The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  Upon entering, Aaron saw a room which was both long and garish. Stopping, he took a good long look at the narrow table filling most of the space. Built of solid maple, the thing could seat at least thirty people. Aaron took a count of himself, reached the number one, and welcomed himself to his discomfort zone.

  Surprisingly, the meal proved to be quite good. The beef had been well grained, and the vegetables were entirely fresh. However, Aaron would have found the meal more enjoyable if Hodkins and Cartridge had not hovered over his right and left shoulders the entire time.

  He lost his patience after Hodkins spent two minutes arranging six green beans on his plate.

  "I can serve myself. " The glare he gave Hodkins should have withered the man's few remaining hairs. Unfortunately, Hodkins didn't notice.

  "No, sir, you cannot serve yourself," Miss Cartridge replied. "We have strict instructions that you are to be trained for polite society. Miss Bivins was very firm on the matter when she visited several months ago."

  Damn Amanda and damn her again. He wouldn't be trapped here by the woman's manipulation. He would leave. He would leave and find a place where he could remake Aaron Turner…right after he got a good night's sleep.

  She says the factory will kill her.

  Aaron shook his head, trying to rid himself of Julia Tremont's voice

  We will starve if Mum gets fired.

  The amount of food on the table would feed six people. Most of it would go to waste.

  Maybe he could take a look at that factory. What difference would one morning make? After all, he had given Miss Tremont his promise, and promises were important to the young. If there was a problem, he could spend a week or two taking care of it. He had a good deal of money, and money had a habit of smoothing away most difficulties.

  He lifted his fluted wineglass, took a sip of the amber liquid, and smiled. Say what you will, Jutland's wine was far better than what he had been drinking. This stuff even put his favorite Runeburg White to shame. He began to take another sip, changed his mind, and turned the sip into a gulp.

  This vintage really was good.

  Maybe he would stay for a few days after all. One or two. A week at the most.

  Thank you, Sir.

  It wouldn't hurt to take a short look at things. What harm was there in that? At the least, he would discover if he really did own a factory.

  Chapter 2

  The freshly painted sign along the top edge of the building read TURNER FABRICATION.

  Okay, Aaron thought, so there was a more than even chance Julia Tremont had been correct. Maybe this place did belong to him. Running fingers through his uncombed hair, Aaron squared his shoulders. Part of him wanted to turn and walk away because he knew this place would be trouble. He was tired of trouble.

  "Sir?"

  Aaron pulled his gaze from the sign to a harried man who eyed him warily.

  "Yes?"

  "Would you be Mister Turner?"

  Aaron exhaled. "Unfortunately."

  "Does that mean you are the Mister?"

  Aaron nodded. "I suppose it does, but I have to be honest with you. I knew nothing about this place until yesterday. I'm told you people might need my help, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do."

  "Grebfax."

  "What?"

  "My name is Grebfax, sir. I guess I'm in charge. At least I was in charge of the old business. As Miss Bivins didn't make any personnel changes when she bought the building, I think I'm still in charge."

  "Miss Bivins?" There went his last faint hope this mess was some sort of colossal mistake made by one of her hirelings. "Mister Grebfax, what are we looking at?"

  "We've been handed a real mess. The old equipment went out the door a few weeks ago. We got this new stuff in a day later. That was the last time anything happened according to schedule because nobody knows how to use any of the new equipment."

  Grebfax gestured toward a pile of twisted metal outside the building. "If the bends aren't wrong, then the brazing is weak. If it isn't the brazing, then the plates are drilled off center. I got thirty-six people who make damn good buggy wheels and whip sockets. They know nothing about constructing runabouts. It took us an entire week to make six complete units, but none are in sellable condition, and we don't know what we're supposed to do with them anyway. " Pausing, he drew in a deep breath. "Why don't you come in and see what we have going on? You can meet some of your people."

