The
Coogan
’s captain was Len Buchannan, a wire-thin man in his mid-fifties, dressed in a pair of worn, faded shorts and a tight-fitting
blue cap. Rai suspected he had little geneering; the hair peeking out from his cap was tightly curled and pale grey, dark
brown skin showed stringy muscles stretched taut and slightly swollen joints, several teeth had rotted away.
He stood in front of the wheel-house and welcomed Rai on board.
“I need a few supplies,” Rai said.
“I ain’t interested in barter,” he said straight away, cheeks puffing out for emphasis. “Not unless it’s powered equipment
you’re offering. I’ve had my fill of pickled vegetables and fruit preserves and cured hides. And don’t even
think about saying fish. They’re coming out my ears. I can’t sell anything like that downriver. Nobody’s interested.”
Rai fished a roll of plastic Lalonde francs out of his pocket. Buchannan was the third trader captain to appear at Aberdale
recently. All of them wanted cash for their goods, and none had bought much of Aberdale’s produce in return. “I understand.
I’m looking for cloth. Cotton mainly, but I’ll take denim or canvas.”
“Cost you a lot of francs. You got anything harder?”
“I might have,” Rai said, with a grey inevitability. Didn’t anybody use Lalonde francs? “Let’s see what you’ve got first.”
Gail Buchannan was sitting in the wheel-house, wearing a coolie hat and a shapeless khaki dress. An obese fifty-year-old with
long, straggly dark hair, her legs were like water-filled sacks of skin; when she walked it was with a painful waddle. Most
of her life was spent sitting on the
Coogan
’s deck watching the world go by. She looked up from the clothes she was sewing to give Rai a friendly nod. “Cloth you wanted,
is it, lovie?”
“That’s right.”
“Plenty of cloth, we’ve got. All woven in Durringham. Dyed, too. Won’t find better anywhere.”
“I’m sure.”
“No patterns yet. But that’ll come.”
“Yes.”
“Does your wife know how to sew, then?”
“I… Yes, I suppose so.” Rai hadn’t thought about it. Arcology synthetics came perfectly tailored; load your size into the
commercial circuit and they arrived within six hours. If they started to wear, throw them into the recycler. Waster kids dressed
in patched and frayed garments, but not decent people.
“If she doesn’t, you send her to me.”
“Thank you.”
“Knitting too. None of the women that come here know how to knit. I give lessons. Best lessons east of Durring-ham. Know why,
lovie?”
“No,” Rai said helplessly.
“Because they’re the only ones.” Gail Buchannan slapped her leg and laughed, rolls of flesh quivering.
Rai gave her a sickly smile and fled into the cargo hold, wondering how many times that joke had been cracked over the years.
Len Buchannan had everything a farmstead could ever possibly want stacked up on his long shelves. Rai Molvi shuffled down
the tiny aisle, staring round in awe and envy. There were power tools still in their boxes, solar cells (half of Rai’s had
been stolen back in Durringham), fridges, microwaves, cryostats full of frozen animal sperm, MF album flek-players, laser
rifles, nanonic medical packages, drugs, and bottle after bottle of liquor. The Lalonde-made products were equally impressive:
nails, pots, pans, glass (Rai saw the panes and groaned, what he wouldn’t give for a window of glass), drinking glasses, boots,
nets, seeds, cakes of dried meat, flour, rice, saws, hammers, and bale after bale of cloth.
“What kind of things would you take downriver?” Rai asked as Len unrolled some of the cotton for him.
Len pulled his cap off, and scratched his largely bald head. “Truth to tell, not much. What you produce up here, food and
the like. People need it. But it’s the transport costs, see? I couldn’t take fruit more than a hundred kilometres and make
a profit.”
“Small and valuable then?”
“Yes, that’s your best bet.”
“Meat?”
“Could do. There’s some villages not doing as well as you. They want the food, but how are they going to pay for it? If they
spend all their money buying food, it’s going to run out fast, then they won’t be able to buy in new stocks of what they really
need like seed and animals. I seen that happen before. Bad business.”
“Oh?”
“The Arklow Counties, a tributary over in the northern territory. All the villages failed about six or seven years back. No
food, no money left to buy any in. They started marching downriver towards villages that did have food.”
