The Brave New World 103 The Fine Art of Lying

It was raining when Kirk woke up the next day. His housekeeper hadn't come in yet and he dressed shivering in the cold, dark room. He combed his hair with his fingers, put on a wide-brimmed leather hat, and went out to see Adam.

He half-ran, half-walked across the assembly square: Adam's house was directly across from his. Kirk went around the side of the house and knocked on the back door and waited and waited and knocked again and waited some more. He was close to boiling by the time a disheveled Adam answered the door.

"Get your ass in gear, son," he hissed, the moment they were inside. "We need to take fast action. Call a meeting with Pat Hanson and that patrol commander for noon. At your house, not mine. I want it low-key. Okay?"

"I had the impression you wanted to drag things out as much as possible," said Adam.

"It's counterproductive. What we need to do is keep the boys busy. I'll ask Pat how many men he can spare from the garrison, and send them out on patrols along the coast. You know how Pat hates weakening the garrison, he's constantly worried about us being rushed by a horde of illegals. He won't release more than a dozen men. That's enough for three patrols: two along the coast, one going east and the other west, plus one to check on this settlement that's been discovered. You'll be in charge of that third patrol, Adam. You'll go along and make sure your patrol doesn't run across any more settlements. Of course you have to warn Bernard, too."

"Dad, I have to see Randy first."

"I know. Call him."

"But you said all the phone landlines are likely to be bugged."

"Just shoot the breeze with him for a while. Mention you'll be heading one of the patrols being sent out to discover illegal settlements. Boast that you've already found one. He'll catch on."

"Okay," said Adam, a little doubtfully.

"See you at noon."

Kirk left by the back door. It was still raining, and there were very few people outside. He quickly returned to his house and found that his housekeeper had come in. There was a fire going in the fireplace and a warm pot of ersatz coffee made from roasted grain and acorns. Kirk poured himself a cup and sweetened it with honey from a small clay bowl. His housekeeper was in the outhouse, cooking breakfast in the kitchen. Kirk told her to boil a cauldron of water for his bath and returned to the house for another cup of coffee.

It was nearing noon by the time he'd eaten his breakfast and taken his bath; a bath took a hell of a long time in the New World. He went over to Adam's house to find out everyone had arrived early.

Pat Hanson, the settlement's military commander, stood by the back window. One of its shutters was open, letting in pale light that competed with the glow of the fireplace and the lights of two candles Adam had placed on the table.

Two candles! Kirk's household had ran out of candles a few days earlier. Candles were rationed very strictly. As governor, Kirk was entitled to a triple take: a whopping half a dozen candles a month instead of the standard two. Somehow, they never lasted beyond four weeks, at the outside. He privately suspected his housekeeper might be stealing them when they'd burned down to short stubs.

Adam was seated at the table together with a soldier Kirk couldn't recall meeting before. The soldier was attempting to draw something on a piece of birch bark, using a short stick with a blackened end.

Kirk knew it would take another year before the paper mill was completed, and actually produced any paper. The settlement was only eighteen months old, after all. But being reminded of the paper situation never failed to irritate him anyway. He was a governor! How was he supposed to run things without proper writing utensils? A governor without documents was like a soldier without a weapon.

"Good morning, everyone," Kirk said sternly. He invited Hanson to seat himself at the table, but remained standing himself. He gave everyone the hard, appraising eye, mouth set in an angry line. The soldier that had been drawing some sort of map had three pale, wooden pips on the single epaulette of his leather jacket. He was a sergeant, had to be the commander of the patrol that had found the illegal settlement.

"First and foremost, I want to swear everyone present to total secrecy," said Kirk. "No one must be allowed to learn of what we discussed here. Gentlemen, I suspect we have a spy in our midst. I think one or more of our colonists may be agents working for outlaw colonizers. We all know criminal organizations, especially the biker gangs, are very eager to establish a strong foothold in our world."

"A spy?" Adam said incredulously. Watch and listen and learn, son, Kirk thought grimly.

""Most likely more than one," he said. "I wouldn't be surprised if the illegals from that settlement turned out to have their man here. Maybe that's how they managed to avoid capture by you and your men, sergeant."

The sergeant was predictably eager to support any explanation that absolved him from blame. He jumped up from his seat and said:

"That's brilliant, sir. Yes, that's what must have happened."

