Last, so that the Novy Finlandians would have at least one exclusive property for trade, all seventy-five coffee bushes would be given to them.
Johann just sat at the table, stunned.
Daerick spoke softly, “I’m sorry, my brother.”
Johann cast his brother a withering stare. His response was not quite what Daerick expected. ‘They’ll die! I’ve spent years babying those bushes! You can’t just give them away to these people. They have no idea now to tend them--”
“That’s why I’m going to miss you, Johann,” said Daerick, relieved that his brother was more concerned for the coffee bushes’ well being than the idea of personally losing them. “You speak their language better than any of us, so I’m appointing you as ambassador. You will live with them on the west end of the mountaintop. You can personally supervise and teach them to tend the coffee.”
After a moment Johann looked back at his brother, his anger gone. “You will visit, won’t you?”
“Only if you promise me that you’ll get married and have children. I’ve seen some of these young ladies of theirs looking at you, Johann.”
Klobregnii had watched with interest as what looked like a heated exchange cooled rapidly. Johann’s translation confirmed what he suspected. He nodded his approval, feeling his respect for Daerick Kattinger deepen that much more.
Feast! Resources being what they were, feasting was not common on Acropolis, but it was sometimes necessary to relieve boredom or celebrate living through another year. This year, both parties had much to celebrate.
Just before the feast began, Klobregnii disappeared into one of the tents. He reappeared with a huge basket under his arm.
“You have given us an exclusive item for trade. If there is to be stability in the future you must have one, too.”
“Yes,” answered Daerick, “but we have--” Klobregnii held up a hand, politely interrupting Johann’s translation. “No, your spices are wonderful put they are not equal to the coffee. This is.” He put the basket on the table and opened the lid. “There are seven more baskets in the tent. They are yours.”
Klobregnii paused, enjoying Daerick and Johann’s curiosity. “This requires careful growing, like the coffee, but that’s no problem. Well send our ambassador.”
“What is it?” asked Johann, dipping his hand into the unfamiliar grains.
A wide grin spread across Klobregnii’s face. “Hops.”
Hops began and coffee continued to grow. Other things grew on the mountain as well.
Of his many ministerial duties, none were so pleasant to the Reverend Krusenstein as the one he had now.
He stood in the chapel before a packed congregation. Standing in front, were Johann Kattinger and Klobregnii’s niece, Solvieg.
The reverend smiled slightly, placed his hand on an ancient bible, and began to speak. “Dearly beloved . ..”
From A Brief Atlas of the Planet Haven by Colin Lyon Jones and Lilya Ivanovich Egorov. Oxford Press, AD 2427, folio:
Haven may be divided into roughly three main areas, each with its characteristic settlement history. The great equatorial lowland of the Shangri-La Valley was first claimed by the Church of New Harmony, religious sectaries of Americ descent; subsequent settlers were mainly also Americ and Russki, adopting an economy of farming, sedentary ranching, mining and, under the Empire of Man, some urban development. The massive spread of continental steppes surrounding the Shangri-La and its ring of mountains received a much more varied immigration, most of whom adopted ranching or even nomadic pastorialism as their means of livelihood; small peripheral valleys suitable for marginal agriculture were claimed by a wild assortment of smaller groups.
The southern and equatorial oceans and their islands--some of which are as large as Earth’s Ireland--are a relatively favorable zone, by Haven standards if no other. Their potential attracted a variety of voluntary emigrants during the last years of the CoDominium, mostly NeoLibertarian and Royalist groups from Northern Europe, who built on native traditions to establish a pelagic culture.. . .
From Report on Sector Twelve, Citadel Intelligence, Archives, Threat Analysis Division, Ethic Substudies, by Analyst Fifth Rank Grishnak, 2915; ammend:
. . . further operations in the eastern-hemisphere islands are contra-indicated until substantial forces can be spared from the Citadel-Shangri-La sectors. While disorganized, the cattie communities are very numerous, due to the high productivity of their aquaculture; and the continuous inter-state warfare maintains a very high degree of military preparedness. Recent probing actions indicate that the cattle kingdom known as Scandia (for related groups see Norskuna, Dannarik) will serve as a satisfactory buffer against the more active elements, with an occasional punitive expedition to prevent excessive concentration of forces. . . .
