“It’s worse than that for me, sir. It’s watching two of my friends dying. Dying a slow, agonizing death from the inside. I can see that she still loves him, but she’s so hurt that… well…”
The butcher raised a hand to cut him off. “I know. Downstairs in the refrigerator. I know it looks empty as you walk by, but it’s hiding in the bottom out of sight. I’m not going to ask for a voucher on your True.”
No voucher? Hunter almost tripped over himself on his way to thank Devereaux and shake his hand. No voucher, and a True Favor. This is more than I could have hoped for.
“I just hope you’re right about Cal’s gestures,” Devereaux added. “For all of us.”
Hunter took his leave to retrieve the bottle of cider which, true to Devereaux’s word, was hidden in the lower corner of the refrigeration unit. He withdrew the cinnamon stick from his pocket, and tapped it on the glass.
How much magic do you have left in you, Cal?
Pax Concordia
Gov Darius Owens
19 March, 3 yal, 12:01
North Concordia
Darius sighed, leaning on the cold, steel rail for support. Tiny rivulets of rainwater streaked the bridge canopy, and a dreary haze beyond shrouded Concordia. He could still make out the market square, though only barely. The rest of the town had been swallowed by the fog, as had the mighty Fairweather River. No one would visit him today unless they had to, and he had no particular desire to journey to town. He was alone, marooned and isolated by the confines of his temporary office and the weather.
The two hundred thirteen colonists that still claimed residence in Michael’s sleeper pods were at work, and the children at school. Their absence was felt keenly, as if the very essence of life faded from the air when they left every morning. It was odd, Darius thought, that the man who was supposed to wield the most power in the colony would feel the way he did; like a dog waiting for his master to return at night. But for all that he had been through, and despite harsh words from his critics that made him wonder if he was wanted by the people at all, he still anticipated their return at night.
He wasn’t sure why he still felt that way. Darius had no close friends among those left aboard. He had issued living quarters in the city to both Tom and Roger. The Kimuras were among the first to move out of the ship, and even Dr. Kimura had left before the first winter fell, forgiven by his daughter for the grievous sin of saving her life. He should have every reason to want to walk away from the constricting metal walls.
So why do I stay? He cast a glance toward the stairs at the end of the bridge. Why don’t I just take a stroll? It’s not really that cold outside. Sure, it’s a bit wet, but that shouldn’t keep me here.
Darius sighed and slowly shuffled to his familiar chair, brushing his fingers across the smooth aluminum surface of the folding table that served as his desk. He reminisced briefly about the hours spent hunched over reports, the countless meals taken in solitude when his subordinates were tending to matters elsewhere. It suddenly dawned on him that his administrative duties were dominating more of his time than he had realized. And as the days passed and seasons blurred, this isolation of his was growing as well.
I need to get out. I need to be around people again, not cooped up in my office. He sighed heavily and leaned forward, spreading the reports out with one hand. But I can’t just abandon my office. It’d take weeks to get Tom or Roger prepped to do my job, and for what? A week out and about? A trip to Rust Creek?
He slowly paced back to the railing. The fog had lifted somewhat, though the drizzle continued to soak the landscape. Much of the vegetation between the ship and the town had been trampled and torn up from the seasonal camp that hosted those who did not yet have a home. They would file out of the ship and set up as soon as the weather turned pleasant, and return to the confines of the ship as fall blew into the wide valley. In their wake, spring rains turned the field to thick mud and wide, shallow puddles. It was the same way across the river, in the span between Gabriel and South Concordia.
Darius closed his eyes, recalling the vibrant grasses and lush flower shrubs that dotted the land around Gabriel in the weeks following the ship’s landing. The contrast to how the field looked now was stark and appalling.
Even in this short time I see how much damage we have done.
His eyes snapped open as an idea coalesced in his mind. If left alone, the field in its current condition might take years to heal, given the disturbance to the soil. Eventually it would be repurposed for building something or another in the colony.
So why not speed that up? Let’s do something with it. Something grand, something everyone can get behind. But what?
The answer didn’t come easily. He postulated a number of possible uses for the land. A community garden might appeal to some, but be perceived quite differently by the farming community. Warehouses were too mundane and wouldn’t inspire anyone. He even briefly entertained the laughable idea of starting a zoo, though he figured that would be too ambitious for the fledgling colony. The solution was both simple and complex at the same time.
Our heritage and our future. On this planet.
* * *
Frank Devereaux
21 March, 3 yal, 07:15
Why is he calling me up?
Frank cinched the laces on his boot tightly and double knotted them. He paused for a second, noticing a small smear of mud on the boot. He grumbled, spit on a rag, and wiped the offending blemish away. It was a futile gesture, since he was about to walk across a muddy, torn field to report to the governor, but the habit was deeply ingrained in him. Satisfied that his footwear was as clean as he could get it, he retrieved the small grooming mirror that he kept in his dresser. The man that stared back at him was not what he expected, given the context of the situation.
