The Vortex Empire wrote:That went somewhat better than expected. So he's just got the Monsters and maybe some of the Idiots still against him, but he's convinced those parts of the council who have brains. Still, we haven't seen the last of the Shark. Any bets that he'll soon attempt to directly have Packer killed?
I'm forbidden from placing or taking any bet on the issue due to insider trading regulations.
The real problem here is that "our friend Jimmy the Shark" is playing a very different game from everyone else. We're playing chess, he's playing... I don't know, Risk or something. He's a threat because he's not abiding by the same rules as his competitors, which gives him an advantage. But that advantage can become a disadvantage, because everyone else is playing by a uniform set of rules. If James makes it sufficiently clear that he's cheating, he loses all credibility with everyone outside his immediate circle, at which point he gets creamed.
So the more openly and aggressively he moves, the greater the risk that he'll be exposed as a schemer and manipulator, and the greater the risk that a majority of the Council will repudiate him. At this point, he's running serious risks, because he is really wound up about Packer, and that tension is causing cracks to appear in his self-control. Since he depends on his self-control to take the actions that will manipulate the Council... that's bad for him.
GrandMasterTerwynn wrote: Aside from that, they all have professions they'd all be much more likely to want to do than try to ride herd on this particular herd of cats. Let's face it. Being on the Council . . . is a shit job. Sure you get to call all the shots, but it's frequently a case of "Bubba Longschlong, Jim Bob Assripper, Paul 'Bunyan' McLargehuge, and Cockhard Thrustrammer are all playing a game of 'Drop The Soap' with me . . . who is going to leave my ass the least sore in the morning?" Knowing the kind of people that inhabit this board, how many people are going to want to be in charge?
Well, look what is on opposite side of the table.
Unless you have some really nifty and useful skills which make you invaluable in some cushy job, you easily end up doing something boring and arduous. Like chopping wood or taking apart houses.
The Council with all the perks or chopping wood...
Hmm... I know I would rather risk the Cock Quartet and try to get a little alliance with couple other councillors to watch each others backside at the shower.
No pain no gain..
On completly unrelated issue...
The Shark is quite underestimated by many I would say. He represents the future of the Council in many ways. He is more politician than for example hardass group Simon described.
They represent a group who are most at home at immediate disaster, people who can make decisions when most are shocked to apathy. In such situation it is less important if you make great decisions or not, as long as you can make them.
But in stabilized situation they become less useful, unless they can switch from survival mode to politician mode. Politician has to think much more in parallel and go through different scenarios to figure out how they get as close to desired outcome as possible and prepare contingencies for them.
Of course, Shark lately has been outplayed by others, specially Packer. How he bounces back would tell if he is great politician or just adequate.
Not just the politician part, Tiwaz, but whether he is just an arrogant blowhard of a git. Packer really makes a lot of sense, but some people cannot see the nose on their face...
Tiwaz wrote:Well, look what is on opposite side of the table.
Unless you have some really nifty and useful skills which make you invaluable in some cushy job, you easily end up doing something boring and arduous. Like chopping wood or taking apart houses.
The Council with all the perks or chopping wood...
Thing is, most of the people who are in a position to actually join the Council (and that includes people who have the raw ability but aren't members) weren't faced with the prospect of having to chop wood. They have actual skills, and most of them are mature adults who are likely to wind up in leadership positions practically by default. It's much better to be a Councilman working indoors than to be one of the guys chopping wood all day, but that's not a realistic choice to make. Most of the people who aren't on the council but theoretically could be are in positions similar to, say, Packer's (during his time in the machine shop). Or to Brendan's (Academia Nut's character). They're choosing whether to be the leadership cadre that handles specific day to day tasks, or the cadre that has to handle long term decisions and hammer them out in a giant committee all day long.
You need to be a certain kind of person to sit on a thirty-person committee all day without going completely out of your mind. One of the reasons the Shark has been so successful is that many of the people already on the Council actually aren't that kind of person; they don't have the instincts for it.
For example, Simon can sort of handle the strain of the Endless Meeting, but his main coping mechanism is the appeal to reason, which limits his effectiveness because he suffers a certain amount of tone-deafness in actual debate. He often says things because they sound good to him, without adequate thought about whether they sound good to other people.
On completly unrelated issue...
The Shark is quite underestimated by many I would say. He represents the future of the Council in many ways. He is more politician than for example hardass group Simon described.
This depends on what you mean by "underestimated."
Do you mean that he's being underestimated as a person, as a formidable and powerful part of the island's politics, by others in the story? To some extent, he is. On the other hand, his power comes in large part from manipulating others, and when that's what you do for a living you're in constant danger that other people will detect and resent your manipulations.
In my opinion, that is James' great weakness: he's going too far out on a narrow limb in pursuit of his own goals. If he stops acting in ways that make the rest of the Council want to back him, it will be relatively easy (psychologically) for them to disown him and undo everything he's trying to accomplish.
So there's a danger that he'll be cut off and politically surrounded if he becomes too aggressive. He may be accepting this risk and taking it on a calculated basis, or he may honestly not perceive the risk because he's unable to imagine himself being mistaken. It's hard to say, given what we've seen of the character so far. With luck, I'll be able to explore him a little more, but that scene hasn't come together for me yet.
But in stabilized situation they become less useful, unless they can switch from survival mode to politician mode. Politician has to think much more in parallel and go through different scenarios to figure out how they get as close to desired outcome as possible and prepare contingencies for them.
Interestingly, that's exactly what I picture Simon having learned to do. But mostly he does it on the physical logistics side and less on the political side. The on-the-job training he's gotten at contingency planning over the past year might be transferable, or it might not...
Of course, Shark lately has been outplayed by others, specially Packer. How he bounces back would tell if he is great politician or just adequate.
Again, his great weakness is that he lets his emotions (he really truly does not like Packer) get in the way of his judgement. At this point, the best way for him to strengthen his personal power base would have been to openly switch sides, "publically acknowledge" that he'd been wrong before, and at least create the appearance that he's willing and able to work with Packer if that's in the best interests of the community.
Now, while he does all this, he might be undermining Packer on the side, or at least creating an insurance policy if Packer turns on them. But even so, he'd look like someone who was making a good faith effort at reconciliation. That improves his own credibility in the event of a future split with Packer, if the man does turn out to be as ambitious and dangerous as James appears to believe. James will be able to play the victim of a betrayal, instead of being the aggressor.
James could have done that. Instead, though, he's chosen to antagonize Packer in ways so crude and obvious that everyone on the Council is aware of it. Even if he succeeds in convincing them that Packer is not to be trusted, he's raised major questions about his own reliability and objectivity in the process.
________
P.S. I think this may be an illustration of the difference between a statesman and a politician. "Politician" is a skill set that is extremely useful for working in positions of power, but in and of itself it doesn't say much about whether you'll try to do the right things. Like any other skill set, political skills can be badly misused.
Take someone like, say, Bismarck, and you see that they had great political skill, but they also had objectivity, and the ability to look at a situation and decide how to tailor their immediate goals to fit into their long term strategy. "Jimmy the Shark" hasn't got that; he's got the political skills but he isn't using them optimally, or at least isn't using them optimally at all times. Maybe he's got too much ego tied up in "winning" political points to realize that he can win the battles and lose the war.
Editor's Note: This takes place on day 360, post-arrival . . .
Red Ryder
Thwack!
I peered through the spotting scope, at the distant paper target.
"Good shot," I said, before standing up. "You want to take one more?"
"Yeah," the man holding his rifle replied. I watched him take a modest-sized lead ball, inserting it into the open slot on the side of the barrel. He pulled the bolt forward, rotating it into the locked position. He leaned forward against the shooting bench, the rifle tight against his shoulder. His concentration, as he peered over the iron sights, was palpable.
Thwack! One more shot. No fire, no smoke. I'd already bent down and I peered into the scope.
"You're a natural, sir, a real natural."
"I was a fair shot in the service," the shooter replied. "But I can't say I've fired a rifle quite like this one before."
I stood and adjusted the brim of my hat, looking over at the Old Man. He held what looked like a double-barreled rifle with a long stock, and a third tube with a lever welded to the bottom.
"I'm impressed," he said, handing me the rifle. I took it, unconsciously checking to verify that the action was open. It was a Nantucket first. A .38 caliber air rifle. Lewis and Clarke used an air rifle in their expedition across the continent. Played on the superstitions of the natives . . . they knew what firearms were. But a gun that could kill without the thunder and fire of a flintlock . . . something else entirely.
"Thank you, sir," I replied. I glanced up at the gray-white afternoon sky. "We'd better get the targets. Looks like it might be wet later on."
"Alright," the Old Man replied. As we crossed the grassy expanse of the shooting range, I remembered that it took a lot of doing to get that airgun built. I'd asked the boys if they'd engrave on it something suitable for what I thought was the weapon's import:
NANTUCKET AIR RIFLE - 1ST MODEL OF 1 PA
We bent over the paper target. A person crudely painted on a sheet of butcher's paper. The Old Man was a good shot. Five holes fit into a space the size of a tightly-clenched fist. Not bad, for a rifle cobbled together over the course of a summer, for the not-so-good people of Martha's Vineyard.
I rolled up the paper target and tucked it under my arm. We walked the fifty yards back to the bench and I collected the rifle. The late afternoon light caught upon what had been engraved on the barrel of the gun. Nothing as pompous as I'd wanted. Instead, I'd gotten . . .
RED RYDER
Yeah . . . real funny, boys. Real funny. This is one airgun I don't plan to put my eye out with.
The Old Man and I walked the trail back to the Constabulary's HQ.
"Seems life is treating you well out here, Constable."
A faint smile. "Yeah, you could say that. It wasn't easy when I first came out here; but, uh, there ain't too many days that I really miss Nantucket now. How is life back there?"
"Honestly, I'm a little envious of you people," the Old Man replied. "There are days it where it seems like the Watch is barely holding the line. Especially after we were maneuvered off the Council."
I nodded. I understood it, all too well. There was a good reason, ninety days ago, I found myself boarding a boat to escort a small group of exiles . . . soon to be permanent residents of Martha's Vineyard. Only, I too, would be staying . . .
Ninety days before . . .
"Welcome to Martha's Vineyard, gentlemen," a hard-faced man yelled, whilst standing on a rough-hewn wood platform. "The powers that be have reckoned that all of you are too much trouble for Nantucket. Even those of you joining us in an official fashion. There are four very simple rules here. Don't kill. Don't steal. Don't talk shit you can't back up. And don't leave your fellow man in a bind."
I looked around. The boat had left for Nantucket about half an hour ago. Now, it was official. Watchman no more. It'd been a mighty interesting trip coming here.
"The first person I hear tittering over what I'm about to say will enjoy my personal supervision in cleaning out latrines for their first week here. This is a penal colony! Everything you've heard about Martha's Vineyard is absolutely true. You will clean latrines. You will dig ditches. You will cut wood! Everybody here does that. No exceptions! Everything you'll have here is what you make for yourself."
I hefted my rucksack higher on my shoulder. I'd heard a lot of talk about Martha's Vineyard in the days before my departure. I won't lie to you, there are butterflies in my stomach. Yet, I made the choice to come here, unlike most of the other guys standing around me.
"You are in charge of your life here! Sure nobody here will let your ass hang out in the breeze, but if you only do the minimum, that's all you'll get. I hope you all noticed some of the cabins by the shore. Everyone already here built them with their own hands. Aspire to that, gentlemen!"
While he was speaking, a number of men with break-open double-barreled shotguns had appeared. All of them bore the tanned, leathery look of hard men used to hard labor. And, given what most on Nantucket had to do to get by . . . that was saying something.
"The overseers will guide you to the Lodge," the man on the platform said. "There, you'll get a bunk, and you'll have a chance to stow your kit. After that, you will all attend a mandatory class on woodcutting safety. After that, the overseers will team you up, and you'll get right to work. Everybody here in an official capacity . . . we'll talk to you after muster tomorrow morning. You're all dismissed. I'll see you at oh-six-hundred tomorrow morning."
Wait . . . after the morning muster? I started to frown, that was something I hadn't heard about . . .
"All of you, fall in! Get in line, facing west," one of the armed men shouted.
