This fantasy soured, though, when Faelin considered the host of rules and regulations that even the officers were governed by on the lines. There were taverns and brothels they couldn’t enter lest they sully the image of their employer. They had to accept transfers without protest, had to keep those uniforms perfect and those brass buttons shining. Sure they had lackeys to do the real work, but Faelin couldn’t help but feel he’d be sealing himself into a tighter box than he was in already.
When Captain Burke announced that their next long haul was to be a winter—summer as it would be in the southern hemisphere—voyage to Australia, followed by a stop in Auckland, Aotearoa, Faelin realized what he should do.
Weren’t rules—laws, regulations, favoritism—all that was holding him back? Hadn’t old Ambrose Kidd told him that Aotearoa had no government and so was free from all that nonsense? Well, then, Faelin would jump ship in Auckland, that’s what he’d do! Hadn’t he been drawn there all his life? Hadn’t old Kidd’s stories been what had taken him to sea in the first place?
Faelin grinned like a fool, swallowing the expression when he saw Alcott staring at him curiously. They were weeks out yet, plenty of time for him to lay his plans.
He started by making himself up a couple of crates filled with trade goods purchased in various ports.
He made them smallish ones, easy enough to carry for one man, especially if that man was a sailor used to loading and unloading, hauling lines and anchor, and all the rest.
From Kidd’s tales Faelin knew that, other than gold, Aotearoa was metal poor. Nearly all they had came from salvage and trade. In every port of call he bought nails and wire, hinges and bolts, fish-hooks. He ended up taking Simon Alcott into his confidence for his follower started wondering at Faelin’s sudden, unusual interest in trade. When Alcott begged permission to jump ship with him, Faelin graciously granted it. After all, two men could carry 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
