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Falstaff-tall, bald, dark and reedy-looking nothing like his Shakespearean namesake, had designed and made a "caseless" ammunition to replace the dwindling supply Jane had brought with her from Earth. Right now he was busy showing the kids how to package the stuff. Even the toddlers were fascinated.
Hopefully, Donato would start teaching them gun-smithing next. He had modified her "coach gun" to use a piezo-electric igniter for the new shells, which were better than the ammo she had brought with her. The pair of them were a treasure beyond belief out here on Haven.
A quick stroll through the rest of the house showed little Muda and Lou fussing over the hemp-cloth loom, arguing over how much fiber they'd need to keep the settlement in clothes with the children growing so fast. The treasured cat that Headier had brought from Earth lay curled in her basket, buzzing contentedly as she nursed her new litter of kittens; the previous litter had sold for incredible prices in Castell City.
Jane paced up the stairs to her bedroom, her one indulgence, a semi-tower room whose glassless window looked out on the cultivated land, most of the island and part of the river beyond. She never tired of the view. There was the house and the home-acre, the outbuildings and kitchen-garden, the pens of rabbuck and pigs and cattle, the hemp-fields beyond, the trimmed and cultivated forest of nut, fruit, resin and timber trees beyond that, divided by ditches and greenthorn hedges, then wild forest down to the waterline. All her doing: her dream, her seeds, her labor . . . .
Hold on, there. Never forget the labor of the others: they'd been in it from the start. Those seven women she'd recruited at the landing had worked harder and longer hours than she had asked; even the children had worked too, as best they could. The men had provided needed skills the women didn't have.
And don't forget the help of the neighbors, all the squat-farmers on the river-little settlements hidden behind thick forest along the riverbank proper-living in dugouts, scratching bare existence out of the forest, hardly surviving before she came with her offers of seed and tools. They'd prospered too, repaying her in shares of their hemp or useful plants and animals discovered in the forest. Oh, yes, one needed to have good neighbors here.
Of course, what she offered them was worth the work: land of their own on her homestead, but who could have guessed they'd all do so well? Let the stupid CoDo bureaucracy sneer at "welfare bums," not that she would ever tell the CoDo about it; she knew better.
She wished the Earth-normal corn was doing as well, but her people wouldn't starve. The pigs she had traded from the Harmonies were thriving on local flora, as were the two heifers. One had taken to insemination, and she hoped the calf would be a bull.
Now if only Leo Makhno would come home soon, her contentment would be complete.
Tomas Messenger y DeCastro was no fool, as anyone in Docktown could tell you. He could see the writing on the wall-or on the new sign over what had been Harp's Place. He also knew how to move fast when he had to.
Therefore he had the advantage of surprise when he strolled into the Simba Bar and calmly asked to see Jomo. He drank a beer while various underlings slipped in and out of the back room. Eventually a flunky waved him toward the rear door. DeCastro coolly finished his drink and strolled to the i
Sure enough, Jomo was there-curious enough to ask what DeCastro wanted and listen to his answer.
"Very simple, se?or," purred DeCastro, lighting a large off-world cigar. "Everyone in Docktown knows of your new, ah, equipment. Everyone in Docktown has also seen your, hmm, acquisition of this establishment. It is only logical to assume that your next target will be none other than my estimable self. Correct, Se?or Jomo?"
Jomo answered with nothing but a smile. Only his lips moved.
"I see you have considered it," DeCastro continued blowing an almost perfect smoke ring. "Certainly I have considered it, and come to the conclusion that I must join forces with you to survive."
Jomo raised an appreciative eyebrow, saying nothing.
"I ask not for equality with your most estimable self," DeCastro continued smoothly. "No. I ask to be your segundo, your teniente, your caporegime as it were. In exchange, I will ensure the loyalty of my men and carry out your every command with great efficiency."
He leaned back in his chair and puffed another smoke ring, letting his words take effect.
Jomo was silent for a long moment, then laughed harshly. "You expect me to believe this? You: a proud, independent Castillano, willing to bow the neck and swear service to another man? You expect-"
DeCastro was ready for this. "I am no facisto Castillano!" he broke in, calculatedly indignant. "I am Mestizo, ten generations' worth." His voice turned calm and ingratiating again. ". . . And I have the good intelligence to prefer being a small and wealthy frog in a large pond to being a big and very dead frog in a small one. You, se?or, are clearly Going Places-and I wish to go there too."
Jomo nodded acknowledgement and considered the offer. He knew DeCastro to be smart and as good as his word when it came to holding a bargain; he had not progressed much because he was somewhat lazy, content to be comfortably wealthy and safely powerful, not terribly ambitious.
After inspecting the deal from all sides-and considering the value of one Paul Jefferson who currently held that position-Jomo pronounced: "I have a second in command already. It must be settled between you as to who will have the position."
DeCastro smiled, bent his head formally, and stubbed out his cigar.
Jomo got up from the desk and walked toward the door, motioning for DeCastro to come with him.
The only people now present in the bar were Jomo's men. Paul Jefferson was drinking at a table with one of the "safe" women. At a gesture from Jomo all noise and movement ceased.
"Paul," Jomo a
DeCastro raised an eyebrow as he recognized the Reynolds off-world man.
"Hell, no!" was the shouted answer, as Jefferson came up from the table, drawing his sheath knife.
Jefferson's next step was met with the roar of a large caliber pistol. He collapsed on the floor with a bullet hole through his right eye. The woman at the table carefully reached for her cup, and drained it.
"Discipline must be sure and quick," said DeCastro still holding his pistol in a combat marksman's stance. "Is there anyone else who wishes to dispute my authority?"
Nobody answered.
"No? This is good. I will now have a drink with each of you. We must get to know each other." DeCastro went to the bar, holstering his pistol.
DeCastro pointed at the first two men at the bar. "Dispose of that corpse, then come back and speak to me," he said.
Jomo smiled as he went back to the office; Jefferson had been with him for the last eighteen months but had been getting independent ideas of late. This had been the ideal solution.
Makhno threw the Black Bitch's engines into fast reverse at the last possible moment and came to a foaming halt just at the edge of the north shore rocks. He killed the engine, threw out the anchor and reached for the dangling bell-pull in almost the same motion. The bell clanged overhead, louder than the laboring pump.
A grizzled head peeked over the ledge far above. Makhno waved frantically at it. The head withdrew. From above it came a creaking of gears. A rope with a padded loop at the end came snaking down toward the water. Makhno grabbed the loop, shoved his upper body through it and yelled: "Enough! Haul me up!"
At the ledge, hands pulled him in. He wriggled out of the loop before the crane's gears were properly locked, and panted: "Where's Jane?"