II

THE BURNING SEAS

From the Journal of Miss Lewella Tythencroft—Sanorah, 21st Vorellum, 1600 (Company Year 211)

The successful management of a revolution, it transpires, requires neither military genius nor inspired leadership nor great rhetoric. No, if there is one lesson I have learned over the course of the preceding weeks it is that revolutions require, above all things, paper and ink as well as presses with which to apply the latter to the former.

I have no precise figures for the number of pamphlets, posters, handbills, one-sheet newspapers and other sundry publications produced by the Voters Rights Alliance since this all began but it surely must run into many thousands by now. The doughty old Alebond Commodities Mark II press that had served the Voters Gazette so well for several years eventually collapsed under the strain of it all. Had we not agreed on an alliance with the Printer’s Guild during the early days of this upheaval I doubt we would have achieved any measure of success in rousing the populace, but success, of course, is a relative concept.

Having read the paragraph above I find my tendency to ramble has once more come to the fore. It has been some time since I had the leisure to write in this journal and so much has happened in the interval that it will take too long to document every particular here. So, I am forced to summarise the principal events.

True to my promise to Mrs. Fredabel Torcreek, the Voters Rights Alliance shouldered most of the burden in housing the refugees from the Tyrell Islands. I must confess to operating in a haze of confused emotions for much of this time. Mrs. Torcreek’s news about Corrick engendered as much doubt and consternation as it did joy. It appears he has actually sailed off to the southern ice-cap in search of something glimpsed in a vision. Although, a much more thoughtful man than many in his profession, Corrick was never one given to flights of fancy and the notion that he might throw off Protectorate shackles to pursue something so ephemeral it seemed absurd to the point of impossibility.

Mrs. Torcreek, however, had at least a partial explanation: “My nephew drank the blood of White Drake, miss. Guess that makes a fella awful persuasive.”

Despite the doubts and unanswerable questions that threatened to befuddle my brain, I set myself to the task of aiding the refugees with all the energy I could muster. The minority who belonged to the managerial class were usually able to find relatives or friends to take them in which left the much-less-fortunate majority homeless without a scrip to their name. Many Voter families volunteered to provide foster homes for the distressingly high number of orphans, whilst others gave over spare rooms and attics to the few intact families to disembark the ships. Even so, the Alliance was forced to rent warehouse space to house the remainder. Wild speculation in the markets has had a strange effect on the warehouse district. Some remain full to capacity with unwanted luxury goods whilst those usually given over to agricultural produce and other necessities are increasingly empty. Consequently, finding a suitable location at a reasonable price was not difficult.

The large number of sick and wounded presented a far greater problem. All but a few independent hospitals in Sanorah are under corporate control and, since none of the refugees could provide an insurance certificate, their doors remained firmly closed to us. As might be expected many of the refugees with sick or injured relatives reacted badly to this, especially those hailing from Carvenport who, on the whole, display only a small regard for corporate authority. A minor riot erupted at the gates of the Ironship General Hospital, which degenerated into an ugly free-for-all when the constabulary arrived. More trouble might have broken out if aid hadn’t come from an unexpected quarter.

The day after the riot my father arrived at the Gazette offices with a letter of credit amounting to some one hundred thousand in exchange notes. Thanks to this donation the Alliance was able to secure all the required beds in the independent Sanorah hospitals. I will confess to a few private tears following this incident, my emotions being so aggravatingly variable at this juncture. The fact that my father’s intervention had been completely unsolicited, and I am aware that accumulating such a sum would have required him to liquidate a large portion of his personal assets, still brings a certain moistness to the eye.

In all over seven thousand people were successfully provided with shelter, food and medical care within two days of arrival in this port. I should record that all this was achieved without any assistance whatsoever from the Ironship Syndicate. The few managerial representatives with whom I secured a meeting provided only empty platitudes and reminders of the wider crisis facing the entire globe. If anything, their demeanour was mostly one of irritation, as if the need to provide succour to thousands of dispossessed souls was a mere diversion from the real issue.

Over the years the Voters Rights Alliance has maintained contacts with various sympathetic persons employed within the corporate structure. I wouldn’t go so far as to describe them as “covert agents,” more a small number of individuals disenchanted with their employers and occasionally willing to part with relevant information. Once such person, who I shall name only as “X,” met with me in the aftermath of yet another fruitless approach to the interim Board to impart a singular and important fact.

“The Ironship Syndicate is bankrupt,” X told me. I had chosen a quiet corner in a secluded tavern for our meeting and was obliged to lean across the table to hear, the words being so softly spoken.

“Bankrupt?” I asked, finding myself suddenly lacking comprehension. I knew the meaning of the word but placing it in conjunction with the wealthiest single entity in the world was momentarily disorientating. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean they have no money.” X is not a character given to overt emotion so it was disconcerting to take note of a tremulous voice and twitching hands. “The company reserves are exhausted. There is no money to pay the workers in the manufactories. No money to pay the Protectorate soldiers. No money to pay the managers, executives or clerks. They’ve been printing scrip by the bucketload but it’s only a matter of time before a finance house attempts to convert a substantial amount of scrip into exchange notes or gold and discovers they hold nothing more than a pile of worthless paper.”

