Read Online Fleet of the Damned by Chris Bunch; Allan Cole - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Chris Bunch; Allan Cole
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coveralls. The man hummed peacefully to himself in an off-key voice timed to the sputtering McLean drive engine. As he drove in apparent complete ease and relaxation, his eyes swiveled like a predator's, drinking in every detail of the landscape.
This was poor land, pocked with rocks and wind-bowed clumps of trees. It seemed to be one dry gale away from becoming a permanent dust bowl.
During the course of the day, the salesman had skimmed past a half a dozen sharecropper farms tended by a few hollow-eyed Tahn immigrants. He had hesitated at each place, noted the extreme poverty, and gone on. None of them were places where a normal being would have even asked for a friendly glass of water. Not because of the hostility—which was real and more than apparent—but because if it had been given, it might have been the last few ounces of water left on the farm.
In the distance he spotted a sudden shot of green. He shifted course and soon came upon a large farm. The earth seemed comparatively rich—not loam, but not rock either—and was heavily diked with irrigation ditches. In the middle of the spread were big shambling buildings surrounding a small artesian pond. This would be the source of wealth. Several people were working the field with rusted, creaking machinery.
Still humming, the man eased the gravsled to a stop next to a cattle guard. He pretended not to notice the instant freezing of the people in the field. He casually got out under their burning stares, stepped over behind a bush, and relieved his bladder. Then he struck a smoke, gazed lazily about, and walked over to the fence railing. He peered with mild interest at the men and women in the field—one pro judging the work of others. He gave a loud snort. If he had had a mustache, the honk would have blown it up to his bushy eyebrows. The snort seemed to be both a nervous habit and a comment on the state of things.
"Nice place," he finally said. His voice hit that perfect raised pitch that a farmer uses to communicate to a companion many rows away.
The group drew back slightly as a middle-aged Tahn, nearly the salesman's size, strode forward. The salesman smiled broadly at him, pointedly ignoring the others who were picking up weapons and spreading slowly out to the side.
"Wouldn't think you could grow kale crops in these parts," the salesman said as the Tahn drew closer. He looked more closely at the fields. " 'Course they do look a little yellow-eyed and peaked."
The man stopped in front of him, just on the other side of the fence. Meanwhile, his sons and daughters had half ringed the salesman in. He heard the snicks of safeties switching off.
"Next town's about forty klicks down the road," the farmer said. It was an invitation to get the clot back in the gravcar and get out.
The elderly salesman snorted again. "Yeah. I noted that on the comp-map. Didn't seem like much of a town."
"It ain't," the Tahn said. "Next Imperial place gotta be two, maybe two and a half days go."
The salesman laughed. "Spotted me, huh? What the hell, I ain't ashamed. Besides, being a farmer is the only citizenship I claim."
The man stared at him. "If you're a farmer," he said, "what you doin' off your spread?"
"Gave it up after eighty years," the salesman said. "You might say I'm retired. Except that wouldn't be right. Actually, I'm on my second career."
The farmer's eyes shifted, checking the positions of his brood. He inspected the horizon for any possible Imperial reinforcements. "That so?"
Death was whispering in the salesman's ear.
"Yeah," he said, unconcerned. "That's so. Sell fertilizer gizmos now. My own design. Maybe you'd be interested in one."
He pulled out a much-used kerchief and honked into it. Then he looked at the kale fields again. He noted some blackened areas in the distance; this was just one of many Tahn farms, he understood, that had been hit by roving gangs of Imperial settlers.
"Wouldn't help with the withering, but one of my fellas sure as hell
This was poor land, pocked with rocks and wind-bowed clumps of trees. It seemed to be one dry gale away from becoming a permanent dust bowl.
During the course of the day, the salesman had skimmed past a half a dozen sharecropper farms tended by a few hollow-eyed Tahn immigrants. He had hesitated at each place, noted the extreme poverty, and gone on. None of them were places where a normal being would have even asked for a friendly glass of water. Not because of the hostility—which was real and more than apparent—but because if it had been given, it might have been the last few ounces of water left on the farm.
In the distance he spotted a sudden shot of green. He shifted course and soon came upon a large farm. The earth seemed comparatively rich—not loam, but not rock either—and was heavily diked with irrigation ditches. In the middle of the spread were big shambling buildings surrounding a small artesian pond. This would be the source of wealth. Several people were working the field with rusted, creaking machinery.
Still humming, the man eased the gravsled to a stop next to a cattle guard. He pretended not to notice the instant freezing of the people in the field. He casually got out under their burning stares, stepped over behind a bush, and relieved his bladder. Then he struck a smoke, gazed lazily about, and walked over to the fence railing. He peered with mild interest at the men and women in the field—one pro judging the work of others. He gave a loud snort. If he had had a mustache, the honk would have blown it up to his bushy eyebrows. The snort seemed to be both a nervous habit and a comment on the state of things.
"Nice place," he finally said. His voice hit that perfect raised pitch that a farmer uses to communicate to a companion many rows away.
The group drew back slightly as a middle-aged Tahn, nearly the salesman's size, strode forward. The salesman smiled broadly at him, pointedly ignoring the others who were picking up weapons and spreading slowly out to the side.
"Wouldn't think you could grow kale crops in these parts," the salesman said as the Tahn drew closer. He looked more closely at the fields. " 'Course they do look a little yellow-eyed and peaked."
The man stopped in front of him, just on the other side of the fence. Meanwhile, his sons and daughters had half ringed the salesman in. He heard the snicks of safeties switching off.
"Next town's about forty klicks down the road," the farmer said. It was an invitation to get the clot back in the gravcar and get out.
The elderly salesman snorted again. "Yeah. I noted that on the comp-map. Didn't seem like much of a town."
"It ain't," the Tahn said. "Next Imperial place gotta be two, maybe two and a half days go."
The salesman laughed. "Spotted me, huh? What the hell, I ain't ashamed. Besides, being a farmer is the only citizenship I claim."
The man stared at him. "If you're a farmer," he said, "what you doin' off your spread?"
"Gave it up after eighty years," the salesman said. "You might say I'm retired. Except that wouldn't be right. Actually, I'm on my second career."
The farmer's eyes shifted, checking the positions of his brood. He inspected the horizon for any possible Imperial reinforcements. "That so?"
Death was whispering in the salesman's ear.
"Yeah," he said, unconcerned. "That's so. Sell fertilizer gizmos now. My own design. Maybe you'd be interested in one."
He pulled out a much-used kerchief and honked into it. Then he looked at the kale fields again. He noted some blackened areas in the distance; this was just one of many Tahn farms, he understood, that had been hit by roving gangs of Imperial settlers.
"Wouldn't help with the withering, but one of my fellas sure as hell
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