Chapter 9

The ringing of metal welcomed the visitors to the ironworks. Smells of hot metal, oils, and water vapor clung to each breath. After entering the tractor-trailer sized open rollup door, the two men stood at the office door.

Rey looked up at the treble clef which sat securely on the ledger lines. He wanted the piece to cool before he added the notes. Shadows fell across the piece he was shaping. Turning, he saw two very large men.

Not wanting to lose a potential customer, he waved. "You two go on into the office. I'll be in there in a moment or two."

Crossing over to the wall-mounted sink, Alan turned on the water. He pumped two good-sized, dollops of cleaner onto his hands. Lathering quickly, he rinsed the morning's accumulated grime down the drain. Wetting a towel, he looked into the steel mirror as he wiped his face, more to cool it than to clean it.

Humming and mumbling, he performed The Thrill is Gone for his own gratification. Crossing the floor, he made his way to the office door. Weaving around machines and materials, he watched carefully where he walked. He needed more work for the smithy and bruising a shin or tripping over things would do little to help make a good impression.

Oversized chairs in the office allowed the men to sit comfortably for a change. The blacksmith entered. Though six inches shorter than either of the men in the office, his chest was just as massive. Years of ironworking had built up his physique.

"Welcome to Ironwood Smithy," He tossed the paper towel he was still wiping his hands with into the trash. "I'm Alan Rey, the master blacksmith." He extended his hand.

Both of the seated men stood. The older of the two shook the blacksmith's hand first. He noted that the grip of the smith was firm but not posturing. If his work approached his character, he might be worth keeping.

"I'm William Whitefeather. This is my associate Paul Carson." Carson and Rey exchanged greetings. "We represent a company that needs several functional yet decorative gates."

Rey motioned for them to sit again. "How large?"

William nodded to Paul. "A pair of wrought iron gates for a twenty foot wide opening." Paul opened his satchel pulling out a folder.

"Free swinging or sliding?"

Opening the folder, Carson pointed to the specifications, "Swinging gates using an automated opener."

"You can buy these much cheaper from a gate company. I'd recommend Tarleton Industries. I have their card."

William raised his hand. "These have to be handmade and we need to have each day's progress documented with pictures. The time-line would be two months from today."

"It's gonna cost a lot."

William smiled, "Mrs. Danvers demands handcrafted items. She understands they are often expensive." Paul handed William an envelope. "This is a cashier's check for eight thousand dollars for materials."

Alan looked at the envelope. "What's the catch?"

"Send daily pictures of the work to the included address. Hopefully, in two months I will return and pay you eight thousand more if the gates are completed to the specifications and if the terms and conditions are met."

An hour later with the contracts signed, the men left. Rey sat down and began an order for the materials.

Alan Rey was in luck. One of the girls going to junior college with his daughter, Cheryl, set up a simple method for him to send pictures. He only had to have someone snap a picture each hour of the work done. Then at the end of the day, he set the camera in the cradle, clicked one icon on the computer and 'voila' the day's pictures were sent.

Ready for inspection, the two gates were in unsealed packing crates. Promptly at four in the afternoon, William Whitefeather entered the smithy again. Alan thought to offer him some coffee, but Whitefeather was already sporting a large cup decorated with alternating deep brown stripes; the words on the orange-banded white oval were hidden by his fingers.

"Afternoon, Mr. Whitefeather," they shook hands in greeting. "C'mon out back and you can inspect the gates."

He led Whitefeather to the finished product area. Whitefeather spent what felt like ten minutes snapping his own pictures with his large phone. He stared at the gates for another minute. Turning, he smiled.

Reaching into his jacket, Whitefeather pulled an envelope out. "Here is the balance in full."

"Thank you," Alan took the envelope but did not open it. "I like doing business with you."

"I have another offer you might be interested in."

The smile on Whitefeather's face gave Alan pause. If it wasn't illegal, well, the man did pay well. "To my office then."

He hated secrets. Now he had one he was compelled to keep. Whitefeather had given him vouchers to attend the Mid-South Heritage Fair in Atlanta, Georgia. In agreeing to accept these vouchers, he also had taken on the burden of this secret. His entire shop, lock, stock, and barrel, was going to somewhere off-planet called Wayward.

Any time he tried to share this information with someone, he became ill. Alan Rey had never paid much attention in school. He wasn't stupid; he had just wanted to work with his hands. It took two bouts of puking before he learned that this was a secret to keep.

With a face like his and a CAP score of 6.3, he was resigned to hoping his wife and two youngest could escape. With him today was not only his family, but also the families of his two apprentices; Freddy, his wife and a baby, and Patrick with his girlfriend of three years. Whitefeather wanted him to be sure to bring Anita Klein, the girl who had jury-rigged the picture process for them. Happily, this let Alan trick his daughter, Cheryl, into coming also. Cheryl had enough of a CAP score to volunteer. In one fell swoop, his family and employees would be saved.

Anita's little boy was a darling. Her present boyfriend Jason, however, was an ass wipe who seemed too controlling, always hovering around Anita, watching her.