"You," one of them said, grabbing my arm. "Stand right here. Stand up straight."
Automatically, I sprang to attention. Something I learned in JROTC, back in the future.
"The rest of you, fall in behind him! Stick out your right hand and get right up to the point you're just touching the man in front of you. Then put that arm down and you wait for us to tell you to move!"
"Yes sir," someone said, an edge to their voice.
"No goddamn back-talk! Your name just made it on my personal shit-list. And I call it that because you're on latrine duty."
"Heels together! Stand up straight!"
"Fall in, fall in!"
I heard feet, clothes, and rucksacks shuffling behind me. I knew better than to turn around, and I reckon anyone who didn't learned quickly.
"Another name for the shit-list. I have good ears, boys! No talking. No muttering!"
One of the overseers fell in to my right.
"Your next lesson will be staying in-step with the man in front of you, and the overseer next to you. If you don't, you'll not only look stupid, but you'll also end up on my shit-list . . . so get it right!"
"Forward!"
My body tensed up. Whatever you're going to throw at me next, O Malevolent Powers, I swear, I'm ready for you.
"March!"
Now . . .
"I wouldn't be too envious, sir," I replied. "Life ain't easy out here. It's not quite like the nineteenth century, but it's damned close."
"I know," the Old Man replied. "I didn't really believe it until I saw the first log cabins."
"Hah," I said. "I learned quickly why we all had to chop wood out here."
"I wouldn't knock it. Gives people the feeling they're in charge of their own destinies."
Wasn't that the truth? Tell a kid that he's just been sentenced to chop wood on Martha's Vineyard for the rest of his life . . . bad. Tell that same kid that he's responsible for constructing his own shelter and has to help out in the fields, on top of delivering his quota of wood to fuel Nantucket's growing appetite for energy . . . worse.
At the end of the day, though, he was with others who'd gone through the same initiation hell that he had. He was eating food that he and his buddies had caught or gathered. And he got to go home to a log cabin that he helped build, or he built himself.
"Quite the social experiment goin' on out here." I finally said.
"It's all a social experiment," the Old Man replied. We walked together, the Old Man and I. Up the short hill separating the range from the rest of the settlement. As we crested the hill, the first thing to hit me was the smell of smoke. Wisps of white and black rose from campfires and stone chimneys poking out log cabins. Carts stacked with firewood were on the sides of muddy trails. I saw a few young men running between the buildings in what looked like an impromptu game of soccer.
"Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard, the Eagle and, eventually the mainland," the Old Man had continued talking as we walked. He chuckled, "and to think that, way back, people were afraid they'd end up living under a Mess dictatorship."
"Well, they're living under some kind of dictatorship," I said. A lone butterfly took up fluttering in my gut. One that I quickly, and ruthlessly, ground into a fine paste. There was a time I'd never dream of saying something like that. And certainly not to the Old Man.
For his part, the Old Man eyed me and then looked out over the settlement.
"Do you really think," he finally said, "that it could've turned out any differently? You were on the Senate. You were there for all the board drama. We took all of that back with us, and then some."
I nodded silently as we started down the hill.
"Don't know," I said. "Things might be different now. People ain't thinking of themselves as 'SD-netters' anymore, or Americans, or Aussies, or Brits, or Finns, or whatever else. Nantucketeers over there, and whatever the hell we end up calling ourselves here."
A chuckle. "Dangerous talk there. You know, I'd heard there was talk of renaming Martha's Vineyard."
"Yeah," I replied, glancing up at the gray, mottled, sky. "Martha hasn't been born yet, and we're real short on vineyards here. And we don't have anything from the future here to remind us that it's named what it is. Couldn't tell you what they want to rename it to, though."
"Well, what would you call it?"
Good question. To tell you the truth, I never really thought about it; though, that is something of a lie.
"I'm partial to Nitram's Isle, myself," I finally said. Tuckernuck had been renamed Bear's Island, after all.
It was the Old Man's turn to nod. There were an awful lot of people whose names we could lend to islands and other places. We'd likely add a few more to that list after the winter.
"So . . . tell me more about the rifle," he said. I nodded quickly, a bit relieved at the shift in conversation.
"Well," I said. "We figured that we needed something besides bows and guns. Whenever the mainland starts seeing us from-the-future types in force, the natives will end up with bows. And they're going to be introduced to firearms. Eventually, they'll end up with rifles of their own. Could be next year, could be ten years from now. Point is, it's gonna happen."
"Right, right," the Old Man said, nodding.
"So we figured, how about something that kills quietly, but doesn't require manhandling for every shot like a crossbow or a longbow would. I said . . . 'Lewis and Clarke had an air rifle on their expedition, and they were military weapons before the 18th century' . . . and it developed from there."
"I see," the Old Man said, after a few moments. "You say no manhandling, but I notice there's an air pump on the bottom of the rifle."
"For emergencies, sir. You'd usually use some sort of air compressor to fill the reservoir. This one will produce about ten shots at lethal velocities. If we had Nantucket's machine shops, we could triple that easily."
"Machine shop," the Old Man stared at me. "A little bird tells me that, somehow, Martha's Vineyard has, ah, acquired enough tools to start up its own shop. I haven't seen it, of course, or Kevin Dumfries."
"Well, sir, can't fault the Constabulary for wanting to make use of the talent here."
"Of course," the Old Man replied. "I'll be happy to continue not seeing the shop here, in that case."
"I . . . whoa," I said, dropping into a half-crouch, un-slinging the rifle. A young man was coming at us at a dead run. Suddenly, the muzzle was thrust down.
"Stand down! That man's from the Watch," the Old Man said.
I stood with a start, pointing the rifle off to the side. We'd had a couple of encounters with natives on the Vineyard. Men who'd crossed over from the mainland and were rudely surprised by the new settlement and its population of pale-faced giants. Rudely, because someone had been stupid enough to let one of the native hunters have a gut full of birdshot. That had set the tone of every encounter to follow.
I shook it off, just as the young Watchman stumbled to a halt. What hit me first was the stink coming off him . . . like he'd come at a dead run from the moment his boat had hit the dock.
"Sir . . . news . . . bad . . . news," he wheezed.
"Take a moment, catch your breath," the Old Man replied. He looked at me. "Canteen."
"Oh . . . right," I said, slinging the rifle and reaching for the canteen slung over my other shoulder. Nobody here left camp for any reason without basic supplies. The young Watchman gratefully snatched my canteen, drinking deeply, then dumping some of the water over his face; apparently unaware of the the bite of the late, breezy, October air.
"What's going on," the Old Man asked. "You seem to be in . . . a bit of a hurry."
"Sorry . . . sir," the Watchman replied. "You don't . . . have your radio with you. Had to get here . . . ASAP," he said, breathing hard.
The Old Man's expression hardened, standing straighter.
"Watchman," he said. "Report!"
"Right sir," the Watchman replied, visibly making the effort to force off his exhaustion. He then seemed to notice that I was standing there, caught sight of the polished metal star pinned to my chest. "Sirs," he finally said. "Alferd Packer has returned . . . he was sighted on the isla . . . I'm sorry . . . he was sighted on Nantucket this morning."
"Impossible," I blurted, my mouth running ahead of my brain, "he's dead."
One-hundred and eighty-nine days before . . .
"I swear it's the truth, dude," the young man said. I was doing everything I could not to grab him by the collar and shake him for whatever he was worth. For three days, it felt like all of Nantucket was holding its collective breath. Many, most assuredly, hoping that when we went back on the fourth day . . . that all we'd find was Packer's carcass. Many others, and I admit you can count me in this number, were hoping that he'd be waiting by a signal fire. Alive.
But it wasn't to be.
"Tell me what happened," I said. "What did you see?"
"Dude, everything I saw . . . I already told the Old Man and the Council. You're not going to get anything more from me!"
"Look at me," I said, gripping his shoulders. "Do I look like I care? Tell me anyway."
"Well, I," he started, looking around the room. Looking for any way out. But, for once, the Malevolent Powers were on my side, and he finally sighed.
"Okay dude," he said. "One more time, and them I'm done. Next jackass who asks me what happened to Packer is going to get a goddamn fat lip."
I nodded, easing my grip on his shoulders. Automatically, his hands came up, rubbing his shoulders. He looked down at the floor, and then back up at me.
"Well, it's like this," he said. I leaned back, listening as his story started to unfold . . .
~~~
The day before . . .
I was on the second boat on the beach. I'm looking around as we fan out, and I see a couple of men higher up the beach. They've got the Bushmasters. Shit, this is serious business.
"No fucking around boys," someone said from behind me. "Keep moving up the beach. We're easy pickings down here."
I felt the pucker-factor go way up as I clutched the deer rifle they gave me a little tighter. Sure wish my Evil Black Rifle had come back with me. I don't want to think about what'd happen if I fumbled that bolt while some caveman was charging me with a spear.
I reached the men high up on the beach, and they split us into two groups, sending some of us to the left, and some of us to the right. I sure hope the sniper they sent up into the woods has a clear view of us. I quickly sight a couple of guys crouched around some gear, rifles pointed outward. Me, and the guys with me, crouch down with them, scanning the beach, the woods, anywhere some native might get the jump on us. But, thank God, there were none.
"Listen up kids," one of the senior guys said. "Packer didn't light a signal fire, which means he either went native, or the natives got him. Since he's not making it easy for us . . . if any of you see him, don't say 'please,' just get his ass down and restrained. You'll work your way down the shoreline in teams of two. If I hear of any of you losing sight of your buddy, you'll be wishing the bears had got you first. Clear?"
"Sir, yes, sir," we all chanted, in unison. It was almost like being back in the Army again.
"Good. Radio checks will be every fifteen minutes, so stay on your toes. Everyone, move out!"
And, with that, we moved. It was me and some Canadian. We didn't say much as we worked our way to the water's edge. We didn't see much on the first couple of radio checks. We were careful to make notes on our map, because it would've sucked balls to get stuck out on Cape Cod with God knows what's out here.
"Hey, you see that," my buddy said. I stopped, bringing the muzzle of my rifle up.
"What is it?"
"Down in the sand."
"What, that rock there?"
"Yeah, except I don't think that's a rock."
I looked closer at it. It glinted in the daylight, as it protruded from the damp sand.
"I'll take a closer look. Keep a look-out, okay?"
"Gotcha," the Canadian replied. I headed down into the surf zone, ignoring the gulls taking flight before me.
"Holy shit," I broke into a jog, that definitely wasn't the usual beach pebble. I dropped to my knees, plucking the object out of the sand. It was a cellphone.
"Dude," I said, "it's a phone!"
"You're shitting me."
"Hell no," I replied. A wave broke onto the beach, just then, sending water up to my boots, but I didn't care. I looked that phone over. It looked like it hadn't been out here long. Maybe a couple of days, but the ocean hadn't been nice to it. The battery cover was gone, and so was the battery; though I bet it was busted even if the battery stayed.
"Hey," my buddy said, as I finally worked my way back up to him. "Didn't Packer always carry a phone?"
I looked down at the phone, and then back up at him.
"Shit, dude, you're right. Don't know where I heard it, but yeah, he carried a phone. Think he took it to Cape Cod with him too."
"Better call this in," my buddy replied. I nodded, putting the phone in my pocket and unslinging my rifle. My buddy spent a few moments on the radio. When he looked at me again, I swear all the color had left his face.
"Hey man," he said. "The inland team found what looks like the remains of a campsite."
"Remains?"
"Yeah," he said. "Looked like everything was cleaned out, and there are footprints everywhere. There's also a shirt. With bloodstains . . . "
Now . . .
"With due respect, sir, he's alive and well. Came to Nantucket with a native woman he married and made a beeline to the hospital. The Council's shitting bricks."
"That doesn't surprise me," the Old Man said, before I could reply. I looked at him. There was something about his expression I couldn't put my finger on. For one, I don't know about you, but I was floored by the news. Every bit as floored as when I'd thought I learned Packer was dead. The Old Man, though, to be honest; he didn't look that surprised.
"What action have we taken?"
"The Night Watch Commander's setting up blockades, has locked down the Machinists' shop, and has ordered all Watchmen to report in."
The Old Man nodded. "Understood. Is he enforcing a quarantine?"
