Hoping Bert had made contact with Crista, I ran toward the political mob, and the fires. Despite my bursting with news, it was impossible not to be drawn by the conflagration. On approach, I could make out a bonfire, but nearby, Several tents were indeed up in flames, and more catching from the flying sparks. Tatters of burning fabric wafted up, to blacken in the orange blooms of the burn. Men were lined up bucket brigade style dousing these while others hustled water up from the stream. The brigade line lengthened as more people queued up, extending the line toward the remote riverbank speeding the portage of water to the fire. The organizer looked like, yes, it was Henry. Some relief flooded me. Although burning tents were no laughing matter, it seemed to have been caused by the bonfire, not an angry mob. I yelled at Henry, who to my surprise, picked the shout out from the pandemonium, but he just turned to point down the line towards its end. Then black smoke cut between us. Oh. Yeah, the fire.
Campers were quickly filling in the water brigade from the stream to the camp, so I spliced myself in at the camp's edge, passing pails until my hands blistered. We were barely barely managing to keep up with the spread. My arms were getting sore when the Kreeb showed up with some sort of foam equipment, and put an end to the blaze. I felt their arrival lethargic, more out of concern for damage to the dome, than the camp. A few last buckets ended the tent fires. The brigade disbanded, and Henry caught sight of me again, and waved me forward.
There was a damp kerchief around his neck, and both his eyes were red and swollen. Soot streaked him, and he looked tired to the point of illness. He had stayed closer to the conflagration than the brigade line brought me, and by the looks, much too close. There were others lying around in worse shape. Christa was tending to these, best she could. Lisa, farther off, sat among the heat damaged, an angry red puffiness visible along the side of one arm.
Henry touched a huge blister on the back of one hand, wincing. “Bert got to Christa before this bit of foolishness ended, if that's your news,” he winced.
“Not all of it,” I said. His face went through a range of emotions as I detailed my conversation with Clacks.
If Henry's face was red before, it was worse now. “You know for certain we can count on this Kreeb, to keep his bargain?”
“Well, given his excitement, and the assumption that the Kreeb are only here due to outside influence, as seems likely, I'd say so. Kreeb didn't grow that cane. Whoever did, are gods to the normal class of Kreeb, if they are all as susceptible to the stuff as Clacks seemed to be. Clacks certainly had no problem with rolling over anyone to get dosed with it.”
“Enough's enough,” he exploded. “You get that Kreeb all the sugar it can gobble down. I'll have two of our friends watch for that bug pet, Bill. Grab him up first time he shows his face outside the ship. He's got a hand in all this somehow. I want Gary back. We can't hold off any longer on that. I'm gonna talk to George.” Henry turned to stomp off, but I had questions.
“Wait! What if George is part of this. Did he start the bonfire?”
Henry turned to give me a curious look. “What gave you that idea? It was Josef Segudson that started the bonfire. Look, I don't much care for George. He's too rough and ready, bullheaded, and pushy for my tastes, but don't think he's ever been out of camp, and he hates the damn Kreeb worse than anybody.”
That shocked me. “I thought you didn't trust the guy.”
“Not with the future of the camp, no. Most of his supporters are redneck types. But that's what he attracts.”
I remembered comparing his shoe size with the prints at the excavation...they didn't match, and thinking about it, he didn't strike me as the agrarian type either, or up to farming a sugar cane plantation, however small. “I suppose you know him best. How are you going to figure out who's behind this? Or what all is involved?”
Henry snorted and turned back towards camp. “After tomorrow, believe me, you'll know. They'll scuttle out into the open like roaches from under a pail. But we'll be ready, I'll see to that. You just service your pet Kreeb, and keep quiet otherwise, till I get back.”
Evidently, I'd been over-thinking things. Henry had the center of it. With their “plan” unraveling around them, and no longer in control of the Kreeb Sect, that sort of stuff would vomit up quickly enough.
I was certain, from Clacks' reaction to the four inch segment of cane shown him, that there was more than enough at the tent. Given his reaction, maybe too much. Didn't want a Kreeb O.D. on my hands.
I kicked my way toward the bonfire site, wondering what I'd got myself into and avoiding the smoldering debris. Lisa caught my eye. She was still on her knees, coughing and wiping off out of a pail, another victim of the brigade line.
“Some fun, eh, sport?” she hacked.
“Yeah, I was further back, but wouldn't care to do it again,” I noted, nodding towards the fire's remains. Can you point out Josef to me? Is he still here?”
“The bastard that started this, Yea? Sure. The skinny ass sitting front of the Kreeb dome over there. Punch 'em for me, will ya? Stupid twit. A bonfire in th' middle of camp, fer Christ's sake.”
