The Raft

by Christopher Blankley

  #

  The Raft was making preparations to set sail.

  On every vessel, as Maggie and Rachael made their way back to the Soft Cell, Rafters were busily preparing their boats to cast off. Decks were being cleared, equipment stowed, sails were being checked and mended.

  Back aboard the Soft Cell, Maggie freed their mooring lines from the greater mass of the Raft that encircled the Kalakala and motored off through the archipelagos of bobbing craft in the surrounding water. Everywhere there was evidence of industrious preparation, the feeling that a great migration was about to begin.

  Progressively, as they drifted away from the Raft, the clutter of vessels began to thin around them. Soon, they were clear and free in the open water of the Sound. As noon approached, the warmth of the day was beginning. Maggie busied herself with the sails, readying them to catch the cool southerly breeze. Rachael sunned herself at the bow, her eyes hidden behind her dark sunglasses. She'd found her purse, with her sunglasses and phone, and brought both up to the prow of the Soft Cell.

  It was a hard conversation with Peter.

  Telling him she would be late, telling him it was his responsibility to pick up Margaret at daycare. The call was nothing new, work often kept Rachael late at the office. She knew she couldn't lie to him, but this time it was different. Rachael was, perhaps, only two or three miles from home, but she felt like she was on another planet. The story of Meerkat's death would have run in the morning edition, and Peter always read the Times with breakfast, keeping a keen eye out for Rachael's handiwork. But Peter was no fool, he'd have put two and two together the second he read the headline. And by now he'd be at the station, possibly with Meerkat's case on his desk. So he gave no indication of shock when Rachael explained where she was. He was silent. Concerned, perhaps. Rachael didn't elaborate. He asked when she'd be home.

  “Tonight... tomorrow... I don't know,” Rachael replied.

  “And you're safe?” he added.

  “Yes, I'm with Maggie... she's... she's a hard-ass.”

  “Maggie? You never mentioned that before.”

  “Well, she didn't used to be. I mean, not when I knew her... But already today she's had a knock-down, drag-out knife fight with a teenage thug – and come off the better of it – and it's not even noon.”

  Peter laughed. “Do I need to worry? Is she going to break my nose when I meet her?”

  “I'd be very careful if I were you,” Rachael laughed, relieved. Peter was taking it well.

  Peter let his chuckle taper off into silence. Then, “The murder's made the TV News. The Chief was on, he seemed to imply that the death was a Federal issue – a maritime case.”

  “Shit,” Rachael punctuated.

  “Not good news?”

  It wasn't. “No.”

  “They worried out there? The Rafters?”

  “Word has only just started to spread. Maggie's trying to stay ahead of the rumor mill. Find the murderer before you guys have a chance to get involved. But her number one suspect jumped off his boat and swam to shore. You guys picked up any Rafters this morning? Any barefooted drifters come through holding?”

  “I don't think so, but it's early.” Peter changed topics. “So, exactly how does this all work? On the Raft? Is Maggie some sort of cop?”

  “No, she tried to explain, but it barely makes any sense. Everything out here is crazy. They're a law unto themselves. Everything is ass-backwards. However any of this turns out, I'm gonna have one great story to write when I get back.”

  “If there's any Raft left to write about...”

  “Yeah, this whole situation has Waco written all over it,” Rachael mused.

  “And you want to be inside the compound?”

  “Look, I know it's complicated... Maggie and you and me... but I can't just leave her out here. I known it's her own fault, but...”

  “I know, you don't have to explain.”

  “But -”

  “Really.”

  Ugh. He always did that. Said the right thing at the right time. It hit Rachael right in the chest, made her feel all balled up inside. God, she loved him so much...

  “Thank you. Look, the whole Raft is sailing north tomorrow for some festival. It'll all be over, one way or another, by then. But I'll try and be home for dinner. Really try.”

  “Good. Be safe.”

  “I will. Give my love to Margaret. Don't forget she has dance at 3 o'clock.”

  “I'll remember. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Rachael hung up the phone.

  “Everyone okay at home?” Maggie spoke up from the cockpit.

  “Yes, surprisingly, yes.” Rachael looked at the phone in surprise.

  “Then you're not in trouble?”

  “No, not yet.” Rachael pulled herself to her feet and walked barefooted back to the cockpit. She found her purse and returned her phone to it.

  “You found yourself a nice guy.” Maggie said, not looking away from the helm.

  “I told you: don't start with me.”

  “I'm not starting anything. Just saying. I can speak, this is my boat.”

  “Yeah, he's a nice guy. A cop. Seattle.”

  “A cop?” Maggie shot Rachael a glance. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “Would it make you happy if I just jumped overboard and swam home?” Rachael said sarcastically.

  “Come on, I don't mean anything.”

  “You're being horrible.”

  “Sorry.” Maggie returned her eyes to the bow. They sailed on in silence, the sun warm and the sails filled with the southerly breeze. The skyline of the city was closing.