  "Lead on," Aaron followed Grebfax up the drive and through the open factory doors. Once inside, he frowned. Where the exterior appeared to be clean and mostly organized, the interior looked like chaos incarnate. Not a single person seemed to be operating on the proper amount of sleep. Most of their faces were haggard and dark, and if there was a smile among them, it was hidden. Every expression appeared depressed.

  Thank you, Amanda.

  "I'm in the dark," he admitted. "What exactly is a runabout?"

  Grebfax raised his hands. "Nobody knows. We have the plans for building them. We built a few, but we've no idea how to use one. From the name, I assume their function is to get a person from one place to another, but it seems impossible to sit on one without falling over."

  Aaron suddenly had a light bulb moment. "Could I see one?"

  "You own the factory."

  "I'm starting to believe I do."

  Grebfax led Aaron through several isles cluttered with broken and twisted parts until they reached the back wall where the finished runabouts leaned.

  "Thank the Gods," Aaron whispered.

  Bright and shiny and red, the bicycles were one of the best sights he had ever seen. Transportation not dependent on horses or mules or oxen? What a concept! The thought of traveling on something that did not want to bite a chunk out of his shoulder was stunning.

  Damn and damn again. He owned a bicycle factory.

  "Who do you think he is?" a female voice asked over the factory's din. From the corner of his eye, Aaron noticed several employees watching him. Apparently, people this far back had missed the introduction.

  "Dunno, maybe a buyer," another voice answered. "Hate that he has to see one of those."

  "Cute though."

  "Too short."

  Frowning, Aaron concentrated on the runabouts.

  These runabouts were different from how he remembered bicycles, not surprising in this iron poor world. Instead of a chain, the drive used a segmented leather belt. Its tires were hard rubber instead of pneumatically filled tubes, and it appeared to have either air or oil shocks to smooth out the ride. The crossbar ran at a downward angle, high near the handlebars, lower near the seat. Instead of spokes, the wheels had four solid wedges radiating from the center hub to the outer rim.

  He ran his hands along the fresh painted surface.

  "What kind of metal is this?"

  "Mostly aluminum," Grebfax supplied. "The frame is anyway. The bearing and the feet parts are brass. The wheels are a combination of aluminum and brass, and so is the seat frame."

  Transportation without horses. Wonderful! This place was a must. The factory had to stay.

  "Can I have one of these?"

  Grebfax looked surprised. "This is your factory."

  Aaron grinned. "I keep forgetting."

  Pulling a runabout free from the others, he rolled it experimentally and found a catch in the front tire. A second runabout had the same problem. So did the third. The fourth, however, was close to perfect.

  "Mister Grebfax, would you gather the employees outside so I can speak to them?"

  "I'll see to it."

  Aaron pushed the runabout outside to see if millions of people had lied. The last time he rode a bicycle was shortly after his tenth birthday. He would discover how much of the art he remembered.

  After straddling the runabout, Aaron sat on the seat and pushed off. At first, the runabout wobbled horribly. He had difficulty steering, but by the Lord and Lady, he really had not forgotten how to ride. Within moments, he managed to steer the thing into
the street and head down the block. He swayed too much from side to side, but hey, he was riding, and this thing was an experimental model. When the real ones came out he would move as smooth as silk.

  By the time he rode once around the block, he had relearned how to keep the bike steady. People were still gathering outside when he neared the factory so he made another circuit. The runabout worked excellently except for a catch in the belt. The gearing felt comfortable for a ride of about ten or twelve miles an hour. A design change could provide multiple gears like on the bicycle he owned when he was a kid. A simple three speed would be nice for city riding.

  While he rode, more than a dozen people stopped what they were doing to stare. Giving them a cheerful wave, he wished them well. They might think him a curious sight, but he viewed them as future customers.

  By the time he approached the factory again, a small horde of people had gathered outside.

  That was when Aaron discovered another design flaw. No brakes. This forced him to roll past, turn around, and coast to a stop before the factory.

  "That looked exciting," Mister Grebfax gushed. "We knew they were supposed to be ridden, but nobody had the nerve to try more than once."