With every passing year, Frank’s hair slowly grew grayer. At first it was a few strands, but after a few stressful winters, distinct patches of silver streaked his sideburns. The full head of wavy hair that accompanied those sideburns was also unusual. He knew that he hadn’t been as rigorous about visiting the barber lately, but it seemed that his mane toned down his otherwise strong chin. He had at least had time to shave, which helped. But the image did not match his expectations for what he should look like in uniform.
As the leader of the Colonial Volunteer Militia, he was the first man to be presented with the new dress uniform. It wasn’t something that Governor Owens had planned, but rather a gift from the Kimuras. Frank had only worn it once; when he received the wool garments from their creators. The ankle cuffs of the long gray slacks rested just on the top of his boots, and the matching double-button coat was trimmed in dark blue at the neck and cuffs. His rank insignia—two bars—was attached to the right side of his collar. This detail was another in a line of minutiae that made him question the identity of the man staring back at him in the mirror. After all, the Frank Devereaux that left Earth should have three chevrons on his sleeve, not bars on his collar.
Frank sighed and returned the mirror to its spot, then picked up the loosely curled note from the top of his dresser, unfurling it to read once more.
CAPT DEVEREAUX –
YOU ARE HEREBY SUMMONED TO THE BRIDGE OF MICHAEL AT 0800 TOMORROW MORNING FOR A MATTER OF COLONIAL INTEREST. PLEASE MAKE ALTERNATIVE ARRANGEMENTS FOR OVERSIGHT OF YOUR BUSINESS, IF NECESSARY.
THOMAS DAYTON
DEPUTY GOVERNOR
CONCORDIA
He rolled the paper up tightly, clenching it in his left fist. The note was vague, as communications from the governor’s office often were, particularly after the previous year’s labor strike. It wasn’t a surprise to Frank, either. The idea was to slow down gossip about projected plans until after the appropriate meetings had been conducted. It wasn’t something explicitly drawn out by the government either; it was simply what Frank had concluded after countless conversations in the course of his business.
This was different, somehow. Perhaps it was because Frank
had never been summoned before, or because the wording of the note made it clear that he was going as a member of the Colonial Volunteer Militia, not as the town’s leading businessman. He slipped on a thin jacket before heading outside into a light drizzle.
A hundred questions ran through his mind as he trudged through mud and grass, his stiff leather boots squeaking softly on the uneven ground. Michael loomed ahead, its gray paint streaked occasionally with rust. The ship seemed even larger and somehow alien as he approached. Nerves didn’t often get the best of Frank, but he was keenly aware of how unusual everything felt, even if he couldn’t point a finger at the source of his apprehension. The torrent of thoughts was only broken when the squeaks of his boots changed to a soft clank as he boarded the ship.
The governor’s liaison, Roger, met him at the base of the bridge. The once-lieutenant greeted Frank and took his jacket, directing him to the conference table on the bridge. Frank climbed the treads with measured steps. Saika Kimura sat at the table with the governor, who rose to greet him, though his face contorted in confusion as soon as he saw Frank. Frank was just as shocked to see the younger Kimura, as she didn’t often venture from the market square or its comfortable social circle.
“Captain, I hope I didn’t disrupt any Militia exercises by calling you here today,” Owens said.
“Sir?” he asked, waiting otherwise silently for permission to sit.
“Your uniform. I wasn’t expecting that.”
Frank looked down at the note, still rolled up in his hand. “Sir, the deputy governor’s summons. He addressed me as Captain Devereaux.”
Owens paused for a moment. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was trying to stifle a laugh. He motioned to a seat across from Saika. “Probably a misunderstanding. You’re here as one of our foremost business leaders. I also thought that your professional relationship with Miss Kimura would be useful if my proposal advances.”
Frank nodded as he took his place at the table. “And just what proposal is that, Governor?”
Owens slid a piece of paper across the table. As it settled, Frank could tell that it was a crude map. He recognized the market square along one edge and the sleeper ship on the opposite edge, but lines and boundaries in between were unfamiliar to him. He glanced up for a second to see Saika crane her neck, inspecting the scrap in front of them.
“This is Concordia’s next big project,” Owens said. “I’ve already spoken with a number of people about it, including Deputy Governor Dayton, counselors Hausner and Abernathy, as well as representatives from South Concordia. There have been some good questions about the project, its management, and resources, and I’d like to get your feedback as well.”
“What exactly is it?” Saika asked.
“A new civil complex.” The governor walked around the table and pointed out what each delineation on the map represented. “This building across from the market will be a civic hall. It will contain government offices, as well as a public meeting hall. The area just to the west of it will be a park, dedicated to our heritage and future. Among other things I’d like to see a memorial to the Raphael disaster, as well as a tribute to the other ships. The land behind it is a little bit trickier. I’m open to suggestions.”
“What’s been thrown out?” Frank asked, searching for his own ideas at the same time.
“Community garden. Extension of the park. Playfields for the children.”
“Playfields?” Frank retorted. “Don’t you think that the drainage and grading necessary for that is a bit beyond what we’re capable of at this time, Governor?”