Martha, Alan's better half, decided that Jason possessed little to consider a redeeming virtue. Her opinion of people mattered to him. Martha confirmed Alan's suspicions, once she branded Jason as a 'punk' in a whisper.

Freddy spotted a picture of the gate he had helped make on a display. The black wrought iron looked beautiful against the white stone it was set with. 'Welcome to Wayward, Home of the Finest Craftsmen and Artisans Anywhere', that message was emblazoned on a sign above the gates.

"Let's take a look at what our work is adorning." Alan turned and walked into the meeting room. His brood followed. Once inside, he saw Whitefeather.

Whitefeather glanced at the chairs. Alan motioned for the group to sit.

"Good afternoon, ladies, and gentlemen. I am William Whitefeather, a representative of the Wayward Colony." He moved to the podium. "On behalf of the colony's leader, Marsha Danvers, welcome to our presentation."

The screen showed a woman, the caption below it read 'Marsha Danvers'. He had seen her somewhere before.

"A noted environmentalist, a proponent of nonviolence"

Three years before this Swarm mess, she had reported on her own people who were planning to bomb the offices of an oil company seeking to expand its leases in the Gulf of Mexico. "and the supporter of the preservation of craftsmanship in light of replicated products." Plans were shown for cottages within walking distances of workshops and studios. "Here you can see the expansion plans once a village is" Alan nodded off.

Martha poked him. He opened his eyes. "That man called to you."

"Who?"

"Me," Whitefeather was standing next to him. "I'm glad you came today." He looked at the group. "Is this the group that helped you build the gates?"

"Yes, they are."

"The bonus offer we discussed is waiting behind the curtain."

"Bonus?" The words trickled through the group.

Alan touched his stomach. "Trust me folks. I had to keep it a secret." The look on Whitefeather's face was a sympathetic smirk.

Alan followed the group behind the curtain.

"I am actually Tribune William Whitefeather of the Confederacy Office of Targeted Extractions." Several gasps could be heard. "Your contributions to the construction of this gate have earned you a place at Wayward Colony should you choose to emigrate."

Freddy, the by-the-book-employee, interrupted, "Excuse me, I think this is some sort a practical joke or hidden camera show." Whitefeather adopted a 'who, me?' look. "The Confederacy people do not play games. My CAP score is 5.7." Freddy's tone showed stress. "I'm not able to volunteer."

"Let me explain, please." Tribune Whitefeather held up both hands to show he was sincere. "In the Confederacy's Economy, hand-made objects have great value. Even the time-lapse photos of the gates' construction are considered a must-view at present on many other planets."

"You mean the very technology that is about to put us out of work is worth less to the aliens than our smithy work?"

"Yes," Whitefeather turned to the group, "back to the offer." He smiled.

"Technically, you will be members of Wayward Colony and not the Confederacy. Your family groups are to remain stable." He turned to look at Cheryl.

"Cheryl Rey, do you volunteer for service in the Fleet Auxiliary of the Confederacy?"

"Yes, yes I do."

"Cheryl Rey's acceptance recorded," a voice called from a speaker above them.

"You need to say your goodbyes to your family, Private."

Cheryl huddled together with Alan, her mother, and her two younger brothers.

Cheryl again became his five-year old, heading for the bus on her the first day of school. "Daddy, I want to go with you and Momma."

Alan hugged his daughter close. "Baby, do what you need to do." She nodded her answer.

Cheryl turned back to face Whitefeather. He smiled a crooked pencil-thin grin. Martha softly pressed her elbow into Alan's side. She didn't like the tribune being that close to her baby, even though she was now an adult.

"Private Rey," Whitefeather began. Cheryl instinctually looked at her dad. "Private Cheryl Rey," this time she looked back at the tribune. "The individuals extracted from here today are all slated for the Wayward Colony." Cheryl turned back to smile at her family. "You will be forced to choose your concubines from the surplus stock already there."

A few minutes later, a resolute Cheryl stepped onto the pad transporting her to the C.S.S. Kenworth to start her new life.

"Alan Rey, for purposes of transport you have been awarded a temporary CAP score of 6.5. You cannot accept additional concubines," the disembodied voice repeated.

"Grin and bear the responsibility." Whitefeather had a most mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Alan left his wife and walked over to the tribune. "What have you done to me?"

Whitefeather circled, letting his bulk block the group's view. "Anita's boyfriend is."

"Scum?" Alan volunteered.

The big man smiled, knowing that they were in agreement concerning 'dickless'. "Something tells me she won't go without him, but wants to get away from him."

"My Martha hates him," came the cold simple truth. "She's got a good sense about people." He patted Whitefeather on the upper arm. "She said she was going to watch you."

"I might offer her a job in the future."

Alan smiled at that revelation. He loved Martha, but knew her habits and mores. Alan hoped that Tribune Whitefeather was joking. Once Martha got her hooks into the job, whatever obstacles there were would evaporate, come hell or high water.