“The governor told me to tell you not to trouble with a written response, sir,” said the young officer. “He will be quite happy with a verbal acceptance or regrets, as the case may be. But he said to stress that, while he's sorry for the short notice, he very much hopes you can make it.”
“My respects to His Excellency, and I accept his kind invitation with pleasure.”
The militia officer saluted Sam and took his leave. As Sam watched him re-board his boat he reflected in passing that the young man must be from a well-to-do family. Few members of the Nosy Be militia, a part-time force, were paid. But presumably the post of governor's ADC brought with it social and political advantages.
Sam was about to take out his watch to check the time when the bosun's mates trilled “Up spirits” on their calls, and the pipe was repeated over the schooner's PA system. That meant it was precisely 1100. There was the usual cheerful, noisy bustle as the crew downed tools, fetched their mugs, and lined up at the foremast for their daily liquor ration, rum rather than Kerg vodka in these waters, mixed with three parts of water. The solemn ceremony of mixing rum and water in a large mahogany tub, then serving out careful measures, was carried out by the Boatswain, Mr. Terreblanche, a warrant officer, and overseen by the XO, Lieutenant Commander Al Kendall.
Kendall had been wounded during the Battle at Anchor, shot through the throat, an injury that damaged his vocal chords and reduced his normal booming voice to a raspy near-whisper. Doctor Girard could not yet say whether this would prove temporary or permanent. He still wore a bandage round his neck, and now carried a half-sized brass megaphone, fabricated at his direction by one of the engineer's mates. Junior officers and seamen alike had learned to pay close attention when the business end of that device was aimed at them: the blistering heat of the XO's rebukes had been diminished not at all by their reduction in volume. He now oversaw with an eagle eye the serving-out, and no underage seamen – the drinking age on Kerguelen, and therefore on Kerg ships, was nineteen – or men being “dried out” (that is, having had their liquor ration suspended), a usual and dreaded punishment for minor offenses, dared to try and slip into the line.
This was one of the most pleasant times of day on board, ship's work knocked off and everyone enjoying their drink, laughing and talking. The officers, too, had their tot, and as usual in port gathered in a convivial group around the mizzen mast. Ritchie, Sam's steward, brought him a drink. Although Sam sipped it from a silver mug, the gift of a shipowner grateful for the re-capture of his schooner from the pirates, it was the same rum-and-water everyone else was drinking.
After twenty minutes or so, all turned to again, everyone's mood somewhat elevated, and happy in the knowledge that their dinner was less than an hour away. Sam's normal dinner hour was somewhat later – he ate at the same time as the officers, who were required to see that the seamen in their divisions were properly fed before dining themselves. But today, he would have to content himself with a snack to keep hunger at bay until he dined with the governor.
It wouldn't do for Sam to have two dinners. He was becoming concerned about his increasing girth after so long a stay in port. With the ready availability of fresh stores, Ritchie was giving full play to his culinary artistry, presenting Sam daily with tempting gourmet meals. Sam's steward had learned his art in the kitchens of some of the most fashionable – and most expensive – eateries in French Port. Since Ritchie's naval pay, even after his recent promotion to Petty Officer Steward, could hardly be a tenth of what he had earned as chef de cuisine at Antoine's, Sam often wondered what made him give this up and go to sea. From hints Ritchie had dropped from time to time, and the steward's notorious misogyny, Sam suspected that it had to do with a bitter divorce, a decree that tied the amount of alimony to his earnings, and a spirit of revenge. Shipboard gossip had it that Ritchie had been overheard vowing to stay at sea until his ex-wife died or re-married.
Then again, perhaps his motives were purely patriotic.
As promised, the governor's limousine was waiting for him on the dock (in spite of the Harbor-master's prohibition of private passenger vehicles in port limits) as he climbed up from the Albatros's motor sloop at 1445. It was a short ride to the official residence through the bustling streets of Hell-ville, Nosy Be's capital and biggest town. Sam enjoyed the ride, inhaling the mixed aromas of flowers, tropical vegetation, and the pleasant kitchen smell of palm oil burning in the limo's Stirling cycle engine, so different from the stench of Kerguelenian fuel, which was a blend of lignite slurry and fish oil.
Sam was met at the door of the residence by the silent Malagasy servant he recognized from previous visits. The man bowed and ushered Sam through a hallway into a large parlor or reception room. There he found two men waiting for him, Governor McLeod and a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman who looked vaguely familiar to Sam. The governor introduced them: “Commodore Bowditch; the Honorable Stephen Ravenel, FKI, High Commissioner for the Republic of Kerguelen to the Dominion of Nosy Be.” The two shook hands and exchanged greetings. The initials “FKI” after one's name denoted “Fellow of the Kerguelen Institute”, an honorific bestowed either for distinction in scholarship or generous philanthropic support of the Institute's work. Sam wondered which it was in Ravenel's case.
“Mrs. McLeod regrets that she cannot join us for dinner – a slight indisposition, a headache,” the governor said. Sam reckoned that the headache was a diplomatic one, so that the men could talk business without reservation. Or distraction, since Sam remembered Mrs. McLeod as a very attractive woman of considerable charm.
