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Donato chewed his mustache and punched numbers into his rechargeable pocket computer. "I have some frying pans that are heavy cast iron; they'll probably do for the cases. Jeff, can you do something about the charge?"
"Well, I can boost the shotgun propellant some, maybe get a medium explosive. What I see as a problem is the timer. Any ideas?"
"There are a couple of clock chips in that stu
"Keep at it, gentlemen." Jane, gri
She strolled off, leaving a table of assorted groans.
The lands along the eastern branch of the great river were low, flat, rolling, rich with tall grass and wandering herds of muskylope. Jomo and his troops only glowered at the passing scenery; it hadn't shown them lootable prey yet.
There was great joy when they spotted a rising column of smoke from a chimney, and the smokestack that was its source. Below it sat a turf-roofed dugout farmhouse surrounded by paddocks, storage-shacks, livestock-barns and a good-sized kitchen-garden. Five men, four women and several children were busy working therein. When they spotted the oncoming Last Resort, they stood up and waved.
Jomo smiled from ear to ear. "Fresh meat, Simbas," he said.
As the last dishes were cleared away, Brodski stood up and waved his cane for attention. "Awright ladies," he bellowed. "All those who . . . voted . . ." He managed to keep the sneer out of his voice. ". . . to go to the neighbors' farms and snipe from the shore, take these radios and pass 'em around. Set up schedules so there's always somebody on the radio reporting back to the island. That's vital, dammit, so remember it! I just hope everybody'll be awake and on the air when Jomo's boys come."
"Amen," said Jane.
Van Damm shook his head and reached for his beer.
Brodski sat down with a thump and reached for his mug, muttering under his breath about deciding strategy by town meeting.
Jane, still standing, turned to face them. "Now, concerning your land-grant . . ." she began.
Brodski and Van Damm sat up straighter, gri
". . . You'll have your share of the working land on the island. However, for tactical purposes, we'll need you two on an advance listening-post downriver."
The two mercs looked at each other, shrugged, and muttered agreement.
"The best post I've been able to find is just north of MacDonald's, right on the bend of the river. There's a dugout house and some furnishings, a storage-bam, two paddocks and a kitchen-garden gone to seed. We can give you hand-tools and seed. Sorry, but we don't have enough livestock yet to spot you more than a few turkeys; you'll have to hunt for most of your meat, but there's plenty of game. Now, how much seed do you want, and what sort of crops?"
". . . Seed?" Van Damm gave her a blank look.
"Crops?!" Brodski followed him. "You expect us to be farming?!"
"Of course." Jane frowned, puzzled. "You're going to have to pose as standard river farmers. That means working in the field. Now, which crops do you want?"
Makhno couldn't help laughing as he saw the two mercs look at each other, saw the slowly growing realization on their faces, saw plainly what they'd expected out of life on Lady Jane's estate. They really had thought they'd always be fed, supplied, taken care of, paid even after their contracted work was done, coddled and fussed over like roosters in a henhouse as two of the only five men among more than a dozen women.
Falstaff caught it at the same time; he erupted into howling laughter. Donate only looked to heaven and waved both hands to some u
"Welfare bums!" He tired to hiccup explanation to the worried faces turned toward him. "Just sit on your fa
Nobody else seemed to understand what he meant, unless one counted the thoughtful look on Jane's face.
The last of Jomo's men came aboard, dragging the last laden sack, and waved his stu
Jomo turned toward the first man in line. "Is this all they had?" he asked, very coldly.
"We searched thoroughly, Baas." The man automatically dropped into the Submissive Position of the Chacma Baboon.
Jomo frowned and turned away. "Poor pickings," he growled. "Let us hope that the next farm has more to offer. Pilot, haul away."
Former-captain Feinberg cast one glance back at the thick smoke-column rising over the remains of the once-successful lakeside farm, shivered, and turned back toward his engines. There was nothing he could do about this, no available escape short of getting his throat cut. He breathed a quick prayer to any gods who could hear him to give him an opportunity to run.
The Last Resort fired up her engine, and dutifully turned south.
Brodski and Van Damm were sitting in the hammocks outside their cabin, arguing over whose turn it was to weed the goddam vegetable garden.
"I've done it the last three times," Van Damm complained, nursing carefully on his next-to-last bottle of downriver beer. "I have blisters from the verdammt weeds. It's high time you did it."
"You should've worn gloves, like I told you," Brodski retorted, measuring out a half-bowlful of his dwindling tobacco. "Hell, you expect a lame man to go bendin' and choppin' all over that garden? My back would lock up before I finished one row. Besides, who's been doin' all the cookin' and laundry around here?"
"I washed the dishes, last time."
"Yeah? And who scoured the pans?"
"Scheiss! This is no proper work for a man!" Van Damm gulped the last of his stoneware-cup load, and glowered at the sky.
Brodski laughed until he ran out of wind. "Whooo! Heh! What'd you think, that all those women would come over here and do the housework for us, for nothin' but a sight of your pretty face? Get real, Va
"Shh!" Van Damm whispered, looking down river.
"Shh, what?" said Brodski, warily setting down his pipe.
"Boat." Van Damm jumped out of his hammock and sprinted for the cabin.
It took Brodski longer to get up; he was just struggling clear of the hammock when Van Damm ran back out carrying a pair of binoculars and the portable radio. He threw the radio to Brodski and peered out at the river.
"Which boat and which way?" Brodski asked, working the radio.
"The Last Resort, right enough," muttered Van Damm, peering low toward the river. "Heading upstream, and . . . loaded with armed men. Makhno guessed right."
"That tears it; the war's starting." Brodski thumbed down a switch and winced at the chatter coming through the earpiece. "Girls, clear the lines! We've gotta get word down to Janesfort. The Last Resort's heading there right now, with Jomo's boys on it. Spread the word, warn everybody, get everyone into the fort, and be sure to tell Jane first."
There was an instant's pause for breath, then a wild jumble of chatter on the airwaves, most of it demands for more news. Brodski rolled his eyes heavenward, muttered something about civilians, then repeated his message slowly and carefully.
This time, only one voice answered. "This is the fort. We receive your message, Se?or Brodski. Can you see Jomo's people yet?"
"Not yet. Give us ten minutes to get down to the water and we'll call you back. Ski out." Brodski thumbed off the switch, picked up his cane, slung the binoculars around his neck and started back into the cabin. "You get to carry the spare rations and water."