accepted as some kind of official team.
With what mandate was never asked.
“You gotta understand, people round here are getting mighty trigger happy since last Tuesday,” Geoffrey Tunnard said. He was
Oconto’s acting leader, a lean fifty-year-old with curly white hair, wearing much-patched colourless dungarees. Now he was
satisfied the
Coogan
wasn’t bringing revolution and destruction, and his laser rifle was slung over his beefy shoulder again, he was happy to
talk.
“What happened last Tuesday?” Darcy asked.
“The Ivets.” Geoffrey Tunnard spat over the side of the jetty. “We heard there’d been trouble up Willow West way, so we shoved
ours in a pen. They’ve been good workers since we arrived. But there’s no point in taking chances, right?”
“Right,” Darcy agreed diplomatically.
“But on Monday we had some people visit, claimed they were from Waldersy village, up in Kristo County. They said the Ivets
were all rebelling in the Quallheim Counties and Willow West, killing the men and raping the women. Said plenty of younger
colonists had joined them, too. They was nothing but a vigilante group, you could see that, all hyped up they were, on a high.
I reckoned they’d been smoking some canus; that’ll send you tripping if you dry the leaves right. Trouble they were, just
wanted to kill our Ivets. We wouldn’t have it. A man can’t kill another in cold blood, not just on someone else’s say so.
We sent them on downriver. Then blow me if they didn’t creep back that night. And you know what?”
“They let the Ivets out,” Lori said.
Geoffrey Tunnard gave her a respectful look. “That’s right. Stole back in here right under our noses. Dogs never even noticed
them. Slit old Jamie Austin’s throat, him that was standing guard on the pen. Our supervisor Neil Barlow went right off after
them that morning. Took a bunch of fifty men with him, armed men they were, too. And we haven’t heard a damn thing since.
That ain’t like Neil, it’s been six days. He should have sent word. Them men have families. We’ve got wives and kiddies left
here that are worried sick.” He glanced from Darcy to Lori. “Can you tell us anything?” His tone was laboured; Geoffrey Tunnard
was a man under a great deal of strain.
“Sorry, I don’t know anything,” Darcy said. “Not yet. That’s why we’re here, to find out. But whatever you do, don’t go after
them. The larger your numbers, the safer you are.”
Geoffrey Tunnard pursed his lips and looked away, eyes raking the jungle with bitter enmity. “Thought you’d say something
like that. Course, there’s those that have gone looking. Some of the women. We couldn’t stop them.”
Darcy put his hand on Geoffrey Tunnard’s shoulder, gripping firmly. “If any more want to go, stop them. Have a log fall on
their foot if that’s what it takes, but you must stop them.”
“I’ll do my best.” Geoffrey Tunnard dipped his head in defeat. “I’d leave if I could, take the family downriver on a boat.
But I built this place with my own hands, and no damn Govcentral interference. It was a good life, it was. It can be again.
Bloody Ivets never were any use for anything, waster kids in dungarees, that’s all.”
“We’ll do what we can,” Lori said.
“Sure you will. You’re doing what you tell me not to: go out in the jungle. Just the two of you. That’s madness.”
Lori thought Geoffrey Tunnard had been about to say suicide. “Can you tell us where Quentin Montrose lives?” she asked.
Geoffrey Tunnard pointed out one of the cabins, no different to any of the others; solar panels on the roof, a sagging overhang
above the verandah. “Won’t do you no good, he was in Neil’s group.”
Lori stood at the side of the wheel-house as the
Coogan
cast off; Darcy was aft, heaving more of the interminable logs into the furnace hopper. Len Buchannan whistled tunelessly
as he steered his boat into the middle of the river. Oconto gradually shrank away to stern until it was nothing but a deeper
than usual gash in the emerald cliff. Smoke from the cooking fires drifted apathetically across the choppy water.
We could send one of the eagles looking for them,
Lori suggested.
You don’t really mean that.