  Aaron handed him the runabout. "Remind me to tell you about handbrakes and kickstands. Is everybody gathered?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. " Aaron walked to the front of the group of mostly female employees, exactly as he expected. Depending on where a person settled, women outnumbered men in this world from as few as three to one to as many as five, or even six, to one. Very few men worked in any factory because most didn't thrive in an enclosed, dirty environment. Aaron had yet to come up with a reason why. For the most part, men did pretty much anything women could do, but few could or would work in factories. Inside Isabella it was illegal, but apparently not in Jutland.

  He stood awkwardly for a few moments, unsure what to say. The silence became uncomfortable. People shifted. Aaron cleared his throat. Several expressions became apprehensive.

  Quit stalling. "First," he began,"nobody's job is in danger. Every woman and man who works for me will continue working here for as long as they want to do so."

  Some apprehension washed away from the watching faces.

  "Second, many, if not all of you, are working from before sunup until long after dark trying to get this product off the ground. I appreciate your efforts. I really do. Thank you. Now stop. I don't want to see anyone here before eight or after five. Your lunch is from twelve to one, and you get a twenty minute break at ten and three. Weekends are to be spent at home with your families. I'm serious about this people. This place is intended to give you a living. It's not intended to be your life."

  The initial looks of apprehension changed to disbelief. Aaron could not blame them. In Jutland, the average workday was twelve hours. Saturday was a workday because it was not considered part of the weekend, an accepted rule Aaron had no intention of changing. No, a weekend here was a strange affair, Friday and Sunday, with a working Saturday in between. The day of worship, depended upon which aspect of the Gods was being observed. The Lady was worshiped on Friday. Farmers, fruit growers, and women who wanted children cultivated her favor because she was the symbol of fertility. Her services tended to be four hours or longer. They sometimes lasted as long as six. The Lord, who covered everything else, was worshiped on Sunday. Aaron favored his services since they never lasted more than an hour. In fact, on many occasions the Lord's service lasted twenty minutes or less.

  And now, adding to the confusion, were the increasing number of adherents of the One God. Aaron wasn't quite sure when they would end up holding their services once they got around to having them, but knowing Heralda's contrary nature, she would probably wind up declaring Tuesday as the true Holy Day, and then weekends would really be screwed up.

  "Now," he said as the looks began settling down,"we need to talk about the problems you're having. I realize an entire new process has been dropped in your laps without proper support. Nobody knows what's going on. I'll be honest. I know less than you. Until yesterday I was under the impression I'd bought a men's clothing store. " He pointed at the factory. "That doesn't look like a men's clothing store."

  A few people chuckled halfheartedly, more from nerves, Aaron thought, than from an actual appreciation of his lame humor.

  "That being the case," he continued,"it will be no surprise to you that I have no instant answers. However, I can give you time to discover solutions. You may not have the proper skills, but you're capable of learning them. Somewhere in Galesward are people who have the knowledge we need."

  "Wait! You promised we'd keep our jobs," one alarmed voice called out.

  "You will keep them," Aaron promised. "I won't replace you, but we'll find people who can train you. I'll pay them twice their regular pay for two weeks. We have a large pile of scrap outside to practice on during the training period. In fact, until you're trained, I don't want you to even attempt making good product."

  His eyes panned over them. Their attention was fixed.

  "Mister Grebfax will make the arrangements for hiring trainers. Bring all the possible names you can think of to him, and he'll decide which ones to hire. I want at least one trainer for every four people. Today is Thursday. When I'm done talking clean up your work stations and go home. Come back Monday morning with a list of possible names. I'll pay you through the rest of today and for Saturday to find these people. Every employee who brings me the name of someone who's hired will receive an extra day's pay. Thank you very much."

  His speech was answered by smiles. Turning to Grebfax, Aaron started to make a comment when he was suddenly struck by what he had done.

