103 The Fine Art of Lying (2/2)
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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