Chapter 3: The Captives

Chad shifted his weight uneasily on the tiny lookout platform, grinning at a vagrant thought. This was just about like the tree house Dad had built for him when he was in second grade; a few roughhewn planks, spiked to forked branches near the top of the tallest tree around. Below him, a dozen men rolled out floors for tents and dug foundations for prefab buildings, shaped logs for a palisade and hoisted them into place, and otherwise busied themselves with the thousand and one details of setting up a fortified camp in the middle of a wilderness.

For most of a week Stan had prodded his men into a whirlwind of activity, forcing them to keep going from dawn to dusk. Thanks to the light gravity and plenty of chain saws, by now the palisade was almost finished. Just outside 'Fort Barton', a target range had been set up as a place to teach marksmanship to those few who, like Chad, weren't already crack shots.

Inside the rectangle of upended tree trunks three cabins had already been completed; the cook shack and two storehouses. The next two only needed roofs before they could be used for barracks. Luckily the weather had been mild and dry, with only a few light showers to remind them that they had more than one reason to hurry with their construction work.

The scene below was too familiar by now to hold much of his attention. Anyway, he was supposed to be up here keeping an eye on the forest, not just watching what went on in camp. The crest of the hill gave him a good view in all directions, rising well above its surroundings. Jumbled ridges covered with goldengreen trees stretched as far as he could see, the expanse broken only by occasional small clearings.

He'd caught glimpses of animals moving through the underbrush a time or two when he first climbed to his unsteady perch, but by now they'd all taken refuge from the heat of the sun. The only signs of life other than his fellow men were flocks of birds about the size of his thumb, darting like sparks of living light after the swarming clouds of insects that were continually being stirred up by the men's movements.

"Hey, you up there," a voice called from below. "Time for lunch. I'll spell you while you grab a bite to eat."

"Thanks, Chet." He swung lightly down from his cramped perch, his arm hardly bothering him at all by now, and smiled as he handed over his carbine. "I was wonderin' how much longer I was supposed to be up there. My belly ain't quite used to these twentyhour days, yet. Three meals come too close together, and two just ain't quite enough to get by on."

"You'll be glad enough to get all three meals in a few days, when Stan puts you on a work crew." Chet smiled back, teeth gleaming in a face nearly as dark as Chad's as he hoisted himself up into the lookout station. "You'll work up a big enough appetite then, not that you seem to be doing too bad in that direction already."

Picking his way through the cluttered compound, Chad walked over to the door of the cook shack and filled a plate with food. One thing about this job, it sure enough fed good. So what if the pay was sort of uncertain...

"Well, Black boy? Did you have a long enough nap up there?" Hobe Gilson was a lanky exsoldier who liked to think of himself as a natural leader. He'd proved himself a crack shot with any kind of firearm and was an excellent instructor, but apparently believed that any kind of manual labor was too far beneath his dignity to even think about.

"Not too good," he answered calmly, concealing a sudden rush of anger as he laid down his fork. "Too much talkin' goin' on down here, and not enough workin'."

"Well, now. Ain't that just too bad. Mebbe you'll sleep better when you stop goofin' off, pretendin' you gotta sore arm." Gilson laughed raucously at his own wit, echoed dutifully by several of his buddies. "You'll hafta move faster'n you've done so far, Chubby. Else, you'll get left behind, when and if this chickenshit outfit of Stan's ever makes up its mind to get the lead outa its ass."

"All right, Gilson. Lay off the kid, will ya?" Mike's voice wasn't loud, but something in his tone made Gilson hesitate.

"What's the matter, Murphy? He your pet, or something? He looks old enough to wipe his own... nose."

"I'm old enough to settle my own arguments, too," Chad broke in calmly, setting down his plate and getting to his feet. "That is, as long as the rest of you promise to keep all three of Gilson's asskissin' buddies off'n my back while I'm at it."

The other men around the fire were suddenly alert, watching Gilson's reaction to the challenge that had been so abruptly flung in his face. They all knew that Chad had uncomplainingly done his fair share of the work while his arm had been healing. He'd cheerfully gone along with the good natured kidding he'd gotten from the others, keeping pretty much to himself except with Mike.

"This had better be settled right here and now!" Stan Barton's deep voice rumbled from where he watched, leaning against the side of a parked truck. "Now, both of you. Listen up, and listen good! Any hard feelings that get stirred up here in camp are going to make this job just that much tougher for all of us, maybe even get some of us killed. If you've got to fight, go to it, but make sure that when the fight's over it stops right there. Fists. No knives. Keep it up until one of you has had enough, and then quit."

"Sounds good to me," Gilson answered with supreme confidence, grinning nastily as Chad rose to face him. "I don't need nothing but my fists to pound Chubby, here into chopped liver."

They faced each other inside a loose ring of men. Lean and muscular, Gilson stood a full head taller than his opponent and was probably ten or fifteen years older. As he pulled his shirt off, Chad was the picture of blocky strength, the sun glinting in yellow highlights off the sweatstreaked black skin of his arms and shoulders.

"Well, come on," Gilson jeered. "What's the matter, Chubby, lost your nerve all of a sudden?"

Chad just smiled slightly, drawing in deep breaths as he waited for Gilson's first move. Gilson laughed again, and shuffled forward. He flicked out a probing left, dancing in and out as though he was used to being in a boxing ring. Chad moved his head just enough to let most of the blows miss, stepping back and to one side. More jabs missed the same way. Gilson, made bolder by the lack of response, threw a left hook followed by a hard right at his jaw.

Chad bobbed and weaved, wincing but moving forward as the punches glanced off the side of his head. Before Gilson could dance back out of range, he drove a halfdozen solid punches to the taller man's belly. It was like hitting cordwood, and his target didn't even flinch.

