more than one and he knew that Simon would never rat on him.
In addition to trade goods, Faelin bought small items that would make their transition easier: extra knives, whetstones, coils of tightly spun rope, axe and hammer heads, needles and thread. In a pinch these could go on the block, too, but he didn’t want to spend their capital on commonsense necessities.
Faelin spent both of their earnings lavishly, chatted up Kiwi sailors in every port, but kept care that no one other than Simon should notice his new interest. At last, after months at sea that for the first time in years seemed long, the
November was summer here and the hills were green. Off in the distance a white plume of smoke marked one of the many volcanoes that had shaped these islands, dormant now but for that almost fluffy plume. Drinking in those lush hills, the neat houses, the confident bustle of the citizens, Faelin thought Aotearoa the most beautiful place he’d ever seen.
Its difference from other nations was perceptible from the moment he strode down the gangplank in
Auckland. By now Faelin had visited hundreds of ports through both Americas, Europe, the British Isles, even in Japan. Never before—not even in those nations erupted into despotic chaos—had there not been a governmental presence somewhere near the docks.
In Auckland’s port there was plenty of activity, but not a glimpse of anyone with that stiff, attentive posture that said “official.” There was no one sporting a clipboard, name-tag, or uniform. Merchants hurried to dicker for cargos, but no one rushed to collect tariffs. Able bodies offered themselves for a variety of jobs, from porter and dock hand to guide and companion, but there were no police, no soldiers, no…
Momentarily Faelin felt a little lost. Then he rallied. His plans called for him and Simon to work just like usual, right until Burke announced that they were to set sail. Then he and Simon—who would have already inconspicuously unloaded their trade goods—would go ashore for one more roister. All they’d need to do then was lie low until the
He knew Captain Burke of old. Once the old man had even stranded his son, Irving, leaving the chastened young man to catch up to them at their next port. Burke wouldn’t wait for two sailors, able as they might be.
Everything went according to plan. From a room in a port-side inn, Faelin watched
Smiling, Faelin sauntered downstairs, Simon at his heels, to settle their bill. By reflex, he pulled out a handful of coins left over from his last pay. (At first he’d regretted that he’d not be getting his share of the Aotearoa bonus, but then he’d had the brilliant idea to make it up out of Burke’s stores.)
The innkeeper, a prim-looking old woman, pulled out a scale and started weighing the coins, checking values against a handwritten chart.
“Copper’ll bring less than iron,” she said. “Iron less than steel. These…” she sniffed at some nickel-blend tokens, “aren’t worth much but as sinkers on a line.”
“They’re money, lady,” Simon Alcott blustered in reflection of his hero’s momentary embarrassment, “not ore.”
The old woman cocked an elegant white eyebrow at him.
“Not in Aotearoa, bro,” she said. “Money’s only worth what a backing government says it is. We’re purely a barter economy here. You might get better prices from a currency speculator. To me this is just a few ounces of metal—and not pure metal either. Values are down a bit, too, what with
Faelin stepped in.
“How about worked metal, ma’am?” he said, doing his best to exude manly politeness to cover his gaff. “That’d be better,” the innkeeper admitted.
Eventually, they settled the bill with a handful of iron nails, a deal that brought them a map of the area, the innkeeper’s recommendation of a boarding house run by her sister, information as to where they could get current values, and the old lady’s sour smile.
“Welcome to Aotearoa,” she said in parting. “You look tough enough and used to hard work, maybe you’ll make pakeha yet.”
Pakeha, they were to learn later, was local slang for a resident. Before the petroleum virus, it had meant anyone of European ancestry, but now it was reserved for those—no matter where their parents had been born— who made the grade in the new nation.
After Simon and Faelin had left the inn and were consulting the map, meaning to head first for the boarding house, a bedraggled figure clad in dirty rags sidled over to them.
“Spare a bit for a shave and a shower?” the man whined. “I gotta try and get passage off this madhouse island, and no one’ll look at me twice the mess I am.”
Faelin sneered at this wreck of a human being—clearly one of those who would never be pakeha, though he certainly looked to have the raw makings. There were broad shoulders under that ragged shirt and height despite the man’s cringing crouch.
Faelin started to tell the bum to haul his worthless ass off to the social center, remembered in time that there wouldn’t be one here, and in his momentary confusion dug a handful of nickel coins from the pocket of his trousers.
“See what you can get with these,” he said, tossing them into the man’s cupped hands.
The bum caught most of them, scrabbling on the patched concrete of the dock front for those he dropped, then scurried off. Simon shivered as he watched him go.
“Felt like someone stepped on my grave, just then,” he said.
Faelin snorted, balanced his crate of trade goods on one shoulder and tucked his duffle under his arm, then led the way into the city.
A sign greeted them as they left the harbor:
Faelin was heartened by the words. This was promising—a warning to the weak, a message to the strong.
At the boarding house, a handful of iron nails bought them a room and two meals a day for a couple of weeks if they agreed to do their own housekeeping—a thing that was second nature to a sailor in any case. The owner of the boarding house, Mrs. Philbert, tossed in the use of her son as a guide to sweeten the deal.
Mrs. Philbert was a shrewd-faced woman, less elegant and quite a bit younger than her sister, but she liked sailors. She told them her husband sailed on an island trader that ran a regular route between the North and South Islands.
As Faelin looked around the comfortable room to which they’d been shown and contemplated the wealth of manufactured goods stored in their two crates, he felt pleased with himself. Leaving Simon to stow their gear and make the room comfortable, he set out with the innkeeper’s Bobby to get a feel for Aotearoa.
The next few weeks were a flurry of new impressions. Faelin had waited until his arrival to select just where he wanted to settle. He had a good idea of his needs.
He wanted open water near so he and Simon could fall back on sailing when needed. He wanted a fairly rural area. Auckland, while small by the standards of some urban areas, was still too big. The best pickings had been taken long ago and Faelin hadn’t come here to be somebody else’s serf.
He also needed to trade for horses and pack mules to carry their gear. The livestock he planned to ranch—his dreams still colored by old Kidd’s comparison of Aotearoa to the American frontier—could wait until he’d staked his claim.
Eventually, Faelin selected a settlement near what had once been called New Plymouth. When the oil bugs had set to work New Plymouth had been abandoned by all but a few hardy souls. This new settlement, called