Yellow haired and glumly looking at the debacle, Josef flicked his eyes up to me when I approached. “Just trying to put some excitement into the rally,” he muttered, “If that's what you wanted to know.”
“You managed that much,” I replied. “Been here long?”
“Just sat down for a minute. I'll help clean up, no worries.”
“I meant, in the colony. I've heard your name tossed around, but we've never met. Not in your section of camp.”
“Oh, I was one of the first catch, ah, colonists here. Helped establish it. That's why I'm the best choice to run it. Besides, I've farmed, mined, and have prior corporate experience. All Henry has is a big mouth.”
A glitter fired his features, and he waxed enthusiastic on the subject. It was back to the campaign trail for this guy. While talking, he began moving his feet. When he lifted one up, I saw his shoe left the same Cuban heel mark I'd seen at the mine survey pit. I waited poker faced, till he ran out of gas for a second, said I'd think on it, and moved on. Just then, Reems padded up accompanied by Henry, who returned with a trio of bruisers. The cat's wandering ways were so consistent, I'd forgot he had left me. I thought I'd recognized one of the bruisers from George's picnic earlier.
“Alright, George is going to lure Bill out tomorrow on pretense of finding some loose diamonds in the stream-bed. When he pops out, George'll grab him up and hustle him out of camp, hold 'em in the wood. These three,” he motioned at the trio, “are going with your cat to the farm site, and set fire to it. There'll be no more up-sizing Kreeb for a while. That ought to keep your roach in the driver's seat, long as we need. You do have enough cane to get the bug up to size, right?
Reems wound around my legs, purring. “Okay is, good hunting out there any-vey.”
I nodded to Henry. “Far as Clack said, there should be more than enough in my tent. Apparently, it's more of a catalyst, than a food. Clacks should be gorging himself in preparation, right about now.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Oh another thing. I noticed that Segudson guy running against George wears the sort of shoes that make footprints like those at Rouk's excavation. Seems he has some mining background too, it turns out. At least, to hear him talk.”
“That so? We'll keep an eye peeled. Keep quiet till tomorrow. This may be our only chance to get out of here. When the boys pick up Bill, I'll stroll by your tent and give you a nod.”
***
The day passed slowly, and I found myself getting more antsy with every passing hour of it. Reems reappeared, which meant his stint as trail guide was over. Henry passed by the tent and gave me “the nod”. Calming my nerves, I shoved the cane in my backpack, Reems following every movement with that calm yet intense gaze cats affect.
“Time is, to go see your beetle friend?”
I shot him a sharp look, and slung the pack over my shoulder. “About dusk, so yeah. About time to start for the stalls, so to speak.”
I vill come, to watch you thump das crap out of a Kreeb.”
I expected to get there early, waiting around not being a problem, as my pack was closed, and folks headed to the latrine mostly preoccupied and incurious anyway.
Clacks approached within a half hour of my arrival. Besides his usual e-clipboard thingy, a lumpy sack graced him, and he was walking slow, a sort of weave to his progression, like a diner leaving a thanksgiving table after too long a stay.
Not knowing what to expect, I took special note of his current height, about five foot, only a few inches shorter than me. Terrible to say, I'm very slow to note such things about people, let alone aliens, unless the difference is remarkable.
The bug seemed agitated, several of its limbs floated about without direction. It raised itself full upright, tilting its head back. The Kreeb's compound eyes likely swept almost 360, held that way. “We musst into the woods go, to be unsseen. I will show you how to break shell, and when.”
“Ready to go, Clacks.”
“How much mass plant you have?”
“Mass? Dunno, about seven, eight times what I showed you yesterday. That do?” I seriously hopped so, since the fab three had probably torched the crop by now.
“Too much. Half will okay be. More, cannot the ship fit into.” A shiver ran across Clack.
We walked to the camp perimeter, my Rottengall sliding along at about ten meters distance, darting from tree to tree. I know it's a cat thing to do, but Reems' progression reminded me of an army scout, watching over a march, and looking out for observers. Yeah, too much TV time in my youth, I guess.
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Clacks pulled at his sack, and rummaged out a blunt cudgel. Sort of ax like, but long of handle, with rounded spade-like protrusions. Looked like some ancient Aztec weapon. A bit archaic, like a relic. Given his was a space going race, I guessed it held some cultural significance.
“You wait, watch. Shell loose gloss, seams start to show. Edges turn white. Then hit on cracks, center and carapace edge, like so.” Clacks moved the tool so as to note the edges of his shell at junctures near, I guess his neck, and body center, then near his, eh, bottom, I suppose. “Splits on top very important, do first,” he indicated the humped curve of his back. “Try help split it off. Is not hard to do, will be apparent. I will spread out and dry, maybe twenty minutes take. Not too hard.”