More angered than hurt, Gilson darted in and out, raining blows from all directions. Chad stood with his legs solidly braced, throwing only an occasional punch of his own at Gilson, moving only enough to stay facing his opponent while ducking a few of the punches and deflecting most of the rest. He could feel the pain, knew that he would pay for it later, but right now he was too busy to worry about it.

There was no bell to signal rounds. No referee telling them to keep their punches up, either. Chad realized that he was in trouble as the rain of blows kept coming. There was no way he could keep this up much longer. The light gravity had fooled him, fooled him badly. He wasn't anywhere near back in shape yet. Already his arms were getting heavy. He was having trouble getting his breath, and only his inner rage kept him going.

A straight right caught him on the side of the head going away, staggering him and making his knees buckle. Sensing an opportunity, Gilson leaped in! Chad feinted with his right, ducked a counterpunch, and moved forward with short steps that kept his feet solidly planted. A good left hook landed just south of Gilson's belt buckle, bringing his guard down for an instant.

Chad put all of his anger into one short overhand right that landed flush on the angle of Gilson's jaw. The taller man's head snapped back, his knees buckled, and he fell like a puppet with its strings cut. Out cold.

"Chad!" Stan Barton's voice caught him, held him as he poised for the kick to the head that would put Gilson out for good. Chad stepped back from the fallen man, his anger receding into the background for the moment.

No need to count to ten over Gilson, the fight was over! Chad stood gasping for breath for a moment, fighting off a wave of dizziness that threatened to bring him to his knees, then turned back to where his lunch still waited.

"And that ends it!" Stan boomed as Gilson's friends tried to revive him by pouring a bucket of water over his head. "If I hear one word about it getting carried any farther, by either side, I'll settle it myself. And it'll stay settled. Chad, when you've finished eating, I want to see both you and Mike in my tent."

Chad chewed and swallowed mechanically, more for appearance's sake than because he still felt hungry. His jaw hurt, his ribs ached, one eye felt like it was on the verge of swelling shut, sweat was pouring off of him and his heart still pounded furiously. He might have won, but it had been damned close! Gilson's fists had beat on his head and body like a pair of hardwood clubs. As soon as Mike had finished eating they dumped their plates in a steaming kettle and headed for Stan's tent.

"Wonder what he wants?" Chad wrinkled his forehead, worried. This wouldn't be the first time that he'd been blamed for a fight that someone else had forced on him.

"Don't worry about it, he's probably gonna put you to diggin' drainage ditches." Mike grinned down at him, guessing his feelings. "Wants me to watch you, so's you don't dig yourself clean down outa sight."

Stan was sitting at a rickety folding table, studying a rough sketch map. "C'mon in, you two. Those yahoos out there are too anxious to get going for their own good. We need to know a Helluva lot more about this place before we're ready for the kind of moves they want to make. Here's a map that was drawn from pictures snapped through a portal from way up high during the original survey. It don't show hardly no detail, none of the kinda things we need to know."

He turned the map so that they could see it better. "Here's where we are, about in the middle of the north half of the world's one continent. Right above where it narrows down to make a kind of dumbbell shape, only a few hundred miles wide, right about on the equator. That's where most of the towns seem to be, at least the ones we've spotted so far. This planet looks to be about on the ragged edge of an ice age, and there's nothing very far north or south of the equator but snow and mountains. We should be only fifty or sixty miles from the nearest city, which is right about here. More of a walled village, really, though none of the ones that we've located so far are very big.

"What I want you two to do is take our bug and kinda scout around down that way. Find out all you can, but whatever you do, don't let them catch you at it! See what kind of people they are, how close they are to human, stuff like that. Oh, and if you run into a lone native, one what ain't likely to be missed right away, grab him and bring him back with you. Just don't bring the cavalry down on us, and for Christ's sake try not to bring back the village idiot, neither."

"How long should we figure on being gone?" Mike asked, leaning over to study the map.

"Three or four days should be plenty, but take enough grub and stuff along so you can stay twice that long if you need to. The main thing is, be careful! There's just the fifteen of us, counting Chad here. We're up against a whole world, so we can't afford to lose anyone. They may be primitive on this planet, but swords and arrows can kill you just as quick as bombs and bullets, and dead is dead no matter how you catch it."

The forest seemed cool and peaceful the next morning after the constant noise and bustle of camp, and right now Chad was at peace with the whole world. He knew that the feeling wouldn't last any too long, but his fight with Gilson had blown off a lot of the accumulated anger he kept bottled up inside of himself.

Uncrated, the bug looked like the ones hunters used for going after ducks and such, Chad thought. Bigger than a golf cart, but not by much. It was only built to hold four people, maybe five or six in a pinch, but it should be just about right for the kind of work they were doing.

The little allterrain vehicle's six puffy wheels rolled easily along parklike expanses of golden turf, the soft hissing of its propanefueled steam engine the only sound other than an occasional trill of liquid music from a bird. Once or twice they caught glimpses of animals, deersized or smaller, but the bug couldn't move fast enough on its fat little tires to make chasing them worthwhile. Anyway, they had plenty of food along so they didn't need the meat. They didn't run across anything worth reporting that day, but they'd barely gotten started the next morning when Mike abruptly jammed on the brakes, swerving the bug around behind a thick clump of brush.

"What's up?" Chad started to ask.

"Shut up, and stay down."

Grabbing his binoculars and rifle and motioning Chad to do the same, he climbed out of the bug. Crawling forward on their bellies to the crest of a low ridge, they looked down into a shallow valley.