The governor was a plumpish, sleepy-looking man who gave an impression of self-indulgent indolence. Sam had learned that this was misleading: McLeod was a well-read man with a quick mind and surprising energy.
“A drink before dinner?” asked the governor, and without waiting for an answer summoned the silent servant, who appeared with three glasses and a decanter near-full of a dark amber liquid.
“This is ten-year-old rum, gentlemen, and we customarily drink it straight, since it would be a shame to adulterate such a noble spirit. But if you would prefer some water ...?” Both Ravenel and Sam shook their heads, although Sam would really have liked to dilute it, since he never drank rum straight. Actually, he would have most preferred to proceed directly to dinner. It seemed to his stomach that the banana he had eaten to tide him over had been consumed in the very distant past. He sipped cautiously, and found the liquor noble indeed, smooth and subtle with a complex bouquet – as different from navy rum as satin from sail canvas. It went down so easily that he decided he'd have to be careful about how much of it he drank on an empty stomach.
“Have we met before, Mr. Ravenel?” Sam asked. “You look very familiar to me – I apologize if I've forgotten a past acquaintance.”
“So far as I can recall, we've never been introduced before now, Commodore. But you've probably seen me around Government House, as I recall seeing you. I am – I was – the member for northwest Courbet. I resigned my seat when I accepted my present assignment.” Northwest Courbet was a rural riding consisting of small outports, with an electorate that depended upon fishing and farming for a living – a constituency that was almost certainly, therefore, anti-Navy.
“I see,” said Sam with some reserve. “I would guess, then, that your constituents found naval issues … controversial?”
“'Controversial' is an understatement, Commodore. My constituents were adamantly opposed to any expenditures a-tall on a navy. Since I voted for the Navy funding bill, this new assignment was providential for me – I would almost certainly have lost the next election, so I quit before being fired, so to speak.”
Sam instantly warmed to the man. “Thank you for your support of the Navy, sir. And I'm sorry it cost you your Council seat.” Ravenel waved away Sam's thanks.
“Oh, I was ready for something new, anyway. At first, I found the profound conservatism of my constituency intellectually congenial, and had no problem representing
their interests in the Council, since I saw the issues more or less as they did. That is, until the issue of the Navy came up. I tried, but failed, to convince opinion leaders in the district of the importance of maritime trade – and therefore of protecting it – to their current and future prosperity.
“And I was getting tired of the time I had to spend in the constituency, a region devoid of cultural or historical interest. I also wanted to get back to my studies, and this job gives me the opportunity to seek out primary materials on the history of Kerguelenian settlements in the Indian Ocean, my present line of research.”
“So your FKI was awarded for scholarship?”
“Well, ostensibly. I've published several monographs in the Institute's Proceedings that met with some modest approval from my fellow historians. But it probably didn't hurt that I also was enabled by an inheritance to endow a fellowship with a stipend large enough to allow the holder to do full-time, original research, while also working with students. This was in furtherance of a goal I share with some other like-minded scholars, that of helping the Institute to evolve into a full-fledged university, on the ancient model. Kerguelen can only advance through higher education.”
“An admirable goal,” Sam said, thinking ruefully of his own scant ten years of formal schooling, counting navigation school – and that was well above the Kerg average.
“We think so. And, by the way, Commodore, you can contribute by depositing copies of ship's logs and naval records with the Institute, for reference by future historians.” Sam was a bit taken aback by this request, and wasn't sure he liked the idea of opening the Navy's records to everyone.
“That may have to wait awhile, Mr. Ravenel. There are questions of operational security to be considered.”
“Of course, of course. So long as we can count on eventual access to them...?”
“Yes, well … eventual access.”
Ravenel seemed about to press Sam further on this issue when the servant rescued him by entering the room and wordlessly conveying a message to the governor.
“Dinner is on the table, gentlemen,” McLeod said. “Let's eat it while it's hot, shall we?” The men entered the dining room, where the long, highly polished table was set with only three places at one end.
The dinner was, as usual at the governor's residence, ample and exotic. A spicy soup with a coconut-milk base was followed by local fresh fish lightly and perfectly fried, then roast zebu, the local beef. Although Sam found the latter delicious, if a bit chewy, he had learned to eat it sparingly – his digestion, accustomed all his life to a diet in which nearly all the animal protein was seafood, found beef and pork rather too rich. Everything was accompanied by rice and local vegetables, and the meal finished up with fresh tropical fruit and strong black coffee. All in all, a pleasant change from shipboard fare for Sam, as creative as Ritchie was with the limited materials at hand. Conversation during dinner avoided business, the Governor instead adroitly and lightly drawing each man out about his career and interests without any unseemly direct questioning.