"I think so, but . . . Packer had inside help, sir. Ted and a couple of others are in holding cells right now. They said there are others spreading the news."
The Old Man's face worked. "Those . . . assholes . . . may have just put all Nantucket in jeopardy." He looked at me, his expression flinty. "I assume the Constabulary can get a hold of Kevin Dumfries," he said, glancing down at the air-gun.
"Uh, yes, sir," I replied, swallowing.
"Good, when we get back to the Constabulary, have someone pick him up. I don't care what . . . arrangements . . . you've made with him."
I choppily nodded, immediately grasping his train of thought.
"I need to get back as soon as possible," the Old Man started to say. I was looking up at the sky, at the banks of low, gray clouds.
"I think we need to check with the Constabulary first, sir," I said.
"Excuse me?"
"Remember how I said it might be wet later? I need to have a look at the logbook."
The Old Man stared at me, clearly not quite willing to believe me. Then, he nodded. "We'll have to stop there anyway. Let's go."
We rushed back the stockade. By the standards of the tiny log cabins nearby, it fairly sprawled. Just outside the door was a thermometer, a hygrometer, and a barometer. I made a quick mental note of the numbers before ducking inside. I'd learned that a couple members of the Constabulary had an interest in meteorology, and had convinced everybody else to record their weather observations in a large logbook. We'd ended up collecting enough observations that we could usually predict the weather about a day, or so, in advance.
I flipped through the last few entries, hastily scribbling my own in. I flipped open a well-worn reference book that had been placed next to the logbook. When I found what I was looking for, I looked back at the Old Man.
"Just as I thought," I said. "Looks like we're in for a storm. If you look here, you'll notice the pressure and temperature have been dropping all day, and other constables have noticed the clouds moving in. It's twenty miles to Nantucket . . . if the skies break open on us, we'll be sunk for sure . . . especially in the dark."
The Old Man studied the logbook, his expression unhappy. "How long," he finally said, "would you think it would be, before we could move out?"
It was my turn to frown.
"I'd have to get someone who'd know for sure, but I would guess it's a fast mover. Say . . . tomorrow afternoon or the following morning."
"The following morning may be too late," the Old Man replied. "I'm afraid the Council may take ill-advised action on the issue. Packer too . . . I can't say for sure. Hopefully Dumfries will be able to clear up Packer's motives for us, and whoever turns up to tell him about Packer."
"Hopefully," I nodded. "With that said, I've got to go yell at the dispatcher. We'll get him in sir . . . and we'll get you back to Nantucket. Just as soon as that bitch Mother Nature decides to cooperate."
When I started reading the description about the kind of men who are living on Martha's Vineyard the first thing that popped into my head were the Sardarkur. It's certainly nerdy enough for the background of the populace, but also captures a bit of their situation and what they may be growing towards. Just my two cents.
"Our Country won't go on forever, if we stay soft as we are now. There won't be any AMERICA because some foreign soldier will invade us and take our women and breed a hardier race!"
LT. GEN. LEWIS "CHESTY" PULLER, USMC
Shit. That was the only thing to be said when news of the wind turbine blowout came out at the emergency Council meeting. Five hundred kilowatts of power, gone! All for the want of one little hunk of metal… The bearings were smooth to a near-perfect finish, with a tolerances of something like a ten-thousandth of an inch; you could try to duplicate the things a thousand times over with the equipment on island and never get it close to right.
Simon had plans filed for a lot of things. Most of them were half-baked and far from complete: feasibility studies for a whaling operation, a laundry list of expendable trade goods that might be worth a small fortune in Bronze Age Europe, the idea of setting up watermills on the mainland if they ever got over there in force and somehow found the people to work them… the list was endless. Nearly so; it ended right at the point where they needed the plans now. He did not have a plan for what to do in the event of turbine failure, not beyond a half page of cryptic scribbled notes from one of the girls at Point Breeze, clipped to a longer document about irrigation.
Shit.
Still, there was no time to freeze… but where to begin? Could we run the whole irrigation system off dismounted truck engines rigged to gasifiers? Could we find the wood to power it? Could we, hell, just draft guys on shadufs to water the fields? Can we make up for the lack of farm production by fishing like crazy? Hmm…
Dammit, how did we let this blindside us? How did I let this blindside me? That looped back to 'Five hundred kilowatts, gone!', and so on. He was still chasing himself in circles, wondering if he could find any coffee left in the building, when the knock on the office door jarred him out of it.
"Come in!" An average-looking fellow (the average was lean and mean these days, and Simon was only now starting to approach it asymptotically) with a sword at his hip came through the door; it took a moment to place the face. This was definitely one of the Useful Guys, the ones who didn't quit, who had more substance than style, and who were learning new things fast enough to matter. Wasn't he the one who'd come up with the saltpeter beds? Must be. Simon stood up, strode round the desk and extended a hand to the man.
"Brendan der Nitratemeister! What brings you here?"
"Just got back from the engineers' meeting. I've got good news, bad news, and horrible news." He seemed off balance, probably not a surprise, considering.
"Let me guess: horrible news is that no one figured out a way to get the wind turbine running again."
"Exactly."
"I was afraid of that. So what's the good news?"
"We came up with an idea to take to the Council at large: send the Eagle on a trading mission to Europe for food."
That is… that is a good idea. For a lot of reasons. Hoo boy, a lot of reasons. "All right; I'm sold. What's the bad news?"
"I'm in charge of figuring out if we can do it."
That was his cue; it finished the job of snapping Simon out of his funk quite thoroughly. "What? Horror! Fear! Terror! Dread! We're all doomed, doomed, I tell you! Seriously though, really?"
Brendan seemed taken aback at the intensity, but the tone of Simon's voice made it obvious he was kidding. "Yes, really. Chewie's idea."
"How'd you get nominated?"
He was silent for a moment. "I was the one who suggested it."
"Oh. Well, thanks. It's a better idea than I would have come up with, at least as a solution to this. I assume you're here because you need to sift through inventory to figure out what we can shake loose for the trip?"
"Yes."
Oh, good, something I can actually help with!
"Simon put on a deep, rolling Southern accent. "Fortunately, Ah keep mah feathahs numbahed fo' just such an emergency!" He continued in a more normal tone: "I mean, the generator blowout caught me completely by surprise, but I do have a few things put together on the idea of trading missions. Let me see, that would be… third file cabinet. You got a minute while I go digging?"
"Slow down. You already drew up the plans?"
Simon flipped through the folders in the drawer, muttering softly as he scanned the contents. "Next time I'll remember to label the damn folders…"
"Oh? Well, sort of. Bits and pieces, enough to serve as a starting point on the off chance the mission actually got approved. I'd pretty much given up hope on getting it done this year, but as a crash priority, I think we can still get the ship out by… early to mid-July. I concentrated on figuring out which chunks of the project have the longest lead times; hopefully, we can work out the rest as we go along. It should give you a starting point, and I'll be happy to testify in Council that I think we can do it."
From the look on his face, Brendan had obviously been expecting to have to start all this from scratch. Christ, that would have taken him at least a week or two; it'd be… hell, practically August before they managed to get going!
Simon took a perverse delight in playing Fairy Godmother Department. He didn't get to do it often enough, but it was one of the things that made the job worthwhile in spite of everything else. All the reams of paperwork, the applied cat-herding, the political armwrestling… none of it could fully damp the joy of really solving someone else's problem. Especially when the solution came as a surprise.
Naturally, the folder with the expedition proposals was at the back of the drawer. "Found it! OK, here you go. I've got some preliminary notes from the, ah, nautical types, a list of suggested trade goods, rough estimates of the number of man-hours we'll need to prepare the ship and gather the supplies… going to have to think about where to pull the people from, though, especially given that we'll have to be working on the irrigation system in parallel with all this. I think I've got a lot of work to do… hang on, do I have another copy of that sheet?"
Another two minutes' search revealed the missing copy tucked into the next folder over- just another misfile, apparently. "All right, that's got it. Hope it helps, Brendan. I think I'm going to be kind of busy for the next few days, so if you don't mind, I'll see you later in the Council meeting?"
The guy was still as off-balance as he'd been when he came in, but now it seemed like he was off-balance in a good way. Unexpected good fortune to go with unexpected responsibility… "Sure. Thanks for the help."
"S' nothing. See you at four!"
Simon sat back down. I feel… wow. I feel great. Galvanized, something like that.
He still didn't know what he needed to do, but now he knew where to start looking.
Day 216, 6:30 p.m.
The Council meeting was breaking up; it had been exhausting. It wasn't so much a problem of getting anything past active opposition; the problem was one of sheer inertia. Too many people were still stuck thinking about how big the crisis was, and it had taken the first hour just to get everyone on the same page. The tipping point had been when James weighed in; that had been an unexpected help. I don't like the son of a bitch's politics, but he's not an idiot; I have to give him that much. "People, this is a time to pull together! We need solutions, not useless recriminations!" indeed… not bad.
From there, at least all the big players were moving in the same direction. Convincing everyone that an expedition to Europe was sane had taken about a half hour; explaining what they'd need to do and resolving to start tackling the irrigation problem tomorrow after Dumfries had time to weigh in, an hour after that.
Gah. One last order of business, and then I can call it a day… He walked over to Gail.
"Gail? Could I have a word?"
"I need to be back at Point Breeze soon. Walk with me?"
"OK. Won't take long, I promise."
As they strode out of the conference room into a June evening (Thank God Almighty, I'm warm at last!), Simon tried to explain his difficulty.
"As I see it, we have three problems.
"One: we need to get as much irrigation as we can running again, soonest. That can start tomorrow, but I don't expect anything efficient to get done until Kevin looks over what we've got left. Two: we need to get the Eagle running, soonest. We can't get real work going until day after tomorrow at best; everyone's going to need a day to change course, even the ones who were hoping to prep the ship soon. Three: progress on both one and two faces a major bottleneck- the machine shop."
"Simon, at the risk of sounding like a broken record after last week, why bring this to me?"
"Because I need to be in three places at once playing facilitator, and I only have one deputy I'm sure can do the job properly. I'm going to throw Gordon at the irrigation problem; he seems to have a better handle on it than I do. I'll have to babysit the Machinists in person; I think I have an angle if I can bring it off right. That leaves problem two: the Eagle. That's going to be complicated, because most of the labor force will have to be pulled from elsewhere without causing side-effects that slow down the preparations, or making a serious dent in the irrigation work.
"And you're sitting on the island's best labor allocation specialist: Hannah."
Gail's eyebrow rose. "Hannah?"
"I don't know anyone, including myself, I'd count on to do a better job of juggling everything involved. Remember the report I bounced to her back in April? Like I said then, it was for a reason- I'd already noticed her work, and it was too important not to give to her…"
April 10, Day 161, noon
The headache didn't really set in until Simon climbed out of bed. Augh! How much did I drink… have I ever drunk that much?
His eyes squeezed to slits, he staggered to the bathroom. Need water. Have I got any aspirin left? Dammit! No, wait, there it is…
He downed a second glass of water, then splashed a third in his face. After the shock passed, he felt human enough to think to look at a clock. 12:15, with sunlight streaming in the window around the curtains. Then it all came rushing back: the long night, the long nightmare, watching a death sentence unfold for a solid, competent, decent man who told good jokes and seemed to pull field improvisations out of his hat practically at will. The crime? Calling for a First Amendment in a town that didn't acknowledge one. Christ… I tried.
Not good enough; he should have won. What the hell was getting into people? Were they just not seeing what the island was turning into at ground level anymore? Were they so busy deciding everyone else was an idiot that they didn't care what the island turned into, or what they did to the groundlings? Or what happened because of what they did to the groundlings?
For crying out loud, what's happening down at the machine shop right now… Simon didn't even realize he'd punched the doorjamb until the pain from a bloody knuckle registered. Neither knowing nor caring if anyone would hear, he screamed "Damn it, am I the only one who thinks of these things!?"
Okay, stay focused. Concentrate on the job. Not on hating your co-workers, not on manipulative old men. You… you do the job that's in front of you.
Gospel according to Pratchett; for a wonder it helped him calm down. The Council in its infinitesimal wisdom, against all rights and sanity, had decided to put Packer under house arrest, then toss him off on the mainland to be eaten by wolves. What was going to happen when the Machinists decided they didn't care for that? Not if; when? Granted the cover story, the facts were going to be glaring to anyone with half a brain, weren't they?