I must confess to a certain hesitation before asking my next question. Although I had spent much of my adult years longing for the fall of the Ironship Syndicate, the apparent reality of just such an outcome was sobering to say the least. The Alliance had always campaigned for a peaceful transition to representative government and regulated markets, but the sudden collapse of the world’s greatest corporation would herald an era likely to be anything but peaceful. In all honesty, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be true. Nevertheless I buttressed my resolve and asked the question anyway: “You have proof of this?”

In response X handed over a weighty stack of financial ledgers, all marked “Secret—Board Eyes Only” and all showing a zero in the total column.

“How could this happen?” I asked.

“Product.” X let out a laugh at this point, somewhat shrill and rich in despair. “It was all built on product. Take that away and what is Ironship? Just a collection of offices, ships and manufactories, all soon to stand empty. And it’s not just the Syndicate. The Chairman of the Alebond Commodities Board committed suicide two days ago after being presented with a summation of the company accounts. Yesterday, South Seas Maritime issued an order forbidding any of its ships from leaving port, for the simple reason that they have no funds to buy coal or Red to fire the engines.”

X gave another near-hysterical laugh, which soon faded, their features sagging into the pallid mask of a defeated soul. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” X said, rising from the table. “I need to go home, dismiss all my servants and tell my spouse they are married to a pauper. After which, I suspect I shall get very drunk indeed.”

I made a slow return to the offices of the Gazette, clutching the ledgers tight and gazing around at all the people passing by. Despite recent troubles there was still an air of normalcy to Sanorah then. Stall holders still hawked their wares, boys still ran around delivering the Intelligencer and constables still strolled the thoroughfares, every one of them blithely unaware of the calamity that had already befallen their comfortable world. Upon returning to my office I ignored the many calls for my attention, locking the door and spending several hours in silent contemplation of the stack of ledgers on my desk. The decision before me was stark and, I decided in a fit of cowardice, not one I was prepared to make without counsel.

Regardless of our short acquaintance, Mrs. Torcreek had proven herself to be one of the most level-headed and basically sensible individuals I had yet to meet. Also, her recent experience gave her a depth of insight beyond that of my immediate colleagues in the Alliance. Father knows more about corporate finance than anyone of my acquaintance, and was therefore far better attuned to the consequences of the act I was now forced to consider. Having answered my invitation they both stood in silence as I related the news. Mrs. Torcreek reacted with a stoic lack of surprise and a sympathetic shrug. “Trouble’s gonna find everyone sooner or later,” she said. “That’s the nature of the world right now.”

My father was notably less phlegmatic, removing his jacket to roll up his sleeves before spending over an hour in feverish examination of the ledgers. “Seer save us all,” he breathed, closing the final one with a snap, resting his elbows on my desk as he rubbed at his temples. “It’s true. Ironship is ruined.”

I should like to relate that I immediately rose to my feet with a suitably impressive declaration regarding the duty of the press and the rights of the populace to be informed of such disastrous news. However, in actuality I continued to sit behind my desk, staring at my father’s stricken features as I asked in a small, frightened voice, “What do I do?”

He stared at me for some time, long enough for me to take shocked notice of the tears welling in his eyes. “Once . . .” he began in a choked quaver then paused, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his eyes. He coughed before continuing in a voice that actually sounded like my father. “Once I would have implored you to wait, give me time to liquidise the family holdings. And I’m sure you would have had many ugly things to say about my greed and selfishness, and perhaps you would have been right. Now . . .” He rested a hand on the ledgers, shaking his head. “Now it doesn’t matter. A disaster of this scale will take us all down with it, regardless of any action I take. Publish today or publish tomorrow, but publish. The world should know what’s coming.”

“Your pa’s right, miss,” Mrs. Torcreek put in. “People got a right to know, and it’s your job to tell them, elst what are you doing here?”

“Well quite,” I said, voice still small and hatefully weak. Taking a very deep breath, I rose to my feet, thanked them both for their advice and opened my office door, calling loudly for an urgent editorial meeting.

The following day the headline of the Voters Gazette read: “IRONSHIP BANKRUPT,” rendered in the largest lettering our print set would allow. The story beneath contained a detailed summation, compiled with my father’s assistance, of the information in the ledgers provided by X. A battalion of Alliance volunteers spent several hours making copies of the ledgers which were sent to the editor of the Intelligencer and every other periodical in Sanorah. Copies were also dispatched via one of the few mail packets still operating to every major port in northern Mandinor.

Although the Gazette’s circulation has never been huge, the fact that this particular issue had been distributed for free guaranteed an initial readership of thousands. Our vendors were quick to demand more copies and our available presses were soon producing issues as fast as could be managed. By the evening of that day lengthy queues had appeared outside all of the major Sanorah banks as depositors demanded withdrawal of their funds. The fact that all but the first few dozen were turned away was all the proof the populace required to validate the Gazette’s claim. The previously orderly crowds outside the banks soon became considerably less so. These were not the agitators and campaigners often dismissed as extremists and malcontents by the corporations. These were ordinary people of many trades and occupations, all suddenly finding themselves impoverished through no fault of their own. Windows were broken, the doors to the banks battered down and bank tellers forced to open vaults which were found to be mostly empty.