“Possibly. I’m merely listening to all options.”
Frank considered the possibilities that had already been suggested, as nothing new had come to mind. “I like the other ideas for different reasons, but I think a garden might be a bit more than we can maintain right now. So many of us already work seven days a week, and nobody works fewer than six.”
Saika chimed in next. “What if we used plants that didn’t require as much upkeep?”
“Like what?”
“Trees. What if it was an orchard?”
Frank nodded in agreement, while Owens pursed his lips.
“I’ve got consultants from the agricultural community coming in later today for a meeting. I’ll see what they have to say about it. I may not be a farmer, but I grew up in Atlanta. I do remember that peach orchards take quite a bit of work to keep up.”
The governor scribbled some notes on a fresh piece of paper. A brief silence fell on the room. Saika was still very shy outside of the merchant’s circle, so Frank knew she probably would not bring up any new points of her own.
“Has a project manager been chosen?” Frank asked.
“Yes.”
“Who is it?”
Owens set his pen down and folded his hands together. “Me.”
“You?” he repeated, incredulous. “What about your duties as governor?”
“I’ve come to the realization that I’ve been underutilizing the deputy governor and his talents. He will be sharing my work load.”
At that moment Frank experienced a conflict between his business instincts and those of his military training. Although he wanted to ask what the governor’s impetus for such an unusual decision was, he felt that it wasn’t his place to ask. After a couple minutes of silent deliberation, the business side caved in, admitting that it was probably neither his problem, nor relevant to the task at hand.
“So you mentioned that you believe that Saika and I can assist you. What’s your vision for that partnership, Governor?”
“Excellent question,” Owens replied. “The cornerstone to the heritage park will be the monuments. I need connections to make that happen, and unfortunately that’s something I don’t have. Two things are needed for this part of the project: resources and artists. That’s where each of you come in. Miss Kimura, her mother, and their friends are the artists of the colony. You are the man who can get his hands on anything. If you’re teamed up, you could procure any materials that Miss Kimura’s team needs.”
Frank again nodded, digesting the information. “And what do we get in return for our participation?”
The remaining excitement on the governor’s face vanished in an instant. He leaned back in his chair, remaining silent.
“You don’t have any way of paying us, do you?”
“Truthfully, no. I can always investigate the matter, but this project is for the public. Something to inspire the people and solidify our resolve.”
Unity, he thought. It was one of the tenets of conduct so passionately delivered by Colonel Dayton at the Unification ceremony almost three years earlier.
“Keep talking,” he said softly.
“You know how much we’ve all struggled, Mr. Devereaux. The cost in blood, the tears that have been shed. How we feel anger and joy, frustration and victory as one. This can be an example of that.” Owens paused for a second, his mouth hanging open as if reluctant to go further. “And I know that you understand. I’ve talked with Hunter. He told me what you did for the McLaughlins. Their road is still rocky, but you have done the right thing, and helped them find the road. Honor and Unity, my friend.”
“Honor and Unity,” Frank repeated. He rose from his seat and approached the governor, who met him at his level. With a firm handshake, he added, “To the end, I will help you see it through.”
Aqua Vitae
Calvin McLaughlin
9 August, 3 yal, 06:32
North Concordia
“Where do you want the rest of this stuff?” Hunter asked, hoisting a small cargo crate out of the back of the wagon. He dismissed the driver, who prompted his horse to move on to their next delivery.
Cal carefully shifted the bulky copper pot in his arms, making his way around the side of his shop. “Back here with the rest of the equipment.”
They unloaded their loads under the shed. Cal positioned the base on of top one of his two large electric burners. Other pieces of t
he column still lay scattered around. Hunter opened the crate and excitedly handed various tubes and other small bits to Cal, who examined and pieced them together like a puzzle. It took about a half hour of discussion, argument, and profanity before the device was assembled.
“There she is,” Cal beamed with pride.
“So are you going to tell me how you managed to buy this thing?” Hunter asked. “It’s certainly unique, and I didn’t think there was that much copper to spare. Not with Devereaux snatching it up to make bronze for that statue. And the glass? Small fortune right there, I bet.”
Cal ran his hand over the surface. Small divots and waves gave the top of the pot a slightly distorted look. “A little insider secret I know.”
“Yeah?” Hunter pressed, his curiosity piqued. “What’s that?”
“Devereaux’s already got all the copper he needs. They scaled back the size of the actual statue itself. Most of the monument is now going to be made of stone.”
“Hah. Getting his leftovers on the cheap then?”
Cal sighed. “Not all that cheap. Fifty percent of the profits for five years.”
Hunter shrugged, unfazed. “At least it’s not fifty percent in perpetuity.”
Cal forced a weak smile at Hunter’s joke. Sometimes the dry humor that his friend used failed to hit its mark. Others found it charming or hilarious, but Cal didn’t always get it.
“So where’s Lexi?” his friend added.
“Out getting supplies for the first batch.”
Project Columbus: Omnibus Page 102