That was something he could focus on without wanting to scream and punch things. Or to sneak a pistol into the next meeting. Do the job that's in front of you. Simon took a deep breath, then sat down at the table with a piece of scratch paper and scribbled out a few questions:
-How much production lost?
-How long?
-What doesn't get made?
-Any silver linings?
He dressed for work in his de facto uniform- jeans and a blue button-down- tucked the paper in his pocket, clipped the Pickett to his belt, and strolled out into the blinding light of day.
The Council members had all taken up quarters close to the center of town; it wasn't far to the office. He had a few people working with him, but they stayed clear when they saw the look on his face. Living so close to the center of things, they'd known that there had been a lot of activity in the night, but must not have guessed what. Gordon had the heart to ask "Rough night?"
"I'm trying not to think about it. Look, can you find the back order lists for the machine shop, project forward what else they're likely to be doing for the next few months? I really need to give that stuff a look over."
Gordon had the papers for him within twenty minutes. Most of it had already been down in print, but even the figures that weren't, the scribbled estimates on the margins, looked… very plausible. What would I do without him at a time like this?
By three, he'd drawn up something detailed enough that he could expect someone else to understand what he was talking about. In summary, it went:
Assume productivity at the machine shop drops by an unknown amount over the next three months- three months being enough time that they could probably get together a halfway decent crew of replacements if, say, the entire team got shipped off to Muskeget. If they sacrificed a number of trained engineers to do grunt work. IF none of the machines got wrecked… but there was nothing to be done about that.
Obviously, production of machined goods, including but not limited to gasifiers, personal weapons, ship hardware, and irrigation system parts drops. The downsides: too obvious to dwell on. On the slightly less than pitch dark side, no labor or materials will be needed for machines that don't get built. How much damage control can we do by shifting resources onto vital tasks that would otherwise require the absent machines?
What do we do if machine shop man-hours per week, or productivity per man-hour, declines by 25%? 50? 75? 90? What about a total shutdown? How much can we do without the shop entirely?
Of course, to anyone with the political savvy of a termite, it was obvious why he was asking. Doesn't matter. You do the job that's in front of you… And this was not going to be an easy problem. Everything on the island was involved in one way or another; whoever worked it would need full access to records and at least a week of uninterrupted time to study the matter, even assuming they were good. More like two weeks, probably. This looked like a job for the ladies.
After looking over the red-pen notes he'd made on the last round of reports from the women's improvised luxury dormitory, he even knew who to give it to...
As usual, Simon made a bit of extra effort to clean up before going over to Point Breeze. Gail still noticed. Maybe she was feeling more soft-hearted than usual, because she asked the same question, though she already had to be able to guess the answer.
"Have a rough night?"
The answer was still the same, if he didn't want to start screaming. "Yes. Yes, I did. You know what I think, and I'd really rather not talk about it, all right? This is… this isn't really related. This is just work." Simon handed over the the report; the Den Mother scanned over the typed cover sheet.
"Not related? Huh. Well, if you'd rather not talk about it, we'll keep it that way. As for how you need this done, is there anything in particular?"
"Is Hannah, Hannah Montross, free?"
Her eyes narrowed. Wait… did she misunderstand that? Is she going protective on me? "Do you mean right now, or in the long run?"
"Long run, of course. I asked because I think she ought to be in charge of this." He looked around; none of the girls were within earshot. Even so, he lowered his voice; this could be impolitic if it spread around the Dens too far. "This could be really important. Frankly, we're much too likely to need it soon and done as well as possible. Hannah's analyses are the best of the lot, usually, and when she makes suggestions they pan out about ten to fifteen percent more often than the average."
Gail looked... about as far off-balance as she ever did. Not far. "I didn't know you were keeping track."
"Probably from grading too many lab reports back before. It was a reflex."
"Can I ask you a question about her?
"What?"
"Is it that she puts more hours into this stuff, that she's more interested than most of the others? Or just natural aptitude, do you think?"
She paused. "Thinking that over, I'm going to say all three."
"Good. This thing needs all the help it can get. Two more things, though. One-" he lowered his voice again- "if you think it'll give her a lift, and if you don't think she'll make trouble for the other girls, you can tell her I said she's doing the best work. This isn't going to be easy, and she's earned some encouragement. Two… I'd like to talk over her proposals with her in person after she's done with the report. Is that all right?"
Simon hadn't expected a quick answer; he got one. The corner of Gail's mouth twisted into a lopsided smile. "All right; I think we can trust you."
June 4, 1249 BC: Day 216, 6:35 p.m.
Simon had trailed off; Gail interrupted. "So, you need Hannah, then?"
A corner of the back of his mind took that question entirely wrong; he throttled the first answer that popped to mind. Keep it simple, you haven't convinced her yet. "If Hannah could move around as freely as I do without putting herself at risk, and if she'd been doing it since the first week, I'd nominate her to replace me in a heartbeat. The only problem she has is being stuck behind a desk; you can't do the whole job from there."
The temperature of the older woman's voice dipped a few degrees. "Well, that's the trouble, isn't it? Risk? We stay under guard for a reason, you know."
"Yes. Yes, I do I know. Look, two things. Tomorrow morning I'm going to stop by the Watch House and try to shake loose a couple of guards for her. Under the circumstances, I'm pretty confident I can swing it. More importantly, I want her handling the Eagle for a reason. She can spend most of her working time down at the docks. Guess who I've got penciled in to run the preparations down there? If anyone starts making trouble, it's going to be a race between the Watchmen and the project lead to see who flattens it first. And I'm not sure who to bet on. Can I get three to two on Her Ladyship?"
That seemed to appease the Den Mother. "Fair enough. Just making sure you have Hannah's best interests in mind."
Simon was silent for quite a while, but they were getting close to the hotel, and that deserved a reply in full, no dancing around. "I know. Wouldn't have it any other way."
Last edited by Simon_Jester on 2010-03-13 08:04pm, edited 2 times in total.
"Hey, Paul!" Simon trotted down the dock, calling out ahead to get the man's attention.
Paul was second in command of the preparations; he lowered the clipboard in his hand as the Councilman approached. "Hi, Simon! How goes it?" His accent is definitely smoothing out. But then it has been seven months...
"Just checking up. Are the first deliveries coming in smoothly?"
"Mostly. It's a pleasure to be able to get back to work on her. The boats are nice, but… tall ships are tall ships, you know?"
"I think I understand. How's Her Ladyship holding up?"
As if in answer, there was a ringing metallic clang from inside the Eagle's pilothouse, followed by a high-pitched, triumphal "HA!"
Paul grinned. "Keeping busy. Seems to be enjoying herself tremendously, too."
"Glad to hear it. Anyway, two things. One is that I want to make sure this list of what you're going to need from the machine shop is complete. I want to take it over to them ASAP; right after lunch at the latest, and I'd like it to be more or less complete. I don't want to have to keep showering them with new projects every day from now till departure day."
They went over the checklist together. At the end, Paul summed up: "Well, there are a few things I'd like to have more of, but I think that's enough of everything that's vital."
"I'll get it to you if it can be done, but they're going to be swamped with orders as it is. I doubt we'll get much more than this out of them, not unless some good luck breaks our way."
"Fair enough. You said there were two things?"
"Right. The other is, well, I'm going to be spending most of my time for the next week or two babysitting the Machinists. You've heard about the troubles?"
"Yes, the blueprints. Will that hurt us here?"
"Not too much. Most of the really vital stuff for the ship they either didn't get, or we found another copy of the plans somewhere else. And I don't expect that they'll refuse to make more of anything we happen to need for the expedition, whether they're trying to keep the plans secret or not. The real problem is that they've been slowing down. I'm going to have to see about changing that."
"Good luck."
"Thanks. I may need it. Anyway, that will take up most of my time. If it weren't for that, I'd be down here most of the time, so I need to be in two places at once. You'll be meeting my new deputy tomorrow."
"Who is he?"
"She. Hannah Montross. Five foot nine and eyes of… OK, brown. Very good at juggling labor; if you can tell her exactly how much work you need done and when you need it, there's a better than even chance she'll be able to find you enough extra people to get it done faster. Probably better than the odds you'd have asking me, since I get a lot of my better ideas from asking her."
Paul looked like he wanted to react to that four different ways at once, and couldn't settle on just one. Simon continued. "I think she'll do a good job, but I wouldn't have been able to get her out here for you guys except for one condition: The boys stay out of her face. She'll have a pair of guards while she's outside Point Breeze. Since she'll be doing most of the field work from here, I want you to tell Her Ladyship that Gail said to keep an eye on her. Got it?"
At that, the other man bridled, biting out a sharp "Yes, Simon, I get it."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to take it out on you. You would not believe the trouble I had to go through to get the best person for the job assigned here, though. Maybe that's why I'm so worked up about it." Well, not all of why, but… about two thirds, call it. "Peace?"
"All right, all right. But really, Simon… the big reason people don't mind dealing with you is that you don't drop the hammer on people very often. Try to keep it that way, OK? We don't get that from the Council often enough."
"I know; it bugs me. I shouldn't have slipped like that. Seriously, though, give everyone a heads-up that Hannah's going to be coming. I don't want any unpleasant surprises blowing up while I'm trying to handle the Machinists."
"That's fair. I'll make a point of it."
"Good. I've got to run, though; I'm keeping a lot of balls in the air today. Give my regards to Her Ladyship, all right?"
Paul nodded and grinned. "I will."
"Thanks. See you!"
June 5, 1249 BC: Day 217, early afternoon
It had taken half the day to get the work orders together, but Simon finally had everything he needed to forward to the Machinists together in one place. From the look of it, they'd need to go back to seven days a week to get everything essential done. Long days. They were far from alone in that, of course, but most of the other groups that would have to really push still had an intact leadership cadre. The Machinists didn't; this was going to be tricky.
From the look of the place when Simon got inside, they'd already started to pick up the pace to some extent. Probably trying to get back orders out of the way so they're free to work on whatever comes down the pipe. This time, Jason spotted him first and strode over to the door.
"Hey, Simon! Got something for us?"
"Tons. You've heard about the windmill?"
"Yeah. This is going to suck, isn't it?"
Simon unzipped the laptop carrying case he was using as a satchel and pulled out a several sheaves of papers. "Yeah. We've got a list of stuff here as long as your arm. Pile number one is stuff we need yesterday, pile number two is stuff we need day after tomorrow, pile number three is stuff we need by the end of the week… you get the idea. It's a mess; everyone's going to be working like crazy.
Jason leafed through the piles, weighing them against the usual run of the mill projects. "Fuck me. Please tell me you're… you're not kidding, are you?"
"Well, about us needing stuff day after tomorrow… sort of. Second pile isn't deadline stuff, it's really more like "ASAP," third pile is "ASAP after second pile is done," and so on. Wasn't kidding about the first pile; we really do need that stuff yesterday, because every day we don't have it is hurting us. Not so many things, actually, but they're all critical to the irrigation system if we're going to make do without the turbine. Ah… do you think you guys can shift to a heavier schedule? It would really help; this place is one of the tightest bottlenecks on the island."
The Machinist stared at Simon for a moment, silent.
"Look, I'm sorry; I wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Again, I am not joking about us needing some of that stuff yesterday. The rest is crash priority too; it's just not as life-threatening as the other because it's for the Eagle."
"Wait. Back up. The Eagle?"
"Council voted to send the ship off to Spain, maybe as far as Egypt if need be. They're hoping to trade glass beads or whatever for a shipload of grain. That would help cancel out the hit the harvest is going to take. But getting her ready to play Christopher Columbus and duke it out with Mycenean galleys on the wine-dark sea is going to take a lot of work; you haven't gotten to the stuff about the harpoon gun yet, have you?"
Jason muttered something under his breath, something suspiciously like "Now I know you're shitting me." Then he got to the fourth document in the third stack. "Wow. You guys are really serious about this, aren't you?"
"Oh yeah. If it's any consolation, I don't think anyone's going to be taking it easy for the next few weeks, and that's being optimistic."