“What happened?”
“Governor sent in the marshals, plus a few boosted mercenaries from offplanet if you believe what people say. Them starving
villagers took a right pounding. Some escaped into the jungle, still there by all accounts, lot of bandit reports in the north.
Most got themselves killed. The rest got a twenty-year work-time sentence; the Governor parcelled them out to other villages
to work, just like Ivets. Families broken up, children never see their parents.” He sucked his cheeks in, scowling. “Yes,
bad business.” Rai sorted out the cloth he wanted, and on impulse bought a packet of sweetcorn seed for Skyba, his wife. He
offered the Lalonde notes again.
“Cost you double, that way,” Len Buchannan said. “The LDC people at the spaceport, they don’t give you anything like the proper
exchange rate.”
Rai made one last attempt. “How about chickens?”
Len pointed to a shelf given over to cryostats, their tiny green LEDs twinkling brightly in the gloomy cabin. “See that? Two
of those chambers are crammed full of eggs. There’s chickens, ducks, geese, pheasants, emus, and turkeys stored in there;
I’ve even got three swans. I don’t need live chickens crapping on my deck.”
“OK.” Rai gave up; he dug into his inside pocket and offered his Jovian Bank disk, feeling a little bit shabby. People should
believe in their own planet’s currency. If—when—Schuster County became an important commercial region, he would make damn
sure every transaction was made in Lalonde francs. Patriotism like that would be very popular with the voters.
Len stood beside his wife as Rai walked back down the jetty. “Ten thousand born every second,” he murmured.
Gail chuckled. “Aye, and all of them come to live here.”
From their vantage point in the river shallows, Irley and Scott gave Rai a cheery wave as he carried his cloth ashore. Another
who had a Jovian Bank credit disk, that made seventy-eight known residents now. Quinn would be pleased with them.
Rai reached the end of the jetty just as Marie Skibbow arrived carrying a bulky shoulder-bag. She gave him an uninterested
glance and hurried on towards the
Coogan
.
What’s she come to pick up? Rai wondered. Gerald’s place was one of the prime savannah homesteads. Although the man himself
was a complete self-righteous pain in the arse.
Horst Elwes stood at the base of the church’s wooden corner stanchion, holding the cloth bag full of nails, and still managing
to feel completely useless. Leslie didn’t need anyone to hold the nails ready. But Horst could hardly let the Ivet work team
assemble the church without being there, without at least the pretence of being involved.
The church was one of the last of Aberdale’s buildings to be put up. He didn’t mind that at all. These people had toiled hard
to build their village and clear their fields. They couldn’t spare the time on a structure that would only be used once or
twice a week (though he liked to think there would be more services eventually). Nor was it right they should do so. Horst
could never forget how the cathedrals of medieval Europe had risen like stone palaces out of the mouldering, stinking wooden
slums. How the Church demanded the people of that time give and give and give. How fear was rooted in every soul and carefully
nurtured. And because we were so arrogant, as aloof as God Himself, we suffered a terrible price in later centuries. Which
again was right. Such a crime deserved a penance that lasted for so long.
So he held his services in the hall, and never complained when only thirty or forty people turned up. The church must be a
focal point for unity, a place where people could come together and share their faith, not a baron demanding tribute.
And now the fields had been rotovated, the first batch of crops planted, and the animals brought out of hibernation, Aberdale
had a moment of time to spare. Three Ivets had been assigned to him for a fortnight. They had built a long raftlike floor
supported half a metre off the ground by old tree stumps, then put up four-metre-high stanchions to hold up the sloping roof.
At the moment it looked like a skeleton of some boxy dinosaur. Leslie Atcliffe was busy hammering the trusses into place,
while Daniel held them steady. Ann was busy cutting slates from the sheets of qualtook bark they had stripped off the felled
trunks. The church itself would occupy a third of the structure, with a small infirmary at the rear, and Horst’s room sandwiched
between the two.
It was all going very well, and would probably go better if Horst wasn’t there asking what he could do to help the whole time.
The church was going to be a fine building, second only to the Ivets’ own A-frame. And how that structure had shown up the
hall and the other houses. Horst had joined Rai Molvi in urging the council to allow the Ivets some independence and dignity.