AEGIR’S CHILDREN - Phillip Pournelle
The sea rocked T.M.S. Duty and sang to Midshipman Scott Brindle as he swayed in his hammock, accompanied by the gentle creak of timbers and a splash of breaking water at Duty’s bow. The slippered feet of sailors slapped across the ship’s deck as they moved to the deck officer’s commands, trimming sails and hauling on lines. The cat padded her way through the stores hunting for rats. The canvas sails boomed and cracked from the final remnant of one of Haven’s all too common storms.
Scott heard Petty Officer Goodmark walk up to his post: he had the gait of an old enlisted seaman, as natural and unaffected as Cat’s Eye’s eternal stare. Goodmark rang the bell as he always did, one double ring followed by another.
AEgir, Sea King, protect me! Scott thought. No one had called him, and he was an hour late for his watch! He washed and then struggled to dress, hopping on one leg as the ship came about and the deck sloped. He put on his coat, pausing to inspect the two bronze anchors on his collar--they would need shining tonight if he was going to eat in the wardroom--and rushed up the ladder to his post. The sextant was in his hands by the time Lieutenant Tryker spotted him and walked over.
“Have a good night’s sleep, Midshipman Brindle?”
Scott blushed. “Sir, forgive me.”
“You wore yourself out last watch during the storm. I allowed you an extra hour of sleep--I’ll need you wide awake today. Here, eat this and don’t bother the cook.”
Lieutenant Tryker had been Scott’s guide and teacher since he arrived aboard the Duty almost three months ago. The transition from the Academy’s theories to the dangerous reality of Haven seas was tough, but Scott had survived--in part because of Lieutenant Tryker’s tutelage. Scott wondered if he would ever become the officer Tryker saw in him. He hoped so.
While handing the youth the batter-covered sandwich, Tryker gazed over the foggy sea. “There are strange corsairs we’re after today, Midshipman. The attack at Stanjord was too professional a job for our local brigands. Get a fix on our position, then report to me.”
Using a sextant wasn’t hard to do on Haven, once one learned how Cat’s Eye behaved and how to use her other moons to help find the ship’s location. The trick was to do it quickly, and Scott felt sweat break out on his brow as he struggled with the instrument.
“Sail off the starboard bow!” the lookout cried from the crow’s nest. “Looks like the ship’s launch.”
The catamaran had been launched late last watch to search for corsairs. As she sailed into closer view Scott recognized Coxswain Jorwin’s muscular frame. Manipulating his sail and rudder like an accomplished juggler, Jorwin cut speed and came alongside Duty as cleanly as a ‘dactyl might land on the ship’s rail.
The captain, Lieutenant Commander Lloyd, was on the quarterdeck receiving reports from his lieutenants. Scott joined the coxswain and handed Lieutenant Tryker his notes.
“I spotted a schooner ten nautical miles east of here making way north east,” the coxswain said. “She took damage from the storm last night and was only traveling at two or three knots. Her rigging was poor but I recognized her as the pirate Shining Pearl.”
“Are you sure she’s the corsai
r?” the captain asked the leather-faced coxswain.
“Aye, sir. She sails with the same crew but she flies new colors, a red eye.”
“Did she spot you?”
“I saw no sign of such, sir, and I took great care to avoid silhouetting my sail.”
“Thank you, Coxswain. Go below and get something to eat. Then make sure to report your findings to the watch officer for the log.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The skipper was already writing in his log as he called out orders to the first officer. “Load the catamaran and alert the crew. Have Lieutenant Harper prepare his Marines, and set course of northeast under full sail. Mr. Tryker?”
“Aye, sir?”
“You and Mr. Brindle will prepare the ship’s rifles for combat.” “Aye, aye, sir.”