The machinist was silent for a long time. His eyes glazed over, and occasionally his lips moved as if he was figuring.
"I think we can step it up."
Simon would have sighed in relief anyway, but he played it up for the benefit of the audience. "How much?"
"…Tomorrow's Sunday, but since it's an emergency we'll come in. Starting day after that, we'll start at seven instead of eight, and go to seven instead of six. That's an eleven-hour day, about like we were doing back in the winter when you needed all the gasifiers. We'll keep it up until people start collapsing or things get back to normal."
That's about as good as I have a right to expect… not pulling out all the stops, but maybe I can convince them to do that later "Wow. Thanks." Time for stratagems. "Say. I've been trying to get some extra people for you guys down here. Sound like a good idea?"
Jason seemed more ambiguous than would be normal. Still worrying about the political side? "That'd… probably help some. Who do you have in mind?"
"Some of the engineers have shop experience recent enough to be worth something. They're stretched pretty thin even with how many we have, but I'll go over the lists and see if we can spare anyone."
"Huh. That could be good, but… Simon, take a look around."
He did, but nothing sprang out at him. "What do you mean?"
"Look over there, at the lathes. Over there, the milling machines?" They were all in operation.
"Oh. I think I see the problem."
"Yeah. It's a bitch. A lot of us were surprised to find so much stuff on the island; there must have been a couple of real enthusiasts here. But if this is all we've got… we're going to be using it pretty much full time as it is. We could use… two or three more people on that, but past that, getting us more tool operators won't help much if you can't get us more tools."
"Sorry. Left the CNC machines in my other pants."
That got a laugh, then Simon continued. "OK. I understand. If you can't use much more skilled labor, can you use unskilled labor? Hand tools for finishing, paperwork, sweeping the shop, that kind of thing? If nothing else, to free up the skilled operators to get as much work as possible out of the heavy stuff?"
"Hmm. Maybe a few. Again, if we push it the crew's pretty close to the limit of what we can do on the heavies in any case. There won't be time to train anyone on anything they don't already know how to use."
"Gotcha. So only a few, then? I'll have one or two people ready to report for work tomorrow. OK, probably only one. He's… I'd trust him on a drill press or a bandsaw, but that's about it. Probably best if you leave him to scut work. Sound reasonable?"
"Just the one guy?"
"For tomorrow. I'm not sure anyone else is free, you see. It's a pretty short list I've got to draw from here if I want people who have even that much experience. I mean, if you'd like I could throw a couple dozen teenage lumberjacks at you…"
"Shit. OK, OK, one guy. But more tomorrow?"
"Right."
"All right. Just don't give us any rookies and expect us to do on the job training, or some poor fucker's going to wind up chopping off his arm by mistake."
"No problem. I'll check back with you tomorrow, OK?"
June 6, 1249 BC: Day 218, 7:45 a.m.
The next morning, after getting a bare minimum of essential business out of the way, Simon walked down to the shop again, this time with a good-sized cardboard box under one arm. Jason had already unlocked the door and gone into the office.
"Simon! So, where's that guy you promised to send down to us?"
"You're looking at him." With his free hand, he jerked a thumb up at his face.
It was almost worth the work he'd have to put in just to see the Machinist's jaw drop. After shutting his mouth, he peered into Simon's eyes, looking for even the slightest hint that he was joking… and not finding it. Then he took a deep breath.
"No shit?"
"No shit. It's that important."
"Fair enough." From his body language, Jason was probably thinking something like "Wow, a Councilman willing to get his hands dirty! What next, a bunch of pigs coming in at ten thousand feet and carpet-bombing the place?", but he didn't come out and say it. What he did say was more incisive, and it managed to catch Simon by surprise.
"I see one problem here. You going to try to give orders?" He drew himself up, obviously figuring he knew the answer.
"What? Oh, God, no, that would be idiotic!"
Jason raised an eyebrow. "Idiotic, huh?"
"Yes, idiotic! I don't have the talent, I don't know the people, you do on both fronts, and even if none of that were true it is not my shop. That would just be… wrong. What kind of power-mad loon do you take me for?"
Jason bristled a bit at the show of indignation, but the eyebrow went back down. "So… you going to take orders?"
"OK, now that's a smarter question. Yes. I mean, if I think I know something you don't about outside-shop business, I'll bring it to you, but I'm not in charge here, and I don't know how to do the really serious shit. So I'll damn well listen to the ones who are. There's only one problem."
"Go ahead."
"I have some other business I can't shuffle off on anyone else, at least not without signing off on it. I've cut that back as far as I can… is it all right if I take an extra hour after lunch to handle that stuff? I'll make it up in the evenings…"
"That's all?"
"Of course. Like I said, it's that important."
By now, more of the Machinists were filtering in. A knot of them had piled up at the doorJason apparently gauged the crowd and decided to grandstand a bit, because he gestured at Simon and called out "Boys, I give you… our latest rookie!" That got a few raucous cheers, some laughs; three or four Machinists just stood there and gaped. Someone in the back called out "Fresh meat!"
Simon took a bow, taking care not to drop the box in his off hand. "Thank you, thank you. By the way, I brought something we may be able to use over the next few weeks." He set the box down on a work bench. One of the Machinists craned over and read the label. "Says 'industrial lubricants'… you been holding out on us, Simon?" More laughs, a lot more. Fighting back the urge to wince and faking a lopsided grin, Simon replied "Could say that, could say that. Let me show you what's in here, though…" He flipped open a Swiss army knife, sliced open the tape holding the box shut, and pulled out a coffee can.
The cans were, of course, not at all unusual. Just like before the Arrival, people all over the island used them as containers. What was unusual was that when Simon pried up the plastic lid, the foil seal was still in place. Now the Machinists were murmuring. Simon set the three-pound can of ground coffee back down, replaced the lid, and pulled a second from the box. A pair of smaller cans followed.
"I won this stuff off Little John in an armwrestling match." That got another laugh, though not as good as the last one. The John in question was the front door guard on the essential stores warehouse, a job he'd earned by virtue of being one of the tallest guys on the island, and almost as wide as he was tall. He'd just about have made two of Simon, now that the young Councilman had finally lost the last of his pre-Arrival blubber. "Seriously, though, it wasn't easy to shake loose. You're looking at a small but significant fraction of all the coffee in the world, people." Specifically, all of it that Gordon managed to squirrel away down at the office on the quiet… quartermastering really shouldn't have its privileges, but if it didn't, I wouldn't have this to give them now, would I?
"Given the hours we're going to be keeping, I figure this place is going to need it."
Simon clapped his hands and turned to Jason. "So, boss, what next?"
Day 218, 1:30 p.m.
Simon looked up from the tail end of the stack of papers he was signing his way through as the other two came into the front lobby of the Planning Office. "Hear ye, hear ye, I call this meeting of deputy assistant chainsaw jugglers to order!" Gordon grinned; Hannah giggled. "How's tricks? Gordon, you first."
"It's bad, Simon, but no worse than we thought. Kevin thinks he can do enough damage control to keep us alive through the winter, assuming someone else comes through with some extra food and the Machinists get all his orders done by next Friday or so."
"The machine shop I think I can guarantee. As for the other, well, the Eagle should make it back by some time in October if we can get her out as planned, November at the latest. It may be a problem if they have to wait for the harvest in Europe, and they probably will, but we should be able to get by. We'll have to try to make up for lost time with the fishing operations; when Kevin stops needing your help every day, look into trying to find some more nets. We need them for fish… Maybe we could figure out a way to catch birds en masse, too. Those ducks have been driving me crazy for months; revenge is a dish best served with orange sauce…"
When spring rolled around, it had turned out that there were a lot more birds in pre-Columbian America than anyone remembered from back home. And it seemed like every single one on the Atlantic seaboard made its way for Nantucket to keep away from the bigger predators (and native hunters) on the mainland. Keeping them out of the fields had been a pain; they'd had to pass out pellet guns and even custom-make some heavy duty slingshots for the farmers. They were already a fair chunk of the island's protein supply; stepping that up could only be to the good.
"Anyway, things are under control on the irrigation front?"
"Well, I wouldn't say that, but they're no farther out of control than we already knew they were."
"Close enough for government work. How about you, Hannah?" Simon studied her reaction closely. She took a deep breath, glanced down at the sheet of paper in front of her, and started running down an itemized list in a light soprano singsong.
"Mr. Zuk thinks they're going to need fifteen to twenty more hands next week to strip cordage and spares off the other ships in the marina. The larger ones, where some of the parts would be useful. I think we can get the people out of the wrecking crews; they seem to be getting ahead of schedule, and the jobs have some experience in common, don't they? Canned goods inventory is all right, and the ship has its own distillation gear, so that will be fine…"
Simon cut in. "Hannah, relax. To quote the great man, "When I delegate authority, I do so without reservations." Assume for the sake of argument that I trust your judgement, not just your eyes and ears. It sounds like you have everything under control, or is there anything wrong that we all need to worry about?"
For a moment he thought she was going to blush; after a few seconds he was sure of it. He spotted Gordon's wink out of the corner of his eye. That wasn't a ploy, dammit! But Hannah had had time to think it over.
"No, not really. I just wanted to do a sanity check."
"Consider it preemptively passed. We've all got our own problems to tackle for the next few weeks, so none of us can afford to try to micromanage anyone else's, OK?"
She smiled. "OK. Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"No problem, Hannah, no problem. Has anyone been making trouble for you at the docks?"
"Not yet. I don't really expect any. They'd have to get past the Watchmen… and whenever I'm near more than one or two of them, they seem to be very busy."
"Good." He glanced at the wall clock. "Lady and gentleman, I'm afraid I have to declare this meeting adjourned; I've got to dash back up to the machine shop. If anything goes badly wrong, send a runner."
The three headed for the door. Gordon hopped on his bicycle and headed back out of town to the farms; Hannah linked up with her pair of bodyguards and went round the corner. Simon, as per his word, trotted up the street to the machine shop.
As Simon reached the main door to the shop, Jason called out to someone deeper in the building. "Dammit, Tommy, if you don't learn to put your fuckin' tools away after you're done with them, I will personally grease up your hairy little cornhole and invite in a squad of lumberjacks to run a train on you!" From the tone it was obviously between friends, but it still stopped Simon in midstride. …Wow. He's almost as bad as the guy in charge of the wrecking crews. If that's how he talks to his friends, how does he talk to his… wait. I already know how he talks to his enemies. That's how he talked to me until a week ago… when he wouldn't cuss to save his life. Weird.
Jason was still paying attention to something else when Simon walked up behind him. Pitching his voice over the sound of the machines, Simon called out: "Hiya, boss! Sorry I'm late!" Jason spun round.
"Don't… do that!"
"Crap. Right. Sorry."
"Look, just… come around where I can see you next time; you can't hear people walking up behind you in here!"
"Gotcha. Shall I get back to the paperwork?"
"Nah. What we really need is someone to file the sharp corners off this latest batch of stuff. Don't want some clumsy sucker getting himself infected, now do we?"
"Right. Where do you keep the metal files?"
"Third drawer over there. We'll pass the new stuff on to you as it comes out."
Simon tossed off a "Sure!" and headed over to the bench Jason had indicated. File work. How bad could this be?
…Four hours later, he knew. His elbows ached from filing burrs off the edge of one chunk of sheet metal after another; it wasn't so much any one piece as that people had been throwing stuff at him faster than he could handle. He was halfway through the backlog he'd built up in the first two hours when the machines started spinning down. Jason came over to him.
"Quitting time, Simon." He waved at a clock; it was 6:15.
"Just let me finish this stuff up, OK?"
Jason paused. "…If you say so. I'm locking the doors, though, so when you leave you won't be able to get back in."
"Fair enough; reminds me of the place I used to work… say, Jason?"
"Yeah?"
"How'd I do?"
"Honestly?"
Simon sighed. "Honestly."
"Above 'shitty' but below 'piss poor'. About what I'd expect for the first day. If you put in the time to finish what you start, though, so nobody else has to take up the slack… not too bad. With a good tailwind you might even make it up to 'mediocre' in a few days."
"Heh. Thanks."
"Don't mention it. You'd better have those trained guys for us tomorrow, though."
"Oh, yeah. They're coming." Good thing I left a note for the staff to call them up…
"Good."