No. I’m sorry, I was just trying to save my own conscience.
Fifty armed men, and no trace. I don’t know about your conscience, but my courage has almost deserted me.
We could go back, or even wait for Solanki’s marines.
Yes, we could.
You’re right. We’ll go on.
We should have told Geoffrey Tunnard to leave,
Darcy said.
I should have told him; take his family and flee back to Durringham. At least it would have been honest. None of this false
hope we left him with.
That’s all right, I think he already knows.
Karl Lambourne woke without knowing why. It wasn’t noon yet, and he hadn’t got to go back on watch until two o’clock. The
blinds on his cabin’s port were still shut, reducing the light inside to a mysterious and enticing dusk. Booted feet thudded
along the deck outside the door. Conversation was a persistent background hum, children calling out in their whiny voices.
Everything normal. So why was he awake with a vague feeling of unease?
The colonist girl—what was her name?—stirred beside him. She was a few months younger than him, with dark hair teased into
ringlets around a dainty face. Despite his initial dismay with the
Swithland
carrying all those extra sheriffs and deputies it was turning out to be a good trip. The girls appreciated the space and
privacy his cabin gave them; the boat was very crowded, with sleeping-bags clogging every metre of deck space.
The girl’s eyelids fluttered, then opened slowly. She—Anne, no Alison; that was it, Alison! remember that—grinned at him.
“Hi,” she said.
He glanced along her body. The sheet was tangled up round her waist, affording him a splendid view of breasts, lean belly
muscles, and sharply curving hips. “Hi yourself.” He brushed some of the ringlets from her face.
Shouts and a barking laugh sounded from outside. Alison gave a timid giggle. “God, they’re only a metre away.”
“You should have thought of that before you made all that noise earlier.”
Her tongue was caught between her teeth. “Didn’t make any noise.”
“Did.”
“Didn’t.”
His arms circled her, and he pulled her closer. “You did, and I can prove it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He kissed her softly, and she started to respond. His hand stole downwards, pushing the sheet off her legs.
Alison turned over when he told her to, shivering in anticipation as his arm slid under her waist, lifting her buttocks up.
Her mouth parted in expectation.
“What the hell was that?”
“Karl?” She bent her head round to see him kneeling behind her, frowning up at the ceiling. “Karl!”
“Shush. Listen, can you hear it?”
She couldn’t believe this was happening. People were still clumping up and down the deck outside. There wasn’t any other sound!
And she’d never ever been so turned on before. Right now she hated Karl with the same intensity she’d adored him a second
before.
Karl twitched his head round, trying to catch the noise again. Except it wasn’t so much a noise, more a vibration, a grumble.
He knew every sound, every tremble the
Swithland
made, and that wasn’t in its repertoire.
He heard it again, and identified it. A hull timber quaking somewhere aft. The creak of wood under pressure, almost as if
they had touched a snag. But his mother would never steer anywhere near a snag, that was crazy.
Alison was looking up at him, all anger and hurt. The magic had gone. He felt his penis softening.
The noise came again. A grinding sound that lasted for about three seconds. It was muted by the bilges, but this time it was
loud enough even for Alison to hear.
She blinked in confusion. “What… ”
Karl jumped off the bed, snatching up his shorts. He jammed his legs into them, and was still struggling with the button when
he yanked the door lock back and rushed out onto the deck.
Alison squealed behind him, trying to cover herself with her arms as vibrant midmorning sunlight flooded into the cabin. She
grabbed the thin sheet to wrap herself in, and started hunting round for her clothes.
After the seductive shadows of his cabin the sunlight on deck sent glaring purple after-images chasing down Karl’s optic nerves.
Tear ducts released their stored liquid, which he had to wipe away annoyingly. A couple of colonists and three deputies, barely
older than him, were staring at him. He leaned out over the rail and peered down at the river. There was some sediment carried
by the water, and shimmering sunlight reflections skittering across the surface, but he could see a good three or four metres
down. But there was nothing solid, no silt bank, no submerged tree trunk.
