“Despicable!” proclaimed Bradford. O’Casey eyed him for a moment, then nodded.
“Aye. But as the commodore has said, essential ta our early survival. The Company had re-formed by then an’ become a separate entity under Imperial law, wi’ broad autonomy much like before. It took advantage of the trade, an’ understandably required compensation fer bringin’ the lasses hither. Since the Imperial people an’ government had little ta compensate wi’ beyond fish, foodstuffs, an’ increasingly modern manufactured goods beyond what the Dominion could produce, we supplied those goods fer trade ta the Dominion fer females. The goods ‘bought’ the women, but the Company demanded compensation fer the transportation, so the ‘obligation system’ was expanded ta include them. The Company brought the women, but held the obligation until it was purchased by individuals or the government. At first, those who bought that obligation, or indenture, did so for the good of all an’ simply released the women among us. They married, bore children, an’ became Imperial subjects. They weren’t citizens, but their children were. There lay much of the incentive for them ta marry, ye see.
“Over time, however, once the immediate crises ended an’ there was plenty of women fer all, the Company continued the practice o’ bringin’’em in, but increasingly ta sell their indentures ta those who wanted labor. There’s now a permanent ‘lower class’ of women—called ‘Lascars’ again, I fear—who begat ‘citizen’ children with those holdin’ their obligation. Strangely, it’s they who support the Company more than any since it continues ta add ta their ranks and gives ’em a political advantage in the Court o’ Proprietors, even while the ranks of those who canna’ be citizens grows.” He paused. “I fear some o’ this may also stem from a . . . perverse reluctance ta dispense wi’ their twisted faith as well. Unlike yer Sister Audry’s approach ta convertin’ ‘heathens,’ Dominion priests’re more . . . insistent. Add ta this an even more burgeonin’ ‘trade’ since, in recent decades, the Dominion’s begun ta fear our numbers an’ Imperial power. Their ‘Church’ has taken on more an’ more of the pagan rituals o’ the early Indian folk, an’ e’en as the Company trade grows, it’s become more costly since the ‘Holy Dominion’s’ started . . . slaughterin’ their ‘excess’ females in hideous rituals.... Now we have women bringin’ their own daughters ta secluded shores an’ beggin’ the Company ta take ’em!”
There was silence in the wardroom as those present began to digest the enormity of the moral dilemma facing the Empire. The “trade” couldn’t simply be shut down without condemning untold numbers to their deaths, yet the Company fed and grew and gained self-perpetuating power off that very trade.
“I think I’m finally starting to get it,” Matt said quietly. “I see how the Company’s growing in strength, and I understand why the government’s concerned. I also see the moral and political mess the Governor-Emperor’s in. What I guess I don’t see is what the Company hopes to gain in the long run. They’ve saturated the market for marriageable women and they’ll undoubtedly saturate the labor market at some point as well. It appears they also at least contributed to this new—and yes, much more barbaric practice—the Dominion has engaged in. What could the Company possibly hope to gain in the end?”
“Absolute power, for a start,” Jenks said. “O’Casey saw it long before I did, but with the support the Company has gained in the Court of Proprietors, they can do almost as they please. And even as the Lascars empower the Company, they become dependent on it as well. It controls most jobs and industry, and by its actions it’s provoked the Dominion, which besides its overwhelming numbers has a navy with numerical supremacy over and near technological parity with our own.” Jenks snorted bitterly. “Start with a population that’s dependent upon you for its livelihood, add an external threat to control those who oppose you, and you can do virtually anything you want. What that might be, I can only speculate.”
“And I take it that the Governor-Emperor and his daughter are opposed to this?”
“Of course!”
“Wow,” was all Palmer could manage.
“Yeah,” grumbled Gray. “What a mess.” He looked at Jenks. “Now I see why you’re not an ‘abolitionist,’ but what the hell?”
“Well . . . but with all those extra women, they ought to be cheap, right?” Campeti asked.
Matt gave Walker’s gunnery officer another withering look, but then his eyes widened and he rubbed his chin. “Yeah. What about that? I never have gotten your monetary system straight. God knows ours is fouled up. What do they cost?”