"Oh. Two things before you leave. Remember to turn off the lights and shut off the generator; instructions are tacked up on the wall by it out back. And could you check the back? There's a pallet of folding cots back there; make sure they're not buried under too much other crap. We may be needing them."
"Sure thing. Is that all, then?"
"Yeah. Good night, rookie."
"Good night, boss." You know, I do believe it's working…
"Still, I would love to see human beings, and their constituent organ systems, trivialized and commercialized to the same extent as damn iPods and other crappy consumer products. It would be absolutely horrific, yet so wonderful." —Shroom Man 777 "To Err is Human; to Arrr is Pirate." — Skallagrim
“I would suggest "Schmuckulating", which is what Futurists do and, by extension, what they are." — Commenter "Rayneau"
Another 'hidden-microphone' segment. Also, whoever guesses the significance of the title of this segment will win a Camero . . . I mean cameo.
~~~
Editor's Note: This takes place on day 361, post-arrival . . .
Nxf8 Qe3??
Slam!
"Just what in God's name do you think you're doing, James," the Chairman sounded distinctly aggrieved. "You're making us out to be a bunch of bigoted, ignorant savages! Of all the people in that room, Packer's Stone Age wife was the most civilized." A deep breath. "Because we're friends, and because I'd like to believe you know what you're doing, I'm going to give you the chance to explain yourself." He thrust an accusatory finger out. "You're on shaky ground, though, I hope you know that!"
"First," James said, pushing the Chairman's arm aside, "calm down. This is what Packer wants. Friend against fr . . . "
"Calm? You want me to be calm? After you forced Packer to threaten to turn all of Massachusetts against us! You're off your bloody rocker!"
"And you're losing sight of one very important fact," it was James' turn to thrust his finger into the Chairman's chest. "Packer's words are just that! Words! This, is a good thing. Packer's shown his true colors, and he's barely been back less than forty-eight hours . . . "
"True colors? He came to us with an open offer of peace. A chance to address some of our grave demographic concerns! And now he's threatenin' to have every man, woman, and child in the area runnin' for the exits! I think you're letting your hatred for the man get to you. Tell me . . . no, show me you're not doing this because the man's already promised to cock-block you!"
"I care nothing for that," James snapped. "I'm after far greater things than fucking an Indian in a teepee! Think, man! He's dangling the one thing guaranteed to get the attention of . . . what, ninety-seven percent of the people on this island. But he can't deliver! He can't deliver on his promise, and he can't deliver on his threat!"
"How can you be so sure of that!"
"Thirty-eight women. That improves the ratio to . . . what 12 to 1? So we go from 'grave' demographic crisis to . . . what . . . slightly less-grave?"
The Chairman's face worked. "Every little bit helps, you know! The Eagle expedition . . . assuming it isn't sitting at the bottom of the Atlantic would be bringin' back fewer women than that! And what," he said, thrusting his finger into James' chest again, "if Packer tells his tribe to take its ball and go home? What. Then?"
James leaned back and shrugged. "They'll go west, of course . . . but . . . So. What? Packer's right on one point, he will get many people killed with that course of action."
"We will be the ones signing their death warrants! He's made that perfectly clear!"
"Of his tribe. He may have them hoodwinked, but for every person he convinces to leave, several more will be waiting to claim their old grounds. Nobody will believe them. Three thousand people in one place? Inconceivable! 'We can barely get enough food to feed thirty. Didn't your medicine-man teach you to not eat the funny mushrooms?' That's what they'll say."
"He'll have a witness with him, though," The Chairman looked thoughtful. "Several witnesses, if we go through with ejecting the Machinists!"
"I have no doubt that Packer's learned just enough tribal knowledge to get himself through the winter. The others . . . well, nobody on the mainland is going to take in people whose chief survival skills are trash-talk and pipe-bending."
"They took in Packer!"
"One man. In the spring. And, thanks to us, exceptionally wealthy by native standards."
"And what of Nara? Would you really send a pregnant woman away to die? Or a new mother and a wee baby?"
James' face worked through several emotions. At length, he sagged, exhaling sharply. "It wouldn't be my first choice, no."
"I don't think I like what you're saying, James," the Chairman replied. Both men were quiet for several long moments.
James looked the Chairman in the eye. "Tell me. Do you agree with me . . . that Packer . . . must be dealt with?"
The Chairman nodded once. "I'll say yes. Directly or not, that man has caused far too much trouble," his said slowly, his tone uncertain.
"An astute observation, that. Chaos and strife. Seems that's what Packer's best at providing . . ."
"Tell me," the Chairman's eyes flashed and his face contorted. "What if we'd given the Chartists what they wanted? Who's to say that Packer would still be trouble today?"
"And who's to say he wouldn't stop until he and his were the ones at the top? After all, they've already held us hostage! And who's to say that, once in power, they'll want to follow the plan? And who's to say they won't see us as a threat?" James stepped back, spreading his arms wide. "Those Councilmen . . . always holding us back. Always saying 'no.' Things would be much better for us if," he said, his voice softening, "they were no longer around."
"That sounds an awful lot like us," the Chairman replied, forcing the last word through his teeth.
"Perhaps," James said. "But, what we do, we do in defense of Nantucket's future. Packer is singularly incapable of anything so noble."
"And how can you be so sure of that? Packer seemed noble enough. Willing to giving up his stake in the island out of deference of his wife and his unborn child . . . knowing he'd lose out on Nantucket's combined knowledge."
James snorted. "One," he said, holding up a finger, "reason. Packer, you see, is here on false pretenses."
"You said that before. And I don't think you convinced many people when you did."
"But they don't know the truth," James replied, his voice soft. "Nara," he said, spitting out the name, "may be pregnant, but her child is definitely not Packer's."
"Are you daft? If it isn't Packer's, then who's is it?"
"Not Packer's. I'm sure that you, and possibly everyone else on this island, knows of Kaley?"
The Chairman blinked. "Kaley . . . what about her?"
"She had quite the fancy for Packer. Went so far as to convince the Den Mothers to arrange for her and Packer to pair up at the 'Sausage Fest.' But something happened. Packer ran off . . . and was intercepted by our mutual friend Gail," he stared off into the distance. "Oh yes, and when Gail told Kaley what she'd learned, Kaley was . . . devastated."
"And you were waiting in the wings to sweep her off her feet," the Chairman made a chopping gesture with his hand.
"Not quite. I just wanted to talk to her. Find out what she knew about Packer. It took a while, but, I learned. There are a few things that the Den Mothers use to blacklist men from Point Breeze. Packer's officially blacklisted; and the reason is that he's . . . impotent."
The Chairman's mouth and face worked. "I'd heard that Packer was persona non grata at Point Breeze but . . . impossible," he spat.
James shook his head. "No, this is very real. Several of the Watchmen on duty at the 'Sausage Fest' made a note of the . . . altercation in their logs. And the women themselves talk . . . some of those comments have likewise made it into Watchmen's logs. Regrettably, Watch paperwork is something Simon doesn't do, but several of the people now working for us did have access to the Watch's filing cabinets . . . I have the paperwork at my office."
"You're a disturbed man, James," the Chairman shook his head.
"Very," James replied with a snort. "It disturbs me that men like Packer continue to have free reign," he leaned closer. "I gave up my right to every modern woman on Nantucket to learn what I have learned," he said, emphasizing every word with a stab of his finger. "But . . . bigger things. Give me a choice between a good fuck while everything is crashing down around my ears . . . or sleeping alone, but soundly; secure in the knowledge that Nantucket is safe from its boogeymen," he said, trailing off. "Well, I've made my choice."
"Not quite what I meant," the Chairman replied, scowling. "Tell me this . . . if Nara's child isn't Packer's . . . then whose is it?"
"Now that's the interesting question, isn't it? Those Watchmen who, somehow, thought it would be a good idea to try to bring Packer in . . . said he'd boasted of killing a man. His wife's . . . former . . . brother-in-law."
The Chairman's eyes slowly widened. "And to have a brother-in-law . . . one must first have a husband."
"Yes."
"No . . . but," the Chairman frowned thoughtfully. "Yes . . . maybe he is capable of that. Man looked like a caged tiger in there, and there's that hole in the wall . . . but why does Nara defend him like she does?"
"Perhaps because she feels she must . . . Stockholm's syndrome," James mused.
The Chairman grunted, his expression still thoughtful. Gone was the anger, the hostility.
"Now you see why I had to do what I did," James said. "If my reaction to Packer was extreme, it's only because I knew how dangerous he is. You put it very aptly . . . a caged tiger. Only . . . now the tiger isn't caged."
"You don't need to remind me of that," the Chairman said, anger flashing across his face. It was gone as soon as it came. "By God, man, why didn't you tell the rest of the Council?"
"With Packer right there? There's a difference between baiting a dangerous animal, and leaping right into his jaws. And, though you may not believe me, I do know the difference."
The Chairman spread his hands out. "No need to tell me. Go to your office and get those papers. I believe I can soothe the ruffled feathers of our fence-sitters, but I'd like something more to hit them over the head with. But . . . what are we going to do about Packer?"
James crossed his arms over his chest. It was his turn to look thoughtful.
"There is one option," he finally said. "But we would have to move fast."
"What do you mean?" The Chairman frowned. Suddenly, his head snapped up, as though he'd been struck by lightning. "You don't mean the Volunteers, do you?"
"I do mean the Volunteers," James replied. "The Watch hasn't been trustworthy in months, and they would hesitate in doing what needs to be done, regardless."
The Chairman scowled. "They're very rough men. They could hurt Nara."
James shook his head. "I'm firmly convinced they can have it impressed upon them that Nara isn't to be harmed. Just because they work for the Council does not exclude them from the hangman's noose. They got Miles Jameson without hurting anyone else, after all."
"I note you didn't say the same for Miles Jameson. I don't like what I saw in those witness reports."
"Jameson isn't a confessed murderer, didn't have a spear, and he never punched a hole in a wall either."
"Point," the Chairman replied. He paused for a long while before, finally, closing his eyes. "Very well. Do what you need to do," he said, shaking his head. "And, by God, try to be careful."
ray245 wrote:Who is the chairman? What makes him so trust the words of James so much?
The second question is probably more important than the first, but a lot easier to answer:
-James has made a special effort to cultivate him as a friend. Up to a point, that makes the Chairman ("Bill Weems") a lot more likely to take his word for things that don't obviously contradict the facts. And remember that the facts available to the Chairman are not the same as the facts available to you. He can't see inside Packer's head.
-People on the Council who favored exiling Packer in the first place (the Chairman may very well be one) will likely have spent the past several months taking the problems that come as evidence that Packer was, in their frame of reference, a bad guy. We have the Machinists' theft of the blueprints, we have the political rallies that, in hindsight, resulted from the news that Packer was alive on the mainland. Packer is an extremely divisive guy. That makes it easier to convince someone who doesn't already like him to dislike him.
-This is important: James is competent. On most issues, he says things that make sense and that he can back up. This gives him a reputation he can rely on when he's trying to baffle people with bullshit. Remember what I wrote about James weighing during the Council meeting on the irrigation crisis and the voyage of the Eagle? It was in the first of my two recent posts.
We normally only see James when he interacts with Packer.* Thing is, James really hates Packer (with, in his frame of reference, reason). He treats him as an enemy, and will always try to convince others to see him in the worst possible light. That gives us a badly twisted picture of what James is actually like on a day to day basis.
ray245 wrote:Who is the chairman? What makes him so trust the words of James so much?
On top of what Simon has said . . . the thing is, everything James says is the truth . . . from a certain point of view. Way back, Packer and Gail did come up with the story that Packer had gotten a vasectomy. Just because we, as readers, know better . . . doesn't mean that all inside the story share our knowledge. As Simon said, the Chairman, James, and the Council can't see inside Packer's head.
And from the Chairman's point-of-view, James started off as someone who was very useful in uniting the Council. He thinks on his feet in a crisis, plays the political game quite well, and can whip an otherwise fractious governing body into bouts of unity and action. And the fact that he's noisy tends to draw criticism towards his person and away from the Council as a whole. And all that noise tends to polarize the Council into three or four factions, instead of the thirty the Chairman and the Council-within-the-Council might otherwise have to deal with.
