by Mark Eller
Having no recourse, he had imported everything except rock. Afterward, he imported a labor force and paid through the nose for it. Before this year was complete, he would have one of the most expensive small cities in the history of the world. On the other hand, it would be a very modern city, an empty modern city if he didn't figure out how to fill the place with people. Money would bring him teachers and municipal workers, but it wouldn't do diddly squat to convince his subjects to move here. Money, education, and civilization meant nothing to the Chins. They only wanted their cattle, their weapons, and the approval of their tribes and sects, or so Aaron suspected. After ruling the rapidly disintegrating Chin Empire for three years, he still didn't know much about its people. Hell, it hadn't been until the last year he finally learned to speak their language well enough to be understood.
"Set in place an' here comes team two just in time," a woman called out. "Let's get a move on before they end up waiting on us."
"Having most everything precut to size sure helped speed things along," Grebfax said quietly. "It takes time to cement the stone together, but once the walls are up, it's a simple matter to complete the interiors and roofs.
"Cost's less," Aaron explained. His inner eye looked down the future, seeing throngs of people walking the carefully maintained streets of New Beginning, his capital's name. "I'd rather pay to have the rough cuts made to our measure in Effra than have the people on site do it when I'm paying them three or four times more for their time."
Grebfax grinned. "Most of these will have made so much off you they won't have to work for a long time once they get home."
"You're telling me," Aaron grumped. "Do you need anything else?"
"Nails," Grebfax answered. "We can always use nails for roofing and framing. Another twenty or so all-terrain runabouts would come in handy, too. You know the ones I mean. Multiple gears, knobbed tires, and they hold together even if they're running over unpaved roads."
"Runabouts," Aaron replied in confusion, running his eyes over the grounds again. Though he was building a city, it was not overly large. When completed, it might hold thirty or forty thousand people. Many of those would live in the college dorms, making walking practical since almost everything would be located within a mile or two. Runabouts weren't really needed, yet
"For the races," Grebfax explained. Waving a hand, he indicated the rolling hills surrounding them. "These people need entertainment on their days off. They built themselves a race course over the hills. Made up some teams and designed a trophy to be passed to the weekly winners."
"Nails and runabouts," Aaron muttered. "I understand the nails, but I never guessed in order to build a city I'd have to provide runabouts."
"Life is tough all over," Grebfax observed.
Aaron nodded agreement. "Apparently. Anything else?"
"Not that I can think of. You brought in enough supplies over these last couple days to keep us busy for the rest of the week."
"Then I'll drop the nails and runabouts off at the warehouse and see you in a few days."
"Good enough." Grebfax's eyes crinkled with humor. At the moment, and for the foreseeable future, the warehouse consisted of four stakes driven into the ground. The walls and roof weren't scheduled to go up until mid-fall. "See you later."
Giving him a brief nod, Aaron transferred.
Flicker
* * *
"I'll never get used to you flickering about," Melna complained after Aaron appeared beside her and gave her a dutiful kiss hello along with a hug.
"Me neither," Harvest Patton agreed. "Hello, sir, how are things going in the city?"
"Slower than I want and faster than I expected," Aaron replied. Sighing, he released Melna and gazed around his 'Royal Chambers', the most lavish personal tent in the entire empire. By tribal standards, it was huge. Aaron and ten others could sleep comfortably in it because the tent did not boast many luxuries. Six inflatable mattresses lay on the floor with a sleeping bag on each. Beside every bed sat a duffel full of clothes and a few other personal items. When everybody was in residence, the tent boasted three rifles, a shotgun, and a scattering of pistols. Because of the assassins, Aaron insisted every member of his innermost circle either wear or carry a firearm of some sort.
Aaron's tent was made from dyed thread created from the webs of fist sized coloney spiders. One tribe of Chins had a secret method of pressing and binding the thread into a usable and durable silky material, creating something thin, cool, and colorful. His tent, easy to take down, could be packed away into two backpacks Aaron's entourage carried with them while following the herds, something they did whenever the cattle decided to head for new pastures. Unlike the cattle on his birth world or even in Isabella, these did not break away into small groups capable of fending for themselves. Instead, they gathered and fed in herds of two or three thousand, dividing into smaller herds only during times of drought or when the herd grew too large for the food supply. From what Aaron had been told, those droughts usually ran for two or three years on a fairly predictable cycle. Since a two year drought had ended only this last summer, the herds were reforming, and splintered tribes were rediscovering one another.
Aaron hated to be a pessimist, but the drought's ending threatened to give him a serious case of modified depression. During the drought, anything resembling a central Chin government had pretty much disappeared. Fine by Aaron. The breakup made organized warfare almost impossible, which meant Bill Clack and his rebel tribes had been unable to cause trouble.
However, Aaron's inability to provide a central government had created other problems. Due to tribal rivalries and internal conflicts, at least a quarter of his Chins decided they no longer needed to be a part of any empire. They had simply gone their own way. The government representatives Aaron tried to place within those tribes were politely asked to leave. Three refused and were killed.