It was Selass’s turn to glare, but Matt held a hand up to her.
Jenks seemed confused. “Well, ah, our monetary system has largely returned to a foundation based on precious metals. We get ours from our colonies in the Americas, as does the Dominion. Of course, the Company gets a percentage of whatever they carry in their bottoms, but there at least, the Navy has some advantage since most is transported aboard Naval vessels. There is some piracy, after all.”
“So you use what, a ‘pound’ system?”
“That’s quite a simplification, but pounds, certainly. Twenty shillings to a pound sterling, at my last inquiry—some time ago—twenty-six shillings for a guinea . . .”
“In other words, just as confusing as, well, it still is. No paper money?”
“No. Except for lines of credit redeemable at Imperial banks. There is often a discount. . . .”
“But gold’s gold, and a pound of gold’s worth what?”
“Forty-four and a half guineas.”
“And a guinea’s worth twenty-six shillings—so a pound of gold would be . . . ah, eleven hundred and fifty-seven shillings, or . . .”
“Almost forty-eight pounds,” Palmer supplied.
“Right.” Matt looked at Jenks. “So what do they cost? How much is this ‘obligation’ worth?”
“Well . . . that varies. The value of the obligation depends on how much time a woman has been in service. Of course, their maintenance is added to the total, as are any extraordinary costs such as further transportation. . . .”
“You mean feeding, clothing, doctoring, and then transporting them, possibly against their will to say, Respite, actually adds to their obligation?”
“Naturally. Any unobligated citizen would have to pay for those things. . . .”
“But they’d have a choice, Jenks,” Matt pointed out. “And to then charge them for transportation to another place where they can be further enslaved for someone else’s gain . . . !”
“I thought we’d moved past the ‘slavery’ dispute!” Jenks said.
“No, we haven’t, because that’s still exactly what it is! What’s to stop an owner of an ‘obligation’ from just shifting a worker—a woman!—around as long as he likes, island to island and workplace to workplace, constantly adding to her ‘debt’ for her entire life?”
Jenks blinked. “I . . . I honestly never thought about it like that.” He seemed sincere and . . . horrified. He straightened. “I’m a Naval officer, and until recently, I avoided politics as best I could.”
Bradford grunted. “It sounds as though the vast majority of your people have as well. Most are probably as ignorant as you, if the majority of these—possible—abuses take place on your frontiers.” He raised an eyebrow at the others. “Do remember that we’re still dealing in conjecture here. We have no evidence that this ‘perpetual obligation system’ actually occurs, just a speculation that it might.”
Matt almost laughed. He was still digesting some of Bradford’s new theories regarding how they might have wound up ‘here’ in the first place. “Lack of evidence has never stopped you from ‘speculating’ away on every conceivable topic, Courtney!”
Bradford grinned and stroked a nostril with his forefinger. “Indeed. But let us leave off persecuting the poor commodore for now. The system he described does seem to have begun innocently enough. Through our own brief contact with these Company thugs—virtual Nazis, if I may make so bold—we do have ample
evidence of their treachery and deceit. I do not find it at all difficult to believe that the ultimate result of this particular institution has been perverted, warped, and molded to fit whatever diabolical agenda the Company ultimately serves.”
“Hear, hear!” exclaimed Lieutenant Grimsley, Jenks’s exec. He’d remained silent, slowly sinking into his chair throughout the discussion. If Jenks “avoided” politics, he’d always tried to pretend they didn’t exist. At least before Billingsley abducted the princess and the others. Emboldened by his voice, and the generally agreeable response to his words, Grimsley turned to Matt.
“Pardon me, Captain Reddy, but may I ask why you are suddenly so interested in the cost of these obligations?”