“Mr. Barnswith, please prepare your gunners. See that they do their usual best.’
The captain’s orders were still ringing out when Scott reached his battle station. With a small division of sailors, he inspected the ship’s rifles, making sure they were not fouled and otherwise ready for combat. The rifles were twenty millimeter-rifled cannons mounted on the rails of the frigate and used mainly to assist boarding operations.
Opening the breach of one rifle, Scott inspected the chamber and the barrel and then turned to the gun captain.
“This barrel is wet from the storm. Clean it and report when you are ready.”
“Aye, aye,” the sailor answered, his face an unreadable mask.
The midshipman moved on to the next rifle and prepared his crew for combat. Lieutenant Tryker would doubtless check his work prior to action, but that was no reason to be less careful; quite the opposite.
All hands were at general quarters as the frigate approached the schooner; a tense silence filled the ship, broken only as the boatswain relayed orders to the men in the rigging. Shining Pearl was running slowly, as if searching for other ships. When the Duty came close enough to be seen through the early morning fog, Scott heard horns from the schooner. When the Duty failed to answer, the schooner sounded her bells, and a bustle on deck revealed that she was clearing for action.
Soon both ships were at full sail, their deck crews laboring to keep sails perfectly trained in the cat and mouse duel that was playing itself out in Haven’s wild winds. The storm from the night before had not blown itself out and another would likely be along soon. Haven’s slow rotation rate created severe weather patterns that kept all but the bravest (or most desperate) from going down to the sea in ships.
Duty was the faster ship. Shining Pearl moved sluggishly, as though battle damaged or badly fouled, but she was hard to approach as she dipped into the deep swells and came up again.
At the moment, Scott noted, the captain had the Duty on a broad beam tack. The executive officer was working with the boatswain on the relative motion board, using precious paper to compute the most efficient path to close the gap with the other ship. The captain shouted leather-lunged orders to trim the sail.
“Heave, heave, heave!” Sailmaster Saulin called to the deck crew. “You men aloft, retrain the mainsail. Make ready to come about!”
The sailing master had spotted the other ship doing likewise and wanted to keep pace with them. He could do no more without orders, of course.
“Prepare to come about!” the executive officer called.
The rest of the deck crew hurried to clear the rigging as the sails were readied for a new wind angle.
“Hoist the trap sail!” Chief Saulin ordered.
Men and rigging groaned as the large triangular sail was brought up to where another crew of men aloft could train it into place. At the same time, yet another crew rolled up the mail sail and tied it in its overhead rolls. The near perfection with which this evolution was accomplished allowed Duty to quickly gain several more meters on her prey.
The frigate was now quickly approaching the smaller and slower schooner. The corsairs never cared for their ships as well the Navy did; now--and not for the first time--they would pay the price.
When Duty was within twenty minutes of overhauling the smaller craft, the captain luffed the mainsail slightly; he did not want to give the schooner’s gunners the opportunity for a broadside.
As Duty daintily closed the remaining gap, Scott borrowed Lieutenant Tryker’s glass to study the target. The colors stood out over her stern as the wind whipped it around. The burning eye was now brightly visible against the gunmetal sky. The design was disturbingly familiar. Where in his studies had he run across it before?
Before he had time to remember, the captain interrupted his train of thought: “I need the ship intact. Her colors are new to our waters, so make every effort to capture her skipper alive.” He then spoke directly to the Marine officers who would lead the boarding party.
Assault Group Leader Protonus studied the enemy’s colors. With his enhanced vision Protonus could easily make out the iron cross with its companion crowns of silver and gold underlined by a harpoon. Another Nordic tribe, he decided, plying the waters with delusions of grandeur.
The Sauron turned and ran an experienced eye over the Soldiers assembled on the top deck, frowning slightly at the sickly green tinge to many complexions. Any one of them on land was worth twenty of the cattle that crewed the ship, but his men were ill at ease with Shining Pearl’s motion. Last night’s storm had convinced him that Saurons really had no business on the sea. The corsairs claimed his people did not have the blessings of AEgir, for they had not paid him his due respects.