When the breakaway tribes were added to the ones Clack had taken with him, Aaron's empire boasted barely half the population it held when Helmet Klein gave it to him. He would not have even half those followers if not for Heralda. The God-Touched priestess spent most of her time going from tribe to tribe, healing those she could while preaching the benefits of The One God and endorsing Aaron's leadership.
Aaron grinned wryly. Heralda had far more success at her job than Aaron did at his. Her personal following had grown while his had shrunk. Not only had she gained converts, she had attracted people willing to step forward to declare themselves priests and priestesses.
With the drought finished, Clack and his followers were once again a force to be considered. Rumblings of war ran rampant, something Aaron did not want. He had originally been optimistic about his chances of winning if war were forced on him, but his optimism faded over time. He had assumed he would have a surplus of reloadable brass cartridges to supply his people with ammunition. He had assumed Clack's people would carry empty firearms.
Those suppositions were only partially correct. He did have a huge surplus of brass. Unfortunately, his Chins kept very few of their weapons once their original ammunition ran out, and most of the brass cartridges were damaged and unusable.
As best Aaron could figure, he held suzerainty over a couple million people spread over an area fifteen or twenty times larger than Isabella. Of those two million, less than a hundred still held firearms because something like two thousand rifles had been abandoned to rust on the ground. His lands consisted of undeveloped plains, a few hills, and a whole bunch of low-lying mountains. Most of his subjects did not know who he was, and those who did gave him little thought. Klein had been their leader, their king. Aaron Turner was--well--not very important.
All in all, Aaron found running his empire a bit depressing. He hoped things would get better once he finished building this capital, but only time would tell if he was correct.
Sighing, he ran fingers through his greasy hair while studying his bodyguard and wife. He felt exhausted. His body ached, he was frustrated, and his
mind hummed with a hundred incomplete plans. Most would never see fruition, but that didn't matter. They still spent enough time racing through his head at to keep him awake at night.
"What did I miss?" he finally asked.
"Well, let's see." Melna caressed her chin thoughtfully. "Several cattle dropped calves since this morning. I'm told this is a good omen for a great year. The tribal elders declared there will be a T'chung in seven days. They also gave their permission for the recommencement of the Ferbog. Travois are being built, and champions are being chosen. I've been told the T'chung and Ferbog are things of great importance and excitement."
Lowering her hand, she leaned forward. "Aaron, husband, have I ever mentioned I never wanted to be an empress? Could we quit this job and do something a little more exciting--like watching grass grow? I never realized politics could be so boring."
Aaron sighed. Melna's mocking complaints were only half in earnest. She was not happy, but she was not unhappy, either. A large part of her craved greater excitement than babysitting the recalcitrant Chins, but Melna's nature drove her to succeed at whatever task she assumed. Being the Chin empress was one of those tasks. Since her complaints were never entirely serious, her attitude did not bother him…much.
No, the thing bothering him the most was being the leader of a people he didn't understand. He did not understand their psychology or their motives, and he certainly had no idea what a T'chung or a Ferbog were supposed to be.
Patton took pity on him. "I asked. A T'chung is ritual combat with sticks. The different tribal sects put forward their chorai, the junior warriors. The chorai fight one another until a referee decides one is clearly the winner. As I understand it, the final winner gains a great deal of respect and privilege for her family. She is considered a hero and is sought after for her wisdom and training. Any unmarried winner is usually married by the end of the week."
"She?" Aaron asked
Patton shrugged. "A linguistic courtesy. Nobody remembers the last time a man won the contest. I asked that, too. I also asked about this Ferbog thing, but got nowhere. All I can tell you is I saw several travois being built."
"Travois," Aaron said absently, not really caring. The Chin life was filled with a large number of rituals and traditions. Given time, he might discover what most of those were. For the most part, he didn't care. His position as emperor exempted him from almost everything except trying to figure out how to hold the empire together. The One God knew it was an almost impossible job. "It's dinner time. I suppose I better get out there and play imperial majesty."
"There's more." Melna's tone was even, without inflection, but her body tensed. This, then, was the real news.
Raising an eyebrow, Aaron waited, fighting back anger because he had a very good idea what his wife was about to tell him.
"There's a celebration and mourning," Melna said. "They brought in four heads."
* * *
The camp's east side was in turmoil. Voices were raised in both jubilation and ire. Bolg, those too young or inept to reach junior warrior status, were everywhere because children were the largest segment of any Chin tribe. Traditionally, fewer than a quarter would live to become chorai, or junior warriors, and only half of those were ever recognized as glorai or full warriors. Only a handful became yermod, or elders.
Traditionally, but times were changing. New medicines and the new sanitation standards Helmet Klein forced on his people improved some of those statistics, but not enough to suit Aaron.
He sighed. Yes, more children, lived to become chorai, but the Chin life expectancy was not much longer than before. Many chorai were mangled and killed by the cattle they tended. Other chorai frequently fell to herd raiders, although they often became raiders themselves if an opportunity presented itself.