“Sure,” Matt replied. “Gold isn’t really money among our friends. Not yet, anyway. That said, we took on a . . . little . . . when we refueled at Mindanao—‘Paga-Daan.’ I’d like some idea how many Respitan women this ship can purchase out of bondage . . . and set free.” He looked at Jenks. “You might want to think about that too. One way or another, we’re going to kill this goddamn ‘Honorable New Britain Company,’ so the ‘trade’ is basically over, if I have anything to say about it. Consider this: all these women who’ve been under the Company and, yes, Imperial thumb for all these generations probably don’t have much loyalty to either one. You say some still even adhere to this sick mix of Catholicism and . . . whatever else it is. Those I ‘buy’ will have the options of staying where they are, becoming free citizens of the Alliance, or maybe even joining the United States Navy, God help me. At least in noncombat roles. I’ll bet most choose between the latter two.”
CHAPTER 15
Andaman Island
Almost all the commanders of every force within what was now inclusively described as “First Fleet” were present in Aahd-mah-raal Keje-Fris-Ar’s vast quarters aboard Salissa Home. The sole exception was Greg Garrett, who was patrolling the strait aboard Donaghey, dodging mountain fish and chasing the few Grik ships still trying to sneak past. The meeting began with a friendly meal, in the Lemurian way, and no serious business was discussed until the last plate was removed. It didn’t take long for the diners to finish. All were anxious to discuss the outcome of the Battle of Raan-goon. Overall command of First Fleet had already been formally turned over to Keje, and he sat at the head of a long, ornately carved dining table. Formal dining tables were not the norm among sea folk, who tended to eat from plates on their laps while lounging on comfortable cushions, but that sort of arrangement was awkward when discussions involved so many. Somebody always had to shout to be heard. The vast table allowed a formal setting where discussion could take place with everyone at eye level and easy to hear—if Navy decorum was observed.
Keje had taken the idea from the hideous green-topped wardroom table aboard Walker, and he encouraged the same kind of free-flowing back and forth he’d witnessed there. His table wasn’t green, however; it was a well-oiled, polished, inlaid thing of beauty; hand-carved with delicate raised relief and possessed of deep, dark, mysterious grains. It would probably never be used for surgery, but it served all the other necessary purposes. Those around it all sat on stools, an essential compromise, and one that didn’t inconvenience humans or Lemurians. ’Cats and their tails always had a difficult time with human chairs.
Keje glanced around the table, listening to the gently rumbling conversations, and then wiped his mouth with a napkin. Pushing back his stool, he raised his large cup of seep.
“My friends, comrades in the Holy Crusade of our time, let all Fleet elements that participated now add the word ‘Raan-goon’ to the folds of their flags, to commemorate this great victory!”
There followed applause, foot stamping, and a little gentle knocking on the magnificent table amid the hoots of approval. Even the captains of Scott and Kas-Ra-Ar were pleased. They’d both initially been put out by the rumored proclamation, and Captain Cablaas-Rag-Lan of Scott even transmitted a protest to the flagship. He’d suggested that Salissa herself shouldn’t claim the honor if they couldn’t. Keje patiently replied that Salissa brought the planes and Scott and Kas-Ra-Ar escorted Salissa, so of course they had “participated.”
“Let it be recorded on the flags,” Keje continued, “and let it be set down in the very Sacred Scrolls! Let the Scrolls also reflect that Commodore Ellis led First Fleet to its first victory, and General Aal-den designed the battle that exterminated the Grik from the environs of Raan-goon!” There was more acclaim, and Keje poised his cup to drink. “My friend Adar, once Sky Priest of this very Home and now Chairman of the Grand Alliance, has received my report and asks that I offer these words: ‘May we all pray to the Heavens above in whatever way we choose, that this victory will be the first of many, leading to that final, ultimate victory when the Grik vermin are no more!’ ” Everyone drank then, and the room thundered around them. Keje sat and motioned for more seep. “Now,” he said, as the celebration waned, “tell me everything that went wrong.” There was no accusation in his tone, only a genuine desire to learn what hadn’t worked so they could fix it next time. Next time there might be no room for error at all.
“Your Excellency,” Jim began, addressing Keje as the head of state he was, but Keje held up a hand.