We came to a spot distant enough behind the latrines where the smell was dissipated, I'd say thirty meters into the wood. It was dark enough here to make me nervous, but I could still make things out well enough, specially Clacks. Reems sat down on his hind legs, tail switching around in the dirt, looking attentive.
I brought out a handful of the cane, but before passing it on, a few things needed clearing up. “Look, how long will it take to establish your ah, leadership in camp?”
Clacks vibrated at the sight of the cane. “Maybe three hourss at mosst. On sight is, all know bigness of every clan member by – how is? Autonomic response? Will be at dome center very ssooon. Very sooon. Some changes in sect, there will be, verry ssooon.”
If I'd ever seen a bug with a few axes to grind, this one was it. “We have some things here yet to do, so we won't be boarding ship right away. You will just need to see the transportation stays put. Can that happen?”
“All to you owed. You are Queen to this one. Give, give give?”
Not sure what that meant, save that he owed me one. I took the surprisingly light cudgel, and handed the mess of cane to Clacks. Clacks grovelled down, shoveling the cane in to its face as fast as it could. It shook and thrashed about, like those at the farm. The shell seemed to go softer, loosing its hard sheen. It became all lumpy and moved a bunch, which got me scared, something Clacks hadn't mentioned. Still no shell cracks.
It lay quiescent for an hour or so, not twenty minutes. I worried the thing had died, but then cracks did start to appear, and the carapace seemed to split along the sides of its shell. A ripe smell filled the air. I pulled the hammer up and began tapping along the seams on Clack's back, all weird about doing it, but, wasn't worse than latrine duty. Feeling some feedback through the hammer, I increased the hardiness of my strikes, gratified to see the cracks widen. Something below them was definitely moving. Pounding along the edges, shoulder area and rear sides, caused the splitting to increase.
Suddenly, the thrashing bug seemed to expand out of the shell, a pulpy, slick looking mass. It still smelled bad. Freed from the old shell, it spread out on the forest floor. At least twice his original size, Clacks swelled as he dried, the shell arching, darkening, taking on a familiar gloss.
Reems looked on, bored. “Vas ist? That is all? Time wasted, then. Supposed to take you to the ship guy mitt the wobbly legs when you are done. I'll be back.”
“Reems! Wait!” But it was too late. The cat bounded off immediately, a view of his tail and one rear leg whispering into the disturbed plant life.
Frustrated, I returned to watching Clacks dry out. He twitched a few times, stirred, then weakly scrambled to his feet. The bug towered at ten foot or so now, causing me to back-step, a little worried. There were a few voids, visible near various joints. Evidently he hadn't filled out his new shell very well yet. I'd never seen one this size.
“Ahh yesss. Much better is. You have done me much service, Tom-as.”
Clacks' vocalizer kept the same volume and pitch, but behind it, Clacks was now rumbling deeply and at much higher volume than before.
“I will go and establish myself. Is any other informing you require?”
“Tons,” I noted. “but got stuff to do first, except, if you can see to it that people are left alone, and ask around about our Mr. Rouk, that would be cool. Where can I get in touch with you?”
“You, can touch me at will, if you choose, Tom-as. Will find your friend.”
The bug was far to literal. “Eh, I mean, where will you be? Where can I find you?”
Clacks drew himself up proudly. “An hour from now, In the center of dome be. I guarantee this.”
Clacks made some motions, a sort of departure gesture, and stalked off with a much firmer step.
Alone, I wondered if it would be wise to thrash around looking for George's crew and Bill on my own, or just return to the camp, when Reems wound back into sight.
“Vell? Done stroking the Kreeb yet?”
“You could have waited. It only took a minute or so to finish up, Reems. Show me to where they're keeping Bill.”
The cat turned, and with a backward look, set off into the trees. It wasn't far. Bill sat propped against a tree, hog tied and red cheeked. Two men I didn't know watched him. Looked like a pair of unshaven linebackers.
One of the pair waived my way, then pointed at his chest.
“Renny. You'd be Tomas, right?”
“That's me.”
“George said to keep this guy here 'till he comes back. Said you'd be by to ask some questions. I'll get the gag out. Oh, an' that's John, he said, nodding to his still standing companion. “Army; Ex Ranger. “Me,I used to be in the marines, back when.”
Renny stooped down and cut off a bandanna tied across Bill's face using the first combat knife I'd seen since landing.
Bill's cheeks looked a little puffy, until he spat out what appeared to be a wad of cloth.