"Well, I'm going to give you a second chance," Kirk said. He turned to Hanson.

"Colonel, I need you to immediately send out patrols to comb the country for illegals. How many men can you spare?"

Hanson made a face as if he'd just bitten on a very sour lemon.

"I can't really spare any," he said. "It's not like they are sitting around on their asses. We're building two new watchtowers."

After a short discussion, Hanson grudgingly admitted the world wouldn't come to an abrupt end if he assigned a dozen soldiers to patrol duties. The rest of the meeting went exactly as planned. Adam put in a fine performance when Kirk commanded him to join the sergeant's patrol. He agreed very strongly he should go, but protested it was simply impossible for him to leave the settlement at such short notice. He was sure the sergeant and his men could use a few days' rest, too: after all, they'd only just returned after a long absence. Once again, the sergeant agreed with great enthusiasm.

In the end, it was agreed that the coastal patrols would set out the very next day, and Adam's group - a full week later.

"You were a master, Dad," said Adam, after the two soldiers had left.

"Thank you, thank you very much," said Kirk. "Listen son, do you think you could let me have one of those candles? The shorter one, of course. I'm out."

"Of course," Adam said. "Just remember to save and give me the wax."

Kirk nodded. Beeswax was a very precious commodity. All colonists, including himself, were required to turn in the melted wax from their candles. Anyone who didn't risked getting their candle ration cut in half.

"I'm going to hang around until the evening," he told his son. "Then I'm going to tune out for a while. I'm going to have hell in New York, Adam. I can feel it."

"Why?"

"Because the next few days will be hell for everyone. And it will get even worse when March hits. It will be total chaos, for weeks."

"How long are you staying there?"

"Don't know. Definitely can't stay more than a week. It's going to take ages to get back on that fucking train, too."

"Maybe you'll get air transport this time."

"No chance. Brock swore every working plane is booked for months ahead. Listen, can you handle things here today? I want to check the progress on our new industrial village."

"That would be good. Maybe you could resolve the current problem there."

"What problem?"

"Everyone's objecting to the tannery because of the stink. They want it moved at least half a kilometer away from the other workshops."

"I'll see what I can do."

The rain had stopped by the time Kirk mounted his horse, and he was enjoying himself by the time he left the main settlement. The track ran between pastures and fields covered with the short stubble left after the harvest. A rainbow had appeared to the east - it had to be good omen! Maybe they'd already managed to produce something at the newly built distillery? If so, the governor was obliged to test the quality of the product.

Kirk was smiling to himself at this prospect when suddenly everything went black, and he felt himself falling.

It was a while before he realized that he'd fallen out of his bunk, and was lying on the floor of his compartment. The train gave one last spasmodic jerk, and stopped. Kirk got up and approached the window without switching the light on. He thought he saw a white flash in the distance.

He heard the popping of faraway gunshots the moment he opened the window. He stuck his head out, grimacing at the cold, damp air, and saw a soldier standing by the side of the train, holding his assault rifle at the ready.

"Hey!" shouted Kirk. "Can you tell me what's going on? Why have we stopped?"

The soldier didn't answer. He glanced at Kirk, raised his arm and pointed in the direction of the distant gunfire. It seemed to intensify; there was a flash, immediately followed by a muffled thump. Grenades! This was serious.

Someone knocked sharply on the compartment door, making Kirk jump.

"Come in!" he called, turning around. He reached out and turned on the compartment light.

The door slid open, and a young soldier leaned inside. He wore no cap and had corporal's stripes on his sleeves.

"Just a quick heads-up, sir," he said. "There is no danger to us, or the train. It's just the locals fighting between themselves." He started to withdraw.

"Wait!" shouted Kirk. "What locals? Why are they fighting?"

"I understand it's a conflict between two local militias. That's all I know."

"And we're going to sit here and wait until they kill each other off?"

"Something like that. There's a lot of stray bullets flying around. Now please excuse me, sir, I have to tell the others."

He left the compartment door open. Cursing softly, Kirk slid it shut. Then he switched off the light and returned to the window just in time to see another grenade explode. If this was what went on in Pennsylvania, what would be waiting for him in New York? He was glad he'd taken his Colt along with a couple of spare magazines.

He shook his head.

"Jesus wept," he whispered.

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