“Commodore Ellis—yes, you will retain that designation for now—we have finally solved that . . . bureau-craatic . . . issue quite nicely, I believe. Mr. Letts struck upon the solution while holding his drooling new youngling, as I understand it.” There was laughter. “It strikes me as . . . appropriate, and even elegant, perhaps.” He looked around. “I have accepted a ‘Reserve Commission’ in the Amer-i-caan Navy! While I command First Fleet, I am aahd-mah-raal only. I still have a vote in the Allied Council, but as a different person, representing a different Home. I think Mr. Letts was pondering the profound contrasts between being both a father and Adar’s chief of staff at the same time. He realized that the one duty need not preclude the other. In any event, Salissa has accepted a reserve commission as well, and for the purposes of First Fleet, she is the U.S. Navy Ship CV-1, Salissa!”
There was another round of enthusiastic acclaim and Ellis smiled. It was elegant. He knew it couldn’t be “regulation,” but sometimes they had to improvise. “Admiral,” he revised, nodding with a grin. “We need to work on logistics—a lot. We’re not exactly starting from scratch, as we learned quite a bit before Baalkpan, but we had Letts around to handle it. Besides, defensive and offensive logistics are just as different as defensive and offensive tactics. I wish Alan Letts was here now, but we’ve got to sort it out. It could have been a lot worse at Rangoon, disastrously worse, but at least we had everything we needed. It just wasn’t necessarily where we needed it.”
“That chore will largely and necessarily fall upon you,” Keje said, “and by extension, every executive officer of every ship, battalion, regiment, and company in this command. You are my ‘executive officer’ and chief of staff. You must coordinate this effort.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral.”
“It will become massive quite soon,” Keje warned. “The troops, equipment, munitions, ships—all are ‘in the pipeline,’ as you say, right now. You must put yourself in front of this situation.”
“I’ll see to it,” Ellis said, looking around the table with an expression even Lemurians could read by now that said, “There better be a continuous procession of ‘execs’ to see me ASAP.”
“Next?”
“We need better contingency planning,” Pete said. “My fault, this time. Jim asked me to add aircraft to the plan, but I didn’t think things through well enough.” He nodded at Tikker, sitting opposite and to the left. “A couple of times, we could have used close support again after Captain Tikker flew home. We didn’t have any contingency for that possibility. I just came up with some guidelines and said ‘do this.’ Granted, it might not have worked anyway. Our communications are limited and I don’t know if I could’ve even gotten through to him later. Things got really tangled up toward the
end. Frankly, comm discipline went straight to hell, and we’ve got to fix that. As long as we’re stuck with a single frequency, we’re just going to have to work around it. Still, if I’d only thought to have Tikker put a squadron on the water, maybe carried some bombs and fuel on a couple of ships, we could’ve had air support and recon throughout the latter part of the fight.”
“Excellent point,” Keje said. “In fact, I think it should become policy that all ships carry enough fuel to resupply several aircraft—just as Walker and Mahan once did.” He paused. “That brings us to another issue. Captain Tikker, all things considered, the Wing performed extremely well. You are to be commended. I would like for you to explain, however, the reasons for the number of aircraft and crews we lost in this action.”
Tikker stood. He’d already discussed this with Keje, and he hadn’t expected to be called out. “First of all, Aahd-mah-raal, the very nature of air operations is dangerous in the extreme. It is also new. Unlike many of the new things we learn, however, aviators are not standing on the ground or upon the deck of a ship when they try the ‘real thing’ for the first time. Everyone makes mistakes, but in the sky there is no room for them. It takes only one.” Tikker looked down, then met Keje’s eyes again. “One of the mistakes was one we have tried to train away, based on Major Mallory’s cautions. He called it ‘target fixation.’ I know I witnessed it firsthand in one instance, when we lost a plane directly in front of General Aal-den’s Marines.”
Pete was nodding. “I saw it. I’ve seen it before too. It was a classic case. The kid clearly meant to drop on a particular group of Grik . . . and just followed the line a little too long. Hit the trees.” He shrugged. “It’s a terrible, wasteful, tragic thing, but it can happen to anybody if you’re not careful. It happens on the shield wall! You get to paying too much attention to the enemy in front of you and the bastard next to him sticks you with his spear.” He looked at Keje. “Hell, it can even happen to admirals.”
Rising Tides: Destroyermen Page 24