Up on the bridge Rosemary Lambourne hadn’t been sure about the first scrape, but like her eldest son she was perfectly in
tune with the
Swithland
. Something had left her with heightened senses, a suddenly hollow stomach. She automatically checked the forward-sweep mass-detector.
This section of the Zamjan was twelve metres deep, giving her a good ten metres of clearance below the flat keel, even overloaded
like this. There was nothing in front, nothing below, and nothing to the side.
Then it happened again. The aft hull struck something. Rosemary immediately reduced power to the paddles.
“Mother!”
She bent over the starboard side to see Karl looking up at her.
“What was that?”
He beat her to it by a fraction.
“I don’t know,” she shouted down. “The mass-detector shows clear. Can you see anything in the water?”
“No.”
The river current was slowing the
Swithland
rapidly now the paddles were stilled. Without the steady thrash of the blades, the racket the colonists made seemed to have
doubled.
It came again, a long rending sound of abused wood. There was a definite crunching at the end.
“That was aft,” Rosemary yelled. “Get back there and see what happened. Report back.” She pulled a handset from its slot below
the communication console, and dropped it over the edge of the rail. Karl caught it with an easy snap of his wrist and raced
off down the narrow decking, slipping through the knots of colonists with urgent fluid movements.
“
Swithland
, come in, please,” the speaker on the communication console said. “Rosemary, can you hear me? This is Dale here. What’s happening,
why have you stopped?”
She picked up the microphone. “I’m here, Dale,” she told the
Nassier
’s captain. When she glanced up she could see the
Nassier
half a kilometre upriver, pulling ahead; the
Hycel
was downriver on the starboard side, catching up fast. “It sounds like we struck something.”
“How bad?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll get back to you.”
“Rosemary, this is Callan, I think it would be best if we didn’t get separated. I’ll heave to until you know if you need any
assistance.”
“Thanks, Callan.” She leant out over the bridge rail and waved at the
Hycel
. A small figure on its bridge waved back.
A screech loud enough to silence all the colonists erupted from the
Swithland
’s hull. Rosemary felt the boat judder, its prow shifting a degree. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. They
were almost dead in the water, it couldn’t possibly be a snag. It couldn’t be!
Karl reached the afterdeck just as the
Swithland
juddered. He could feel the whole boat actually lift a couple of centimetres.
The afterdeck was packed full of colonists and posse members. Several groups of men were lying down, playing cards or eating.
Kids charged about. Eight or nine people were fishing over the stern. Cases of farmsteading gear were piled against the superstructure
and the taffrail. Dogs ran about underfoot; there were five horses tethered to the side rail, and two of them started pulling
at their harnesses as the brassy scrunching noise broke across the boat. Everybody froze in expectation.
“Out of the way!” Karl shouted. “Out of the way.” He started elbowing people aside. The noise was coming from the keel, just
aft of the furnace room which was tacked on to the back of the superstructure. “Come on, move.”
A sayce snarled at him. “Killl.”
“Get that fucking thing out of my way!”
Yuri Wilken dragged Randolf aside.
The whole afterdeck complement was watching Karl. He reached the hatchway over the feed mechanism that shunted logs into the
furnace. It was hidden beneath a clutter of composite pods. “Help me move these,” he yelled.
Barry MacArple emerged from the furnace room, a brawny twenty-year-old, sweaty and sooty. He had kept indoors for most of
this trip, and carefully avoided any member of the posse. None of the Lambourne family had mentioned that he was an Ivet.
The noise came to an abrupt halt. Karl was very aware of the apprehensive faces focusing on him, the silent appeal for guidance.
He held up his hands as Barry started to haul the pods off the hatchway. “OK, we’re riding on some sort of rock. So I want
all the kids to slowly make their way forwards. Slowly mind. Then the women. Not the men. You’ll upset the balance with that
much weight forward. And whoever those horses belong to, calm them down now.”