Now Quinn was the one who had really worked miracles in Aberdale. Since the long bark-slate covered A-frame had gone up the
other residents had taken to quietly improving the structure of their own homes, adding corner braces, putting up shutters.
And none of us will use an A-frame design, Horst thought. Oh, foolish pride! Everyone was captured by the quaint white-painted
cottages we saw on the first days of the voyage upriver, we thought if we could emulate the look we would have the life that
went with it. Now the most practical method of construction is a monopoly. Because using it would mean the Ivets knew best.
And I can’t even build the church that way, the sensible way, because people would be offended. Not out loud, but they would
see and in their hearts they would object. But at least I can use the bark slates rather than slats that will warp and let
in the rain like the houses which were built first.
Leslie climbed down the ladder, a rangy twenty-two-year-old wearing shorts sewn together from an old jump suit. A specially
made belt had loops to hold all his carpentry tools. To start with Powel Manani had issued the tools on a daily basis, and
demanded their return at night; now the Ivets kept them permanently. Several of them had developed into highly skilled carpenters;
Leslie was one of them.
“We’ll fetch the last two transverse frames now, Father,” Leslie said. “They’ll be up by lunch, then we can start with the
lathing and the slates. You know, I think we will be finished by the end of the fortnight after all. It’s just those pew benches
I’m worried about, cutting that many dovetail joints in time is going to be tricky, even with fission blades.”
“Don’t pay it a second thought,” Horst said. “I don’t get enough of a congregation to fill every pew. A roof over our heads
is more than enough. The rest can wait. The Lord understands that the farms must come first.” He smiled, keenly aware of how
shabby he was in his stained ochre shirt and oversize knee-length shorts. So much at variance from these uniformly trim young
men.
“Yes, Father.”
Horst felt a pang of regret. The Ivets were so insular, yet they did more work than most. Aberdale’s success was in no small
part due to their efforts. And Powel Manani still grumbled about the liberties they were shown. It didn’t happen in other
settlements, he complained. But then other settlements didn’t have Quinn Dexter. It was a thought Horst couldn’t be quite
as grateful for as he should be. Quinn was a very cold fish. Horst knew waster kids, their motivations, their shallow wishes.
But what went on behind those chilling bright eyes was an utter mystery, one he was afraid to probe.
“I shall be holding a consecration service once the roof’s on,” he said to the two Ivets. “I hope you’ll all come to it.”
“We’ll think about it,” Leslie said with smooth politeness. “Thank you for asking, Father.”
“I notice that not many of you come to my services. Everybody is welcome. Even Mr Manani, although I don’t think he’s particularly
impressed with me.” He tried to make it sound jovial, but their expressions never flickered.
“We’re not very religious,” Leslie said.
“I’d be happy to explain the broader ramifications of Christianity to anybody. Ignorance isn’t a crime, only a misfortune.
If nothing else we could have a good argument about it, you needn’t worry about shocking me there. Why, I remember some debates
from my novice years, we really gave the bishop a roasting.” Now he knew he’d lost them. Their earlier magnanimity had turned
to stiff-backed formality, faces hard, sparks of resentment agleam in their eyes. And once more he was aware of how ominous
these young men could appear.
“We have the Light Brother—” Daniel began. He broke off at a furious look from Leslie.
“Light Brother?” Horst asked mildly. He was sure he’d heard that phrase before.
“Was there anything else, Father?” Leslie said. “We’d like to collect the transverse frames now.”
Horst knew when to push, and this wasn’t the time. “Yes, of course. What would you like me to do? Help you fetch them?”
Leslie looked around the church impatiently. “We could do with the slates stacking round the floor ready for when we get the
lathing up,” he said grudgingly. “Piles of twenty by each stanchion.”
“Jolly good, I’ll start doing that then.”
He walked over to where Ann was standing beside a workbench, slicing up the bark with a fission jigsaw. She was wearing a
pair of hand-stitched shorts and a halter top, both made from grey jump suit fabric. There was a huge pile of the slates on
the ground around her. Her long face was crunched up in an expression of furious concentration, dark auburn hair hanging in
damp tassels.