Nxf8 Qe3, is a chess move that was a fatal mistake for Vladimir Kramnik vs the computer Deep Fritz, allowing the computer to checkmate him. So was Packer's story about the vasectomy his fatal move?
The Vortex Empire wrote:Nxf8 Qe3, is a chess move that was a fatal mistake for Vladimir Kramnik vs the computer Deep Fritz, allowing the computer to checkmate him. So was Packer's story about the vasectomy his fatal move?
No, I think it's the opposite: James' credibility will go down the shitter the moment it's revealed Packer didn't have the vasectomy: and it will be proven easily enough. Kaley, for one, knows he didn't get it ; Gail does, too, and a simple ultrasound will confirm Packer's story anyway, if he choses to undergo it.
JULY 20TH 1969 - The day the entire world was looking up
It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small. - NEIL ARMSTRONG, MISSION COMMANDER, APOLLO 11
Signature dedicated to the greatest achievement of mankind.
MILDLY DERANGED PHYSICIST does not mind BREAKING the SOUND BARRIER, because it is INSURED. - Simon_Jester considering the problems of hypersonic flight for Team L.A.M.E.
The Vortex Empire wrote:Nxf8 Qe3, is a chess move that was a fatal mistake for Vladimir Kramnik vs the computer Deep Fritz, allowing the computer to checkmate him. So was Packer's story about the vasectomy his fatal move?
But that happened months ago; it wouldn't make sense to title a scene "the fatal move" when the fatal move happened long ago and this is just the (checkmate) consequences coming home to roost.
The Vortex Empire wrote:Nxf8 Qe3, is a chess move that was a fatal mistake for Vladimir Kramnik vs the computer Deep Fritz, allowing the computer to checkmate him. So was Packer's story about the vasectomy his fatal move?
But that happened months ago; it wouldn't make sense to title a scene "the fatal move" when the fatal move happened long ago and this is just the (checkmate) consequences coming home to roost.
I guess you could call it unintentional, but its there.
"Still, I would love to see human beings, and their constituent organ systems, trivialized and commercialized to the same extent as damn iPods and other crappy consumer products. It would be absolutely horrific, yet so wonderful." —Shroom Man 777 "To Err is Human; to Arrr is Pirate." — Skallagrim
“I would suggest "Schmuckulating", which is what Futurists do and, by extension, what they are." — Commenter "Rayneau"
Simon_Jester wrote:-This is important: James is competent. On most issues, he says things that make sense and that he can back up. This gives him a reputation he can rely on when he's trying to baffle people with bullshit. Remember what I wrote about James weighing during the Council meeting on the irrigation crisis and the voyage of the Eagle? It was in the first of my two recent posts.
You know what's worse than an informed attribute? An informed attribute that we are informed about by the authors outside of the story. You know what's only a little better than that? Desperate last-minute ass-covering by authors who didn't realize until way too late that they set up a character with an informed attribute. It's almost easier to infer these non-retard characteristics than it is to believe it when they are tossed at the screen like that.
Simon_Jester wrote:But that happened months ago; it wouldn't make sense to title a scene "the fatal move" when the fatal move happened long ago and this is just the (checkmate) consequences coming home to roost.
(cites Chekhov's Gun)
I guess you could call it unintentional, but its there.
True.
Though there's still PeZook's point that this could reasonably refer to either way. Either the decisive slip was one Packer made months ago, or James is making a big mistake now. Both those possibilities are consistent with the title, which I suspect is why Terwynn chose it.
EDIT: Consider this:
Alferd Packer wrote:"God, Simon, you're ridiculous, you know that?" Packer watched this with interest. It appeared that the Shark despised someone besides him, and from the look on Simon's face, the feeling was mutual. And when the Shark got going on something, he really was single-minded about it. How did that old vaudeville sketch go? Slowly I turned...step by step...inch by inch...
You know, it would be funny, if he wasn't trying to get us kicked off the island, Packer thought glumly.
This is a reference to... in its most famous form I know of it was a Three Stooges sketch. The key character is a deranged hobo who has a psychotic reaction to the words "Niagara Falls." Every time he hears "Niagara Falls," the hobo says "Slowly I turned... step by step... inch by inch..." Then he goes berserk and attacks the speaker. It's pretty much an automatic response, and it probably has a lot to do with why the hobo ends up locked in the drunk tank of a local jail.
Now, I interpret this as a reference to the way James reacts to... pretty much anything Packer does or says. He's got so much invested in the idea that Packer is The Enemy that he doesn't even stop to consider whether it's a good idea to treat him like The Enemy under the circumstances.
So it may be worth considering that when we're talking about just who's making a fatal slip...
Morilore wrote:You know what's worse than an informed attribute? An informed attribute that we are informed about by the authors outside of the story. You know what's only a little better than that? Desperate last-minute ass-covering by authors who didn't realize until way too late that they set up a character with an informed attribute. It's almost easier to infer these non-retard characteristics than it is to believe it when they are tossed at the screen like that.
Hmm. Well, you'll probably despise my next section then. Can't please everyone, I guess, especially not when you join the project late in the game.
Simon_Jester wrote:Thing is, most of the people who are in a position to actually join the Council (and that includes people who have the raw ability but aren't members) weren't faced with the prospect of having to chop wood. They have actual skills, and most of them are mature adults who are likely to wind up in leadership positions practically by default. It's much better to be a Councilman working indoors than to be one of the guys chopping wood all day, but that's not a realistic choice to make. Most of the people who aren't on the council but theoretically could be are in positions similar to, say, Packer's (during his time in the machine shop). Or to Brendan's (Academia Nut's character). They're choosing whether to be the leadership cadre that handles specific day to day tasks, or the cadre that has to handle long term decisions and hammer them out in a giant committee all day long.
Then again, as we see all those positions are taken without need of the councilman to run them. There can only be ONE chief machinist for example. As it is, this job is taken. Granted, the person who ended up in the Council might be one who would take the seat if he was not in the Council, but there is hardly guarantee.
And then there are lots of people who have organizational skills but not necessarily great deal of professional skills of use. They need someone to spot that they are great organizers, but that again is game of chance.
You need to be a certain kind of person to sit on a thirty-person committee all day without going completely out of your mind. One of the reasons the Shark has been so successful is that many of the people already on the Council actually aren't that kind of person; they don't have the instincts for it.
For example, Simon can sort of handle the strain of the Endless Meeting, but his main coping mechanism is the appeal to reason, which limits his effectiveness because he suffers a certain amount of tone-deafness in actual debate. He often says things because they sound good to him, without adequate thought about whether they sound good to other people.
Which is why I said that Shark represents the future of the Council.
Idiots and Hardasses in turn are going to lose their seats if things go well. They lose their seats and become most likely more like advisory board without executive powers.
Most of political acumen appears to be centered in the opposite ends of the Council. Without third party to fight for the power it is going to become much like US political system with two sides fighting it out.
Do you mean that he's being underestimated as a person, as a formidable and powerful part of the island's politics, by others in the story? To some extent, he is. On the other hand, his power comes in large part from manipulating others, and when that's what you do for a living you're in constant danger that other people will detect and resent your manipulations.
In my opinion, that is James' great weakness: he's going too far out on a narrow limb in pursuit of his own goals. If he stops acting in ways that make the rest of the Council want to back him, it will be relatively easy (psychologically) for them to disown him and undo everything he's trying to accomplish.
It really depends. This far his manipulations have been careful presentation of facts, or at least facts as far as anyone knows (ie, vasectomy being lie is impossible to know) from certain point of view.
He can always argue that he presented facts to his best knowledge and acknowledge that he was mistaken in his interpretation. Who in the Council could jump up and declare that making mistake like that is horribly wrong?
So there's a danger that he'll be cut off and politically surrounded if he becomes too aggressive. He may be accepting this risk and taking it on a calculated basis, or he may honestly not perceive the risk because he's unable to imagine himself being mistaken. It's hard to say, given what we've seen of the character so far. With luck, I'll be able to explore him a little more, but that scene hasn't come together for me yet.
Perhaps. But I myself think that he would have to be caught up red handed trying to consciously blatantly lie to the Council or doing something totally unacceptable, like arranging little assassination attempt and blowing it in some scandalous way.
Again, his great weakness is that he lets his emotions (he really truly does not like Packer) get in the way of his judgement. At this point, the best way for him to strengthen his personal power base would have been to openly switch sides, "publically acknowledge" that he'd been wrong before, and at least create the appearance that he's willing and able to work with Packer if that's in the best interests of the community.
Now, while he does all this, he might be undermining Packer on the side, or at least creating an insurance policy if Packer turns on them. But even so, he'd look like someone who was making a good faith effort at reconciliation. That improves his own credibility in the event of a future split with Packer, if the man does turn out to be as ambitious and dangerous as James appears to believe. James will be able to play the victim of a betrayal, instead of being the aggressor.
James could have done that. Instead, though, he's chosen to antagonize Packer in ways so crude and obvious that everyone on the Council is aware of it. Even if he succeeds in convincing them that Packer is not to be trusted, he's raised major questions about his own reliability and objectivity in the process.
True. But then again, he is building his case from what he perceives to be facts as we see on later parts of the story.
Packer claiming being father despite James knowing that he cannot conceive.
He is building up his case on one solid fact and alarming interpretations of situation, but he does so with reasonably solid logic.
He sees no reason to play it nice with Packer, since he does not know that fact he uses as foundation for his argument is actually false.
As for losing some of his political capital... Guess it is more important for him to win Packer than preserve his political power. He is political radical with only one very limited agenda. Makes him very dangerous too, since it is not long term agenda.
Tiwaz wrote:Then again, as we see all those positions are taken without need of the councilman to run them. There can only be ONE chief machinist for example. As it is, this job is taken. Granted, the person who ended up in the Council might be one who would take the seat if he was not in the Council, but there is hardly guarantee.
True, but there's a lot of demand for people with engineering talent and for management of small groups (ten to thirty people). Some of the Council members are political specialists, but others are people who honestly could concentrate on doing something
And then there are lots of people who have organizational skills but not necessarily great deal of professional skills of use. They need someone to spot that they are great organizers, but that again is game of chance.
That's Simon, and probably a few others like him. He got lucky in that respect, but a fair amount of the process of earning promotions in a crisis involves luck anyway- you need to be lucky enough to avoid getting crushed by the disaster, and to wind up in a position to distinguish yourself by learning fast and adapting well to circumstances.
Which is why I said that Shark represents the future of the Council.
Idiots and Hardasses in turn are going to lose their seats if things go well. They lose their seats and become most likely more like advisory board without executive powers.
Most of political acumen appears to be centered in the opposite ends of the Council. Without third party to fight for the power it is going to become much like US political system with two sides fighting it out.
Debatable. Remember that no matter how well things go, the Council remains in control of what is in effect a command economy. They need members who are on top of various sectors of that economy.
The whole point of the Council is to make sure that the people who have direct management responsibilities are in touch with the executive power; the Nantucket community is small enough that this is both possible and necessary. As it stands, there are basically three layers of power: the average citizen, the junior managers (like Brendan), and the Council. A few people of status comparable to Councilmen (like Packer) are not on the Council, but that's a side issue.
Under your proposal we would be adding a fourth layer of authority: Council -> senior managers -> junior managers -> everyone else. That's not efficient in a community of roughly four thousand people, which is the most we're going to have any time soon.
Also, Simon came up with that four-party description of the Council for a reason; he was trying to convince the Machinists to agree to a cease-fire, which meant convincing them that they had plenty of friends on the Council, despite appearances. So that little lecture isn't the be-all and end-all of the story on that front. It's mostly limited to civil rights issues, where there's a sharp divide between the technocratic and democratic wings of the Council, and another sharp divide between the ruthless and not-ruthless wings.
It really depends. This far his manipulations have been careful presentation of facts, or at least facts as far as anyone knows (ie, vasectomy being lie is impossible to know) from certain point of view.
He can always argue that he presented facts to his best knowledge and acknowledge that he was mistaken in his interpretation. Who in the Council could jump up and declare that making mistake like that is horribly wrong?