After gently eliciting from Sam some details of his sea-going career, he said, “High Commissioner, I understand that you are something of an expert on the Troubles. I've always wondered just exactly what triggered them. Some religious people say that they were God's punishment for the sins of our ancestors, but no educated man can seriously accept that. There are other, rather simplistic, theories, too: that there was too little food for too many people, so most of the human race starved to death. Or, alternatively, a great plague killed nearly everyone – I learned both theories in school, but my teachers couldn't say which was correct, or if both were. How did the human race decline from eight or nine billion to however many of us there are now – surely no more than a few million world-wide?”
“I believe you're correct that no single disaster caused the Troubles – that it was a multivariate phenomenon. And, contrary to the popular impression, the Troubles weren't a sudden, single event, but a cascading series of disasters that occurred over the course of a generation or longer,” Ravenel began. Sam relaxed and sipped his coffee – he could detect the opening of a lengthy dissertation that would take him off the conversational hook for a while.
“The records are of course fragmentary and incomplete, but I believe everything started with a political decision by the United States of America, the nation to which many Kergs can trace their ancestry. By the mid-twenty-first century, the U. S. had maintained peace in the world for more than a hundred years, following a horrific global war that left America not merely on the winning side, but the strongest single nation militarily in world history.
“But apparently the American citizenry finally found the burden too great to bear, and resented the fact that other democratic nations had apparently grown rich while allowing the U. S. to carry the burden of their defense. A global economic downturn, the worst of a series beginning early in the twenty-first century, exacerbated the fiscal load on the nation. America gradually reduced its military commitments, withdrew from international organizations, and, over a decade, significantly downsized its military establishment through a process of unilateral disarmament.
“As the international community came to perceive that the U. S. was no longer capable of being the world's policeman, totalitarian states, in particular, were tempted to go to war to settle old scores and forestall internal pressures for reform. There were demographic imbalances, too, that contributed to instability. Two of the world's poorest and most populous countries had attempted to reduce their rates of population growth by policies limiting the number of children women could have – in the case of one nation, through outright compulsion. Since in both nations there was a strong cultural preference for sons, and medical science then allowed the possibility of sex selection, an enormous gender imbalance of males over females grew up in both countries. Within three or four decades, the growth of a surplus of millions of young men with no hope of marriage created unrest and instability in both countries.
“The nations involved found a way to channel these energies: a vast increase in their armed forces. Given the previous removal of the deterrent effect of U. S. power, the result was inevitable. Wars broke out, mainly among the poorer and less democratic nations, all around the world, motivated both by a desire to revenge perceived injustices and a desperate need to acquire new resources. Because many of these nations had nuclear weapons, the loss of life and damage to infrastructure – already ramshackle and inadequate from more than a century of underinvestment – was horrific.”
“May I interrupt, High Commissioner? I've heard of 'nuclear weapons' in every discussion of the Troubles, but I have no idea what they were. Can you enlighten me?”
“Not to any great degree, Governor – I'm no physicist, and anyway, even scientists who understand the theory behind them are unclear about just how they worked. Much of that knowledge is lost. We know their effects, however: tremendous explosive power, plus radiation that causes death and disease, and which lingers for many years at the site of a blast.”
“Sounds like it's just as well that we don't know more about them, so we couldn't make our own even if, God forbid, we wanted to. Anyway, High Commissioner, sorry for the interruption – do please continue.”
“Well, the U. S. apparently tried to intervene to stop these wars, and was herself the victim of nuclear attacks – or perhaps her enemies had attacked at the outset. The record isn't clear. The nations of western Europe, including France – another country well-represented in our ancestry – were also attacked, perhaps because they, too, tried to intervene to stop the wars in what was then called the “Third World” – the poorer nations.
“The wars ended, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say they gradually died away because of the massive destruction everywhere, and the world began the process of recovery and rebuilding. It presented a daunting task: industry and infrastructure destroyed, widespread hunger due to the breakdown of food distribution, epidemics of
man-made plagues released as weapons, as well as the spontaneous outbreaks of disease to be expected from the presence of millions of unburied corpses, constitutions weakened by malnutrition, and the collapse of public sanitation and health measures. To make things even worse, a rice blight struck the crop that provided a fifth of the world's calories. The blight may or may not have been deliberately introduced, as a weapon – we don't know.
“In spite of all this, civilization might have survived and struggled back if another blow had not then fallen. By a fateful coincidence, there was just then a global resurgence of volcanism. Such outbreaks had regularly recurred in Earth's geologic past, but this was the worst one in human history. Cities – and more importantly, port facilities – and many power plants, water and sewer systems, bridges, roads, refineries, factories, and other essential facilities were destroyed by devastating earthquakes or lava flows.
“Public health and sanitation services, already reeling from the effects of the war, were wiped out. Millions more corpses were added to those still unburied, starting new epidemics. Attempts to revive agriculture were ended by roving hordes of starving city dwellers, who devoured unripe crops in the fields, slaughtered and ate the breeding stock, and consumed the seed corn essential for future crops. Anyway, with neither fuel for their equipment nor synthetic fertilizers, farmers would have been reduced to nineteenth century farming methods – actually, without the millions of draft animals required, even that was impossible, so I suppose it would be more accurate to say a reversion to neolithic farming methods.
Into Uncharted Seas Page 4