  “Where are we going?” Rachael asked, realizing their course was taking them directly away from the Raft.

  “We're looking for Tea Queen, remember?”

  “Yes, but you're heading for Seattle.”

  “Tea Queen is a scarecrow.”

  Rachael deflated. More lingo. “Scarecrow?”

  “A Rafter with a day job... well, a dryfoot day job. She designs websites, or databases, or something with computers. I forget, anyway she needs WiFi to do her work, that means she can't stray too far from the towers of the big city. Not during the week. Noon on a Thursday, she'll be in line-of-sight to downtown. You can count on it.”

  “Rafters hold down real jobs... Is that legal?”

  “No, of course not. Strictly under the table. Or at least as I understand it. But Gandalf has been talking about going above board with the whole deal, strictly legitimate. Did you see those three guys back there playing golf with the Gray Beards?”

  “Yes, Tiger Print said they were from Arrowsoft.”

  “I bet that perked up your ears?”

  “It certainly did.”

  “Well, Gandalf is trying to get them to open an office out here on the Raft.”

  “How would that work?”

  “No more telecommuting for the scarecrows. No more paying them under the table in greenbacks. A lot of Rafters used to work in the tech sector. There's a lot of talent. But many Rafters refuse to take dollars on principle. Anything backed by the US Government. They prefer their own money.”

  “Raft money? What do you use instead of dollars? Seashells? Polished rocks? Sharpened bits of wood?” Rachael smirked.

  Maggie smiled back. “Sum,” she simply replied.

  Rachael resisted the urge to parrot back the word. She was starting to feel like a tourist who'd forgotten her translating dictionary. “And this has something to do with this Exchange you mentioned before? The wizard's mystery room full of gold?”

  Maggie nodded. “Full marks to the pretty girl who's been paying attention.”

  “Do I dare ask you to explain it?”

  Maggie chuckled. “The Exchange? It's a website really, not much more. Gandalf started it back in the earliest days of the Raft, a barter exchange – you know, a message board – where people could exchange labor for goods. They were all as broke as Frenchmen back then, and no on
e wanted to keep cash on hand lest the tax man came along and take it.

  “So the Raft ran a barter economy back then. Of course, as the Raft grew, it became obvious that barter wouldn't scale, even with the help of technology. A barter exchange was great, but what the Raft needed was something that served as a currency. Gandalf got into the banking business quite by accident: he let users of the Exchange bank hours in the system. Man-hours, time worked. If you wanted to barter something with someone, but weren't interested in what they had to barter with, you could take a promissory note on their future labor. 'For this galley table, I owe you six hours of engine repair.' That sort of thing.

  “Well, right there you got a unit of exchange. Money. And before you know it, the whole Raft is thinking about the value of things in terms of the man-hours invested into the product. 'That meal took an hour to cook, so I'll charge you one hour for it.' 'This boat took twelve men three months to build, therefore it's worth six thousand hours.' It just grew from there.”

  “Your money is... time?”

  “The value of things is the time invested into their construction, yes. I know, it makes us all sound like communists, but it works. Think about it, what other currency is simultaneously inflation and deflation resistant? You can't increase or decrease the length of an hour, and everyone has in their gut an instinct of its apparent worth. And the economy grows at exactly the rate people put labor into it, and shrinks at exactly the rate that people take work out of it. The Raft's economy grows and shrinks, but the value of a man-hour doesn't. It's the perfect store of value.”

  “You've been reading Von Mises, again.” Rachael smiled.

  “I think the whole Raft has. We call it Sum. We'd call it money... but then, you know, the tax man would want his share. But it's money by another name. Better than money in many ways.”

  “And the Wizard's horde of treasure?”

  “Gandalf's insurance policy.”

  “Insurance?”

  “Yes, for the Exchange. To encourage people to accept Sum as currency. See, Sum isn't anything tangible. No more than the US Dollar is. Both are total fiat currencies. They're worth something because people believe they are. But the dollar is backed by the might and grandeur of the US government. And its use of its police powers to extract taxes. If there was ever a run on the dollar... well, people understand that there's something there backing it: the tax base of the American people. The Exchange has no tax base, no user fees, no actual value to back its promissory notes should there be a run on the bank. So, with what greenbacks Gandalf had, he bought gold. Gold ingots, gold jewelry, gold plates, gold teeth – anything gold. And with that he backed his currency. Rumor has it all hidden away in the bowels of the Kalakala – in a secret treasure room – filled to the brim with gold. Should the value of Sum collapse, Gandalf can throw open his vault doors and prop up the currency. Thereby saving the Raft.”

  “That isn't true, is it?” Rachael laughed.

  “No, I doubt it, but the legend has done the trick. Everyone trusts Sum. Everyone on the Raft. And scarecrows like Tea Queen willingly trade their hard earned greenbacks for the mythical existence of the magic room full of treasure.”

  “You're all insane,” the realization hit Rachael. “Certifiably insane.”

  “Perhaps,” Maggie winked.