Their life was hard and brutal, and Aaron had vowed to see an end to much of it, especially the raiding and the taking of heads.
With Melna by his side, he made his way through the camp. Patton changed position according to where he thought the greatest threat to Aaron might lie.
Everywhere Aaron's eye fell, it landed on mostly naked bolg. He had learned Chins rarely wasted clothing on the very young. Only when a person became a chorai did they begin wearing a full set and only when it suited them to do so.
At one time, the almost constant display of flesh would have made Aaron nervous while simultaneously drawing his eye. This was no longer the case. The sight of bare flesh had little effect on him, a fact he privately mourned. However, because of the nudity, he did not allow his daughter, Autumn, to visit the tribes. Instead, she stayed safely encased in his Jutland manor, watched over by the untrusting eye of Missy Bayne.
One group of seven young women did capture his attention. They sat in a circle, mumbling ritualistic phrases while passing a largish clay jar among themselves. Red liquid stained their lips and chins, streaked across their breasts, and dripped to their bellies.
Swallowing hard against a queasy stomach, Aaron continued on his way.
"Tell me that isn't─" he muttered out the side of his mouth.
"Mixed blood and milk," Melna supplied nonchalantly. "I'm told it's all the T'chung contestants will eat. I think it's supposed to build up their strength."
"Makes me weak every time I see it," Aaron told her. These people used entirely too much blood in their diets. They even made an alcoholic drink out of it. Once, after drinking down a skin of fermented blood and milk, Aaron challenged a man to a duel.
He frowned at the memory. Johnston more than deserved death for his treatment of Melna, but the alcohol caused Aaron to make a terrible mistake. He accosted the wrong man. He should have challenged Bill Clack, then, not later. Clack was far more dangerous than Johnston had ever been. As proof, witness Clack's breaking up the empire.
Raised voices cut through the cooling air. Two women argued with a man building a travois. Both wide, long, the travois looked like it would be well padded when finished. A roughly shaped twelve inch bent-branch wheel attached to the back end of each pole.
Technologically backward as his people might be, Aaron had to admit once they saw a purpose for something, they adopted it. The Chins had been quick to learn how to weave together wheeled carts from their twisted trees once Klein demonstrated their usefulness. Every family now owned at least one cart pulled by domesticated stock, and this was part of what bothered Aaron. A travois, though useful in some instances, was no longer needed to carry goods or injured people. So why were they being built?
Patton touched his arm and gestured. "Over there.
Following the gesture, Aaron nodded. Four heads were elevated spear high into the air.
An older man named Choin How approached from the side and thrust a rifle into Aaron's face. "No good."
Reacting quickly, Patton shoved Choin back from Aaron. Choin did not seem to notice the indignity. He only held the rifle out more insistently.
"I gave you a hundred rounds two weeks ago," Aaron said sternly, although Choin held only a part of his attention. The severed heads, surrounded by a dark cloud of flies, drew him with a sick fascination.
"Not enough," Choin insisted.
"Too many," Aaron replied. "What did you do with them?"
When Choin gestured vaguely toward the clouds, Aaron groaned. Never a mental giant, Choin, like too many other Chins, was certain he could bring a cloud down if he shot it enough times.
Aaron shook his head. "Where's the brass?"
Choin shrugged noncommittally. He removed one hand from his rifle to gesture toward their back trail. "Three days ago."
Aaron wanted to hit the man. His brass could be absolutely anywhere, anywhere at all. Damn! Drawing in a deep breath, he released it slowly. Screaming would accomplish nothing.
"No," he said flatly.
Choin's face fell and his rifle lowered. "But─"
"Bring me my brass," Aaron said. "You bring me my brass, and I'll fill it for you. Otherwise, no."
Choin once again, h
alf hopefully, lifted his rifle. Aaron controlled his jangling nerves with a force of will. He shook his head once more and deliberately turned away, dismissing Choin by ignoring him.
"They don't seem to understand," Melna commented as they made their way toward the mounted heads. "Most Chins think you can make ammunition magically appear from nothing."
"It's handing explosives to children," Aaron replied. He grimaced. Honesty made him correct himself. "They aren't children. The One God knows they've lived through enough to prove that. They're enthusiastic and don't understand I can reload the things, but I can't make new brass. Not yet."
"Aaron! Hey, hold up!"
Aaron started. "Gods, what now?"
"It's Aybarra," Patton supplied. "He's been looking for you."
"And I just want to examine four heads stuck on the end of some spears. Is it possible anyone else can interrupt me?"
"Very possible," Melna said. She shook her head and brushed overlong, needing to be trimmed, front bangs from her eyes while watching the aging black man's progress. "Still and all, you want to talk to Mister Aybarra since he knows more of what's going on than I do. He told me the little I know only minutes before you showed up."
She raised her voice, filling it with warmth Aaron knew she did not feel. Melna and Aybarra reached an understanding of respect very early in their relationship, but somehow, liking each other never became part of the equation. "Samuel, Aaron just mentioned he wanted to talk to you."