The real question is whether anyone can prove that his manipulations are part of an agenda, or at least make a charge that he has an agenda stick. As someone else pointed out, one obvious counter to James' tactics is to use his own weapon against him: accuse him of political ambitions and cast his own actions as part of a scheme to increase his own personal power.
Perhaps. But I myself think that he would have to be caught up red handed trying to consciously blatantly lie to the Council or doing something totally unacceptable, like arranging little assassination attempt and blowing it in some scandalous way.
That's quite plausible. But look what he's doing now: he's planning to dispatch "rough men," the Volunteers, to go arrest Packer. On his own authority, with the tacit acceptance of the Chairman but without a full Council vote. Think about how much potential that has to backfire, and how many ways there are for it to go wrong and blow up in his face.
True. But then again, he is building his case from what he perceives to be facts as we see on later parts of the story.
Packer claiming being father despite James knowing that he cannot conceive. He is building up his case on one solid fact and alarming interpretations of situation, but he does so with reasonably solid logic.
"Packer claims to be a father, though I know he cannot have children, therefore he's lying about everything, therefore I should have him arrested." If that's James's idea of reasonably solid logic he must have been a lurker on the forum; he'd get his butt kicked up between his ears within the first few weeks.
I will be blunt: when it comes to Packer, James is extremely paranoid, in the literal sense- unreasoning fear that dominates his thought process. That may be because of his characterization being a bit on the flat side, but it's still a major weakness of the character. He's not thinking clearly, even if he believes he is and is able to convince his friends that he is.
Simon_Jester wrote:Debatable. Remember that no matter how well things go, the Council remains in control of what is in effect a command economy. They need members who are on top of various sectors of that economy.
The whole point of the Council is to make sure that the people who have direct management responsibilities are in touch with the executive power; the Nantucket community is small enough that this is both possible and necessary. As it stands, there are basically three layers of power: the average citizen, the junior managers (like Brendan), and the Council. A few people of status comparable to Councilmen (like Packer) are not on the Council, but that's a side issue.
Under your proposal we would be adding a fourth layer of authority: Council -> senior managers -> junior managers -> everyone else. That's not efficient in a community of roughly four thousand people, which is the most we're going to have any time soon.
I would rather say that it would simply change the structure. Instead of top guy sitting in the Council, they are the managers. Council->managers->rest.
As in, those who are on top of their field and could be doing something more useful than sitting in political debates do that.
Those who are ambitious lot, turn more into politicians and become less specialists. Because sooner or later trying to be guy who knows everything about something while spending all their time sitting in board meetings ends up as guy who is no longer at top of his game.
It is hard being specialist while sitting in board meetings.
The real question is whether anyone can prove that his manipulations are part of an agenda, or at least make a charge that he has an agenda stick. As someone else pointed out, one obvious counter to James' tactics is to use his own weapon against him: accuse him of political ambitions and cast his own actions as part of a scheme to increase his own personal power.
Alas, it can also go merry go round. When questioned, James can ask if all actions of accuser are for good of Nantucket or for good of community.
He could throw it at Simon too. "So why are you so good buddies with the Machinists? Are you sure YOU are not trying to build yourself little cult so YOU can become dictator?"
It has very real chance to backfire into pointless circle accusation which would not really serve any interests in the Council.
That's quite plausible. But look what he's doing now: he's planning to dispatch "rough men," the Volunteers, to go arrest Packer. On his own authority, with the tacit acceptance of the Chairman but without a full Council vote. Think about how much potential that has to backfire, and how many ways there are for it to go wrong and blow up in his face.
Like I said, if he does something monumentally stupid which backfires. This little plot is one prime case of such thing happening. Getting Packer alive would be rather foolish unless you have prepared a way to get rid of him without Packer spilling the beans.
But... As it is, there is still backdoor to get away. It can only be bad for James if people can reliably enough attach the blame on him. Everyone knows he hates Packers guts, but can they prove it? Of course, most people do not need proof, machinists for one, but from what we see of James he does not give a crap about them.
The Council on other hand, they most definitely suspect him and it will hurt his position slightly, but without proof there is only so much they can do.
"Packer claims to be a father, though I know he cannot have children, therefore he's lying about everything, therefore I should have him arrested." If that's James's idea of reasonably solid logic he must have been a lurker on the forum; he'd get his butt kicked up between his ears within the first few weeks.
It establishes Packer as liar. Rest of his case does not rest on the argument, his line of thought has been presented in the story and he is logical enough.
But with Packer claiming fatherhood, he tries to establish Packer as unreliable person who cannot be trusted.
A character testimony I believe you across the pond call it.
Because that is what this mess mostly is. One mans word against another ones. Thus, who is more reliable has the upper hand.
Which is why being caught lying would be one of the worst things that could happen to James.
Anyways. That's it for me. Keep up the good work. I am enjoying this tale more and more as it progresses.
Does the council really want to cross the women, though? It will happen if James continues to push. Also, the very idea that the Watch would allow another group to grow up to challenge it's power is ludicrous. Even if it is supposedly done behind closed doors and with the connivance of some members of the Watch, the chances of them being successful is awfully slim.
Why do we always insist on giving the "bad guys" carte blanche as far as their ideas go? James is completely unlikeable here, and in no instance does he come across as anything remotely approaching likeable. Now he is having 'rough men' go after Packer, and he seems to be getting away with it (again).
Packer may seem to be seen as a gentleman for doing what he did in giving Kayley an out with the vasectomy thing. It might even prove more to James detriment in this case, given the chance to make a case.
Shermpotter wrote:Does the council really want to cross the women, though? It will happen if James continues to push. Also, the very idea that the Watch would allow another group to grow up to challenge it's power is ludicrous. Even if it is supposedly done behind closed doors and with the connivance of some members of the Watch, the chances of them being successful is awfully slim.
OK: this needs to be said openly. The authors have been talking it over in the Writers' Guild thread, but you guys can't see that, and since this is fairly plot-important, it should be said.
What happened is that in the aftermath of news of Packer's being alive on the mainland reaching Nantucket, there was another wave of social unrest. The Watch cracked down violently, and there was some pretty serious bloodshed. Which did not serve to improve the Watch's popularity. In the aftermath, the Council "disowned" the Watch to some extent. The Old Man lost his Council seat, and this seat was filled by a (carefully managed) election. This is how the Old Man wound up on Martha's Vinyard in Terwynn's last section, in case you were wondering. Any other Council seats (unknown and unspecified number) held by Watch members were likewise emptied and refilled.
The remaining Watch forces not sent into internal exile on Martha's Vinyard now occupy a much lower position in the island's political system. The Council created a new force, the "Volunteers," to handle their own security needs and to act as more politically reliable enforcers. Moreover, they expanded their influence over the Watch itself in the power vacuum left behind by the Old Man's departure.
Why do we always insist on giving the "bad guys" carte blanche as far as their ideas go? James is completely unlikeable here, and in no instance does he come across as anything remotely approaching likeable. Now he is having 'rough men' go after Packer, and he seems to be getting away with it (again).
I know, I know. It's frustrating and I'm working on it, OK?
Tiwaz wrote:I would rather say that it would simply change the structure. Instead of top guy sitting in the Council, they are the managers. Council->managers->rest.
The only problem is that making the Council very small has disadvantages: it reduces public exposure to the Council simply because of sheer numbers, and increases the perception that the Council is becoming a dictatorial oligarchy. So booting people off the Council because they are 'no longer needed' is a double-edged sword politically. I'm not sure whether to expect it to happen or not. It certainly won't happen soon, because the economic situation on Nantucket won't be truly stable for years. It's going to take that much time to build the infrastructure for something that is long-term sustainable (early steam age with a hint of electrification is probably the best we can hope for).
Those who are ambitious lot, turn more into politicians and become less specialists. Because sooner or later trying to be guy who knows everything about something while spending all their time sitting in board meetings ends up as guy who is no longer at top of his game.
It is hard being specialist while sitting in board meetings.
This depends on how frequently the Council meets and how much time it gives people to go running around doing an actual job. So far, the consensus seems to be that the Council meets an average of no more than a few hours a day, with a fair amount of delegated operations being handled by individual members rather than by the whole group.
That makes a compromise solution more practical: people who are still doing a direct job can function on the Council, though they won't be major political players because they won't have time to spare for that.
Alas, it can also go merry go round. When questioned, James can ask if all actions of accuser are for good of Nantucket or for good of community.
He could throw it at Simon too. "So why are you so good buddies with the Machinists? Are you sure YOU are not trying to build yourself little cult so YOU can become dictator?"
It has very real chance to backfire into pointless circle accusation which would not really serve any interests in the Council.
Thing is, a merry-go-round can only last so long, and whoever makes the first big, visible mistake or is hit with the first big, visible evidence of treachery falls off. James is doing more to provide evidence of treachery than Simon is.
Like I said, if he does something monumentally stupid which backfires. This little plot is one prime case of such thing happening. Getting Packer alive would be rather foolish unless you have prepared a way to get rid of him without Packer spilling the beans.
Getting Packer dead is worse, because they'll know damn well that someone ordered it, and he's the prime suspect. Killing him can only be justified in the eyes of someone who is absolutely certain that he's nothing more than a rogue and that he is not making his promises related to the natives in good faith. While many on the Council are suspicious of Packer, very few of them will endorse killing him before at least taking the time to investigate his claims.
It establishes Packer as liar. Rest of his case does not rest on the argument, his line of thought has been presented in the story and he is logical enough.
Wait, what? Proving that Packer has told at least one lie does not prove that everything else he says is a lie. And yet James has no reason to assume, a priori, that it's all a lie. The brute fact of Packer's survival proves that he must have had at least some support on the mainland; everyone on the Council knows quite well that he'd have been doomed without native help. In fact, they were counting on exactly that, because they expected him to die on the mainland.
Which is kind of the point: Packer's vasectomy (assuming for the sake of argument that it actually happened) in no way undermines the rest of his story. And if James tries to bring it up that way in Council he'll be called on it. I mean hell, maybe "Packer's" daughter isn't really his, and he married a pregnant widow and plans to raise the girl as his own. So what? Why is that not a perfectly reasonable thing for a sterile man to do?
Shermpotter wrote:Does the council really want to cross the women, though? It will happen if James continues to push. Also, the very idea that the Watch would allow another group to grow up to challenge it's power is ludicrous. Even if it is supposedly done behind closed doors and with the connivance of some members of the Watch, the chances of them being successful is awfully slim.
OK: this needs to be said openly. The authors have been talking it over in the Writers' Guild thread, but you guys can't see that, and since this is fairly plot-important, it should be said.
What happened is that in the aftermath of news of Packer's being alive on the mainland reaching Nantucket, there was another wave of social unrest. The Watch cracked down violently, and there was some pretty serious bloodshed. Which did not serve to improve the Watch's popularity. In the aftermath, the Council "disowned" the Watch to some extent. The Old Man lost his Council seat, and this seat was filled by a (carefully managed) election. This is how the Old Man wound up on Martha's Vinyard in Terwynn's last section, in case you were wondering. Any other Council seats (unknown and unspecified number) held by Watch members were likewise emptied and refilled.
To clarify: The Commandant of the Watch is visiting Martha's Vineyard to see what the Constabulary is up to. He was not exiled to Martha's Vineyard. Just in case there was any confusion. Yes, the Watch presence and representation was removed from the Council. This is why the Old Man has more time to do things like tour the new Constabulary of Martha's Vineyard; and why the Council isn't in any real hurry to go get him (in spite of the crisis that Packer's return has precipitated.)
Shermpotter wrote:Why do we always insist on giving the "bad guys" carte blanche as far as their ideas go? James is completely unlikeable here, and in no instance does he come across as anything remotely approaching likeable. Now he is having 'rough men' go after Packer, and he seems to be getting away with it (again).
The section describes scheming between James and the Chairman of the Council. The title of the piece is also the legendary blunder Vladimir Kramnik made in a game against the computer Deep Fritz (kudos to The Vortex Empire, btw. As he's already in the story, he doesn't win a cameo. As our Camaro fund is $30,000 short, he doesn't win one of those either.) Is this because of the potential blunder that Packer made way the hell back at the Sausage Fest, or have the two men in the section made a fatal blunder? The answer lies in the circumstances by which Kramnik chose to make the move that he did. That's all I will say on the matter.