“Whats the meaning of this? I, eh, I ain't done nothing! What's all this about diamonds?”
“Not about diamonds, Bill. Its about farming sugarcane here, and manipulating Kreeb. Which, by the way, has ended. Its about you passing off a mining probe that shouldn't be here to a Kreeb. Its about Rouk disappearing on a Kreeb flyer.”
Bills face tightened. “I dunno nothing about it. Any of it.”
This was getting my juice up. “Look, it was me that saw you passing that probe around, not hear-say. Rouk and I both saw one in the hills near a mine survey hole. There's resource markers all over the place. American made ones, not Kreeb stuff.” I nodded to my two companions. “Start talking or I'll have Renny here give you a massage first. Up to you.”
Bills eyes shifted around, then lowered. “What ya want to know. I dunno much.”
“Who's giving the Kreeb their marching orders?”
Bill started a shrug. I grabbed his shoulder, hard. “We already know Segudson is part of this. Don't mess with me.” It was still an open guess, But a good one, And this guy needed to feel he couldn't fob off some sort of wild story on us.
“It's a Reese Corp project, not about me,” whined Bill. They picked me up ta ride the ship an' greet th' colonists. The Corp usta' run a small agricultural station on th' side oncet. Some kinda public relations project. Tryn' ta' get cane ta grow outa its natural, how ya say it, eh, climate. Genetics thingy. That started before th' planet went all whacked.”
“So? And?” Evidently this round-about gabbing was really how he approached things. Still, he was being rather obviously evasive.
“Well, after the problems hit, by then, wasn't any elsewhere it'd grow. The govment started to break down, dropped most everything 'cept relocation programs. NASA work, such as their was, became patchy. Then th' Kreeb landed. Went nuts fer the stuff, but the project, she was mostly a failure. 'Cept the agri-station saved their asses. Later the weather got even worse, an' the natural light went, then the 'lectric. Reese got there own small dam n' generator, but not - well anyway, farmin' wasn't the company's real business, just a PR project. I was young then, in m' teens, Just a farmhand fer the project. Didn't do none of the fancy stuff.”
This was getting just as tiresome as my last conversation with the guy. I motioned towards George's two Marines. “Get to the point, Bill.”
He paled, then nodded. “Yeah, well, lookin' at the Kreeb, they saw the sugar made em grow, and that they always took their marchin' orders from the biggest one. Like, always. No exceptions. Plus, bugs couldn't touch the stuff. Least not so's to farm it. So the company cut a deal. Well, a lotta deals. Both with the Kreeb, an' such companies as still had inventories 'n could keep workers together. Heh that's mostly just feeding folks, you know how that goes. Offered me this job or my walking papers. Got no family – don't mind bein' on the ship. Got air, a bunk, an' food. Too old ta farm anymore. Took the gig. An' that's it.”
He looked up at me brightly, like he'd just won an award or something.
After “Dealing” with Clacks, I could guess what sort of bargain Reese Corp struck. All they had to do was “promote” some willing bug, as I had just finished doing. I knew some companies had managed to scrape together some sort of replacement economy, at least reorganize to keep their people from dispersing into government camps. Most of the cities had been abandoned. To much infrastructure damage and no farm-able land, just indoor hydroponics, and places like the civic arboretum. These corporate pockets were spotty and regional, since there wasn't much use for the industrial equipment and supplies in their yards, and warehouses. Those who had stockpiled fuel, and moved fast to secure a food base sort of survived. At least stayed organized, to dream of their glory days. I personally disliked these corporate co-ops, almost as much as the government camps.
“The geological probe, Bill; and that's not the half of it. Spill. Where's Rouk?”
'Uh, That's what Reese Corp did mainstream – NASA and NOA stuff. Probes, Satellite parts, all that. Or did, when they was a NASA. I just hands the stuff over, and then gets it back fer the company to pick up Earth-side. Dunno about no Rouk.”
I grabbed his shirt again and looked mean.
“Okay, okay. Mebbe saw th' Kreeb hustle some guy from the shuttle bay inta' the ship. I dunno who. Maybe your Rouk guy. Ask the Kreeb.”
If so, Clacks had promised to take care of such, so that could be easily checked, and if true, good news.
“Why are we here, really, Bill. Is transporting people off-world a Kreeb idea or Reese Corps?”
“Bill rolled rheumy eyes at me. “Just a couple of the sects Reese Corp deals with...see, bug translators explain 'em as church groups, but they set up more like hives what counsel with each other. Compete sometimes. They's...”
Just then, there was a crashing in the bushes and five colonists burst into the small clearing. All carried clubs, and I recognized a grim faced Segudson among them.