Ironship’s reaction was swift but unfortunately predictable. A night-time curfew was declared, the Sanorah garrison was turned out with orders to assist the constabulary in clearing the streets. They also made the singular mistake of sending a company of Protectorate soldiers to arrest my good self and close the Gazette. The refugees, having been roused by Mrs. Torcreek, were more than happy to assist in establishing barricades in the surrounding streets. There are many stalwart souls amongst the refugees, some of them former Contractors hardened by numerous sojourns through the Arradsian Interior. Others are products of the notorious Carvenport slums and therefore habituated to use of weapons. Many of these people had contrived to retain ownership of their fire-arms, or found ways to purchase replacements since their arrival. Also, they were all unified, thanks to Mrs. Torcreek and the work I had done on their behalf, in a determination not to allow me to fall into Protectorate hands.

Consequently, the commander of the Protectorate force bearing my arrest warrant found himself confronted by a series of fortified streets bristling with guns wielded by persons well acquainted with their use. Our defences were also augmented by a significant number of Voters Rights Alliance volunteers, veterans of many a protest who had armed themselves with clubs and piles of displaced cobble-stones for use as projectiles.

The Protectorate captain, a resolute fellow, ordered his men to remain in ranks and approached our largest barricade alone, calling out a demand for my immediate surrender and a list of pertinent charges. “Corporate libel. Theft of Syndicate property. Conspiracy to disrupt public order . . .” This litany of misdeeds ended abruptly when one Molly Pins, the clown-faced woman I had first met at the docks, fired a single pistol shot that shattered a cobble-stone barely an inch from the captain’s foot.

“Get the f—— out of here, y’Syndicate p——!” Miss Pins advised to loud acclaim from her fellow defenders. “And take those limp d——s with you, lessen y’wanna see ’em all dead!”

The captain, now somewhat white of face, barked an order that had his soldiers unslinging their rifles, although some began to hesitate when Mrs. Torcreek added her own voice to the proceedings. “They ain’t paying you enough to die, boys!” she called out, standing tall on the barricade. “Fact is, they ain’t paying you at all!”

Peering through a small gap in the barricade, I saw a few of the soldiers exchanging uncertain glances, whilst a number of others had failed to respond to their captain’s order. Apart from the sergeants they were all young, eighteen or nineteen for the most part, conscripts from the outlying holdings drafted only weeks or days before. However, most were dutifully bringing their rifles to port arms as their sergeants barked out their commands. It was clear that any chance to avoid this ending in violence was fast disappearing and I had no desire to see anyone die on my account.

“Stop this!” I said, scrambling up to stand alongside Mrs. Torcreek.

“What’re you doing, miss?” she asked.

“I’m sorry. I can’t let this happen.”

I turned to the captain, raising my arms above my head. He stared up at me in grim satisfaction as I opened my mouth to surrender, then saw his body crumple when one of his men shot him in the back.

For perhaps three full seconds nothing happened. The captain lay bleeding on the street. The soldier who had shot him stood frozen with smoke leaking from the muzzle of his rifle. The other soldiers all gaped at him or the captain’s corpse. Then one of the sergeants raised his rifle and shot the soldier in the head. After that, everything happened very quickly.

“Geddown!” Molly Pins hissed, she and Mrs. Torcreek forcing me back behind the barricade as gun-fire exploded all around. The crack and snap of splintering wood accompanied the multitude of discharging fire-arms as bullets tore at the piled furniture that formed the barricade.

“Stop shooting, Seer dammit!” Mrs. Torcreek yelled, her voice possessed of enough volume and authority to cause the surrounding refugees to cease their fusillade. “They’re fighting each other.”

A quick glance above the barricade confirmed her judgement. The Protectorate company had split into two factions, both rapidly backing away from one another as they exchanged rifle-shots, often tripping over the bodies of their comrades in the process. In the confusion it was impossible to tell which group might harbour sympathy for our cause, although I did note that one was about two-thirds the size of the other. Also, the smaller group seemed to contain a number of sergeants whilst the larger had none.

After a few frantic minutes the smaller group seemed to have fled, whilst the others remained, having taken cover in near by doorways and alleys. A half-dozen soldiers lay on the cobbles, most unmoving, a couple twitching as they groaned.

The renegade soldiers emerged from cover shortly after, led by a scrawny, hook-nosed youth with the broad vowels of the Marsh Wold. “Not been paid for weeks,” he said. “Nor fed much the last few days. Not like we volunteered either. Most of us only got called up cos our folk’ve got land-hold contracts with Ironship.”

He went on to describe the widespread discontent amongst the ranks of the Sanorah garrison and alluded to the possibility that he could persuade more of his comrades to join.

“Join what?” I asked, a question I have since recognised as singularly foolish.

“Why, the revolution o’course, miss,” the scrawny youth told me. “That’s you, ain’t it?”