Protonus spat as he thought about the disgusting customs of these cattle. If only we knew how to conquer the sea, we wouldn’t have to be carted around by these parasites. Then he reviewed the magnitude of the diversion of resources necessary to accomplish that task and dismissed the matter from his thoughts as he had so many times before. Besides, as long as they were kept unaware of the reality of Sauron power, the seagoing cattle who pursued them provided--all unknowingly--a great service to the Race. Not that that mattered just now. . . .
“Wait till they’re in range. On my command shoot their officers and Marines. They do not have enough men to take this ship against us.”
Protonus gave out individual instructions to his sharpshooters, including the placement of the Gatling gun. Two squads of Saurons was more than enough to handle whatever Marines and sailors were on the pursuing ship. Patting the mastiff that had been so useful to him in controlling the female cattle, he snapped the cylinder of his revolver open to check the rounds.
He was ready, his Soldiers were ready. These wild cattle would soon get their first taste of Sauron steel.
The frigate quickly closed to cannon range and fired--only a couple of rounds--aiming for the schooner’s rigging: the captain wanted to create confusion, not destroy the ship. The corsair answered the shots, but its fire went wide--a hazard of sailing with unrifled cannon.
As her rigging fell, the Shining Pearl coasted to a dead stop in the water. The skipper took the frigate in, being careful not to place her within good firing range of the schooner.
Scott ordered a full powder charge loaded into each gun’s chamber, setting up the ship’s rifles for maximum range. He aimed one gun at the Pearl’s quarterdeck and stood by for Lieutenant Tryker’s command.
Suddenly small-arms fire from the deck of the Pearl struck out with deadly accuracy from a range Scott would have thought impossible. In a matter of moments an officer and six sailors went down, as Marines scrambled for cover before the next volley could strike. Through the crackle of another volley he heard Tryker’s voice cry “fire.”
Mustering his men as best he could, Scott returned fire with the ship’s rifles. He was helping reload when a sailor beside him fell from a shot to the throat, blood spraying in a wide fan. The enemy might not have rifled cannon, but their small arms were surely impressive--and the men wielding them were as good as their weapons. Better. Much better.
Scott sprinted across the cluttered deck for the ship’s
magazine. A shot cracked past his head and set his ears ringing. He dove into the mess deck, down the companion way. Wood hammered at him, and his head rang as it bounced off a railing.
Momentarily stunned, he was helped up by the Master-at-Arms. Tomorrow, if he lived to see it, all the flesh on his left side would be one big bruise.
Snarling past the Master-at-Arms’ remarks about who was abandoning his post, Scott ducked into the passageway that led into the magazine. There was no way the frigate could take the enemy ship without eliminating her Marines first. He had to admit it: their own men were no match for the enemy’s sharpshooters. Attempting to board the schooner without first silencing its small arms would be nothing but suicide. We need to overcome their advantage with one of our own, he decided.
Scott quickly located the brightly colored box he was searching for and carried it up to the main deck. He turned and passed several of the burnweed rockets to the Master-at-Arms who had followed him out of the hold. “Take these to Lieutenant Tryker.”
Meanwhile, he slid the box across the deck to a gunner’s mate and dove after it. The crew instinctively loaded the rockets into their guns, and fired when Lieutenant Tryker gave the order.
The rockets burst out of their barrels with a bang and a cloud of smoke, arching for the schooner. Three hit the smaller ship’s deck and exploded, releasing an orange gas. The results were immediate as the Pearl was swept by an orange fog of death. Small-arms fire sputtered within seconds. Scott could hear the crew coughing and hacking, mixed with the occasional thud of sailors falling from the riggings and smashing into the deck. Only the gunfire from the topsails continued.
The captain’s voice rang out. “Gunners. Load cannons five and three with grape and rocksalt. Clear the rigging!”
As the gunners loaded and Duty closed in, Scott saw a very large corsair heading for what appeared to be a bomb.
War World III: Sauron Dominion Page 13