  Damn.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  He had committed himself to remaining in Galesward. The promised changes wouldn't occur in a few days or a week. Months would pass before this factory became economically stable. He was frigging stuck.

  Damn!

  Chapter 3

  The Galesward First National Bank was a far cry from the small bank Aaron had owned in the frontier town of Last Chance. The Last Chance Bank had boasted one manager, one clerk, and its funds had been limited. In fact, its funds had been so depleted it was bankrupt when Sarah Townsend used Aaron's money, without permission, to buy it. A bit presumptuous, perhaps, but that was Sarah. She had not asked his permission before corralling him into marrying her, either.

  Aaron released a bittersweet smile. Even though they were a long time dead, he still missed Sarah and their son, Earnest. Years had passed since their murders. Those years had soothed pain and mellowed memories. Aaron loved them still, but he no longer mourned.

  Leaning his runabout against a wall, Aaron gazed at the building. The Galesward First National was a large two story dun colored brick building. He had been told it had five teller windows, three bank officers, and two guards standing security. With such a large number of help on hand, he was sure the bank could handle his needs.

  "Can I direct you?" one of the guards politely asked when Aaron stepped through the doors.

  "I want to take out a sizable loan," Aaron told her. "Where do I go?"

  "That would depend on how large a loan. "

  After Aaron named a figure, she nodded toward a set of closed doors guarded by a warrior-faced secretary.

  The secretary apparently decided Aaron wasn't important enough to schedule an appointment with David Flintlow, the presently absent president of the institution. Instead, she relegated him to the vice-president, a prune-faced woman who had not yet seen forty years. She wore thick spectacles with large lenses and sat behind an enormous desk, putting a great deal of distance between her and the people she dealt with. The name on her wooden placard read Amel Bearden.

  When Aaron finally entered her office, he saw she had a thick folder in front of her. Aaron's name was on its flap.

  "Your location, Mister Turner, does not have a history of success. That building has had five owners in the last
eight years. Each, except for the last, went bankrupt. " She peered closely at him through her lenses. Aaron knew she thought she looked at a future pauper.

  "Frankly, these runabouts are a new and unproven idea. Also, your account is low. Unless you deposit more funds within the next week, you will not meet payroll. Because of this, we at First National cannot see where loaning you more money will be to our advantage."

  "Just what," Aaron asked,"do you mean by 'loaning you more money?' I don't recall borrowing any."

  Her eyes narrowed. "A Miss Amanda Bivins borrowed twelve thousand-five hundred sovereigns to purchase the building and new equipment. She borrowed another twenty-five hundred for operations. Your capital investment is only three thousand sovereigns."

  Aaron tapped his fingers on her desk. Something, he reflected, was very rotten. "What's a sovereign?"

  She sighed. "A sovereign is the new unit of currency his Majesty has implemented. " Pulling a rectangle of paper from her desk, she passed it to Aaron. He studied it carefully. The brown and green paper had the number five printed on one side while the same number was written on the other. The Jutland crest was imprinted on the front of the bill and a picture of a crowing rooster on the back. Aaron looked inquiringly at Mistress Bearden.

  "His Majesty has determined one sovereign is equivalent to two golds, and one hundred sovereigns is equal to a half silver. He has ordered all pay and transactions be made in sovereigns as of twenty days ago. The only coins now permitted in circulation are quarter-golds and coppers. In two months, all other money will be illegal except when exchanged at a bank."

  Aaron nodded. "I see. How many of these sovereigns are in my account?"

  "Ninety two-three quarters-four bits. Frankly Mister Turner, the bank will soon have little option but to take possession of your property. " She seemed pleased at the prospect.

  "Could I see an accounting of withdrawals?" Aaron asked. "I have a difficult time understanding how my funds can be so low."

  She passed the folder over to him. "I am afraid your Miss Bivins is not a very astute businesswoman. She made several serious mistakes which cost you a good deal of money. I would advise you to go over this with her if she were not overseas already. It is my opinion you should have hired a competent lawyer to see to your affairs."