Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(13)
And, as Alan noted, things were cheap. At least for now. The economy of Forester’s Empire of the New Britain Isles had been pretty much in the crapper, and it would’ve been virtually impossible for them to go on if not for a number of factors. First, they were in an existential war as well, and that tended to make people more flexible when it came to what they were willing to sacrifice for the cause. Second, Rebecca Anne McDonald had assumed almost dictatorial powers in the wake of the treachery of the so-called Honorable New Britain Company, and members of her own Court of Directors and Court of Proprietors. The mass murder of most of the loyalists within her government had left her little choice. She’d seized the assets of the Company, and all those implicated in the treason. Then, as a gift, the Western Allies informed Her Majesty where large oil and gold deposits might be found within the bounds of the Imperial colony in North America, centered near a bay city they called Saint Francis. That reserve gave the Empire much-needed credit to draw upon.
Most Lemurians, on the other hand, had always considered themselves well-off if they had enough to eat. Now there was plenty. The great seagoing Homes still brought in gri-kakka—for meat, primarily—and many sold their huge fish harvests on a daily basis. The great ships themselves were virtually independent of land and needed money only to replace things that broke or to make necessary repairs. As reserve navy ships, they had access to the repair yards for things like that. Hunters scoured the wilds of Borno for rhino pigs that never seemed to decrease in numbers, and some Lemurians had actually begun raising them and other wild beasts. The vast killing grounds beyond the fortifications had been planted with crops as well, initiating the first large-scale agricultural effort Lemurians had ever attempted. A lot of food went to the war effort, of course, but there were no shortages at home. Luxuries weren’t unknown to Lemurians, but they weren’t very important just now. That would change, eventually, Alan suspected, especially after the war was won. But in the meantime, there was little for anyone to spend their pay on, and no reason to complain that it wasn’t greater.
Beyond the waterfront machine shops, incongruously, was a long, open-sided tavern called the Busted Screw. Over time, it had become as much a fixture on the Baalkpan wharf as the teeming bazaars had been. The place was packed, as usual, with yard workers, sailors, and Marines, but few were there to drink. The Screw’s principal owner, a ’Cat called Pepper, charged more than the factory commissaries, but his chow was better. So was the entertainment, for ’Cats and men. The Screw still served beer and seep, but only to workers showing timecards proving they weren’t due back at work for more than six hours, and sailors and Marines had to show their liberty cards. The Screw’s personality changed considerably after dark, but food was still available for the night shifts.
Alan shook his head. Pepper was a character who’d been one of Earl Lanier’s cook’s mates on Walker, and Lanier remained an absent partner in the Screw. But Pepper had other business interests, not all entirely savory. His partnership with Isak Reuben and Gilbert Yeager for instance, to make the nasty, waxy Aryaalan tobacco fit to smoke, would probably get them all lynched if word got out that they stripped the leaves with a process involving the urine of the pygmy brontasarries indigenous to Borno. Alan arched his eyebrows thoughtfully. Then again, probably not. Too many people, ’Cats and humans, are already too addicted to their vile PIG-cigs to shut down supply. He’d have to have a word with Pepper about modifying his process, however.
Finally, they worked their way past another engine powering the first of many heavy cranes along a busy dock, and for the first time they had an unobstructed view of the old fitting-out pier and Baalkpan Bay beyond. The bay was packed with shipping of every description, some under sail and others coughing smoke from tall funnels. Small feluccas darted to and fro, carrying passengers or small cargo from one part of the harbor to another. But dominating the scene were three monstrous seagoing Homes. Two were moored some distance out, while the third had maneuvered past them with its great sweep oars. Its three massive “wings”—semirigid junklike sails rising up tripod masts, enclosing the pagodalike quarters of its people—were starting to draw the mid-afternoon breeze. Soon, the sweeps would be secured and the whole thousand-foot-long monster would move—slowly—under wind power alone.
“A stirring sight,” Forester said, loud enough to be heard over the engine noises and voices around them.
“Yeah,” Alan agreed, embarrassedly aware he’d tuned out Forester some time ago. No doubt the ambassador knew it and understood why. Alan was barely twenty-five and had an awful lot to wrap his head around. Just then he was remembering the first time he’d seen one of the immense, seagoing Homes. “Big Sal was one of those once,” he said a little sadly. “So was Arracca. Now they’re aircraft carriers. The biggest ones we have, along with Makky-Kat.” Maaka-Kakja was the Maa-ni-la-built carrier damaged at Malpelo while fighting the Doms. Though a purpose-built carrier, she had the same hull form and dimensions as a Home. “And of the four first-generation fleet carriers we built, New Dublin and Raan-Goon are finally heading east from Maa-ni-la to join Second Fleet and help High Admiral Jenks against the Doms. Madras is steaming west to join First Fleet.” He took a deep breath. “And Baalkpan Bay’s on the bottom of the sea,” he said, then added to their driver, “We’ll stop here.” When the carriage swayed to a halt, the four men and two ’Cat Marines stepped out.