The Brave New World - 130 New World, Old Realities

The seagull perched on the roof of the Port Douglas town hall blinked, bent its head, and blinked again with its other eye. It didn’t help – there was no food to be seen. It was a new experience for the seagull. Wherever there was such a large group of people, there was food – that had always been the rule.

Those ungainly apes were pretty much always eating. They ate even when they weren’t hungry. And whenever they ate, they’d also drop and leave food all around them! It was a miracle such a stupid species managed to thrive.

Flying is a tiring business. Many of the small birds in colder climates need to eat their own weight every day in order to survive. Staying alive means looking for food all the time. Captive, caged birds have it good: they can eat themselves stupid without lifting a wing. When they are released and have to fend for themselves, most of them quickly die.

It had been a very lean February for the seagull. It had been a very lean February for the seagull. Usually, the sandy beach was a smorgasbord of goodies, with half-eaten hot dogs a top favorite. But there had been nothing but sand in February. January hadn’t been that bad: a lot of little creatures of the sea had washed up dead following an incredible storm, a storm that had very nearly killed the seagull. It had survived by sheltering in an overturned trash can.

The seagull got a last, good look at the disappointingly clean street and took off from the roof, headed for the ocean. Getting to eat something was going to be very hard work, lots of flying just above the waves, hunting for a fish that had stupidly moved close to the surface of the water. In preparation for that effort, the seagull’s intestines constricted and expelled a drop of liquid shit. The less weight to carry, the better!

Harold Pendelton saw the drop of birdshit splatter on the shoulder of the man standing before him in the lineup that began at the town hall entrance. He rejoiced inwardly, for he disliked the man in front of him. He was one of the normally absent citizens of Port Douglas: a holiday rental property owner who lived elsewhere while his house became a source of pounding music and drunken yowls very late into each night.

There were many properties like that in Port Douglas; it was a popular holiday destination. And many of their owners had returned in recent weeks, mostly hitching rides on the army truck that brought very basic supplies in very basic quantities every day. There was a lot of free space in the truck, it could easily accommodate quite a lot of paying passengers. A large part of the income was distributed among the soldiers in the platoon of engineers that was stationed in Port Douglas; like the truck drivers, they’d hadn’t received their February pay.

“Shit,” said the man in front of Harold Pendelton, looking at his freshly soiled shoulder.

“Indeed,” said Harold Pendelton.

“This is a designer T-shirt,” the man said. “I paid two hundred fifty for that T-shirt.”

“Indeed,” repeated Harold.

The man turned his back on Harold and pulled out a crumpled tissue from the pocket of his shorts and began smearing the birdshit all over his shoulder. Harold turned away; he looked at the line of people behind him. He estimated at least a hundred. However, not all were prospective colonizers: some of them would be lining up to receive their guaranteed monthly income. They could be recognized by their angry, anxious faces. The word was that the guaranteed income payment would amount to ten dollars. The argument was that each new cent would be worth a full dollar in old money, but ten dollars still sounded like next to nothing.

He was sure that there would be plenty of angry scenes once the town hall doors opened for business. Most of the people waiting to purchase a colonial license would get angry too, because they were going to be turned away.

Harold and his friend David Ramsey had anticipated that. Two weeks earlier, they entered into long and complicated negotiations with the mayor, Jane Leary, a fifty-year-old business woman who until recently had ran the town in a very capable manner. Her performance deteriorated steadily from the moment she was instructed to found a settlement for the colonial government in the New World. Previously a model of stability under stress, she became hysterical at the slightest provocation. She resigned as mayor and district governor a week into Harold and David’s delicate negotiations.

Her successor, Henry Deacon, was a retired restaurateur well known for his pragmatic, down-to-earth approach. He refused to be shaken by even the most dramatic of events; had aliens aboard a spaceship arrived in Port Douglas, he’d have asked them whether they’d like to eat something following such a long journey.

After his appointment, new difficulties popped up in Harold and David’s efforts to acquire as many licenses as they could afford.

“I cannot promise you anything beyond the official minimum, whatever it might finally be,” Deacon told them. “Everyone and their dog wants a colony in the New World. The territory under my control doesn’t permit more than half a dozen independent colonies. People will just have to bunch together, that’s all.”

“But we ARE bunching together, Henry,” said Dave Ramsey. “My two sons with their families will be arriving any day. My daughter with her husband and kids is coming, too. They’re going to be very useful, in Port Darwin as well as the New World. One of my sons is an accomplished carpenter; it has been his hobby ever since he turned ten. The other is a geologist, and I don’t have to explain how useful he’ll be in the New World. And my daughter is a medical doctor, like myself.

“They’re all bringing their spouses?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, I can issue you with just a single colony license. At this point in time, it guarantees you two implant kits and the option to purchase eight more. That will be enough for all of you.”

“A single colony license, that’s fine,” said Dave Ramsey. “But my children are bringing their kids! They’re all teenagers or in their early twenties. Ideal age!”

“You want to replicate teenagers in the New World?” asked Deacon.

“Yes. Why not? That’s probably the best age to get introduced to the New World.”

“How many?”

“Three,” Ramsey said. “But please note that four of my grandchildren are over eighteen. They’re teenagers, but they’re adult teenagers.”

“You want seven extra implant kits?”

“Yes.”

Deacon shook his head.

“Impossible,” he said.

It went on like this for three more meetings, spread out over a week. Their wives – Gladys and Susan urged them to give it a rest. They argued they could use the secret stash of implant kits and hiber beds they’d kept. But Harold and Dave were firm.

“Every single person we have in our colony has to be a licensed colonist, and that’s that,” Dave said.

And so, they kept requesting new meetings with Deacon and hammering away at his defenses with new arguments. Deacon couldn’t refuse to see them; they were year-round Port Douglas residents, and important members of the community. They had also been regulars at Deacon’s restaurant, The Happy Turtle, prior to its sale and his retirement, and Deacon used to join them for after-dinner drinks at least once a month.

Their happy break came at the conclusion of Harold and Dave’s third meeting with Deacon.

He was just showing them out of his office when one of his aides, a woman who had formerly been his favorite waitress at The Happy Turtle, walked on them with urgent, important news.

“The Sheraton gang are all leaving,” she told Deacon while Harold and Dave pretended they weren’t eavesdropping. The Sheraton gang was composed of the hotel employees that had stayed in Port Douglas. They’d decided to pool and boost their resources by stealing whatever could be sold for cash from the hotel, and use the proceeds to found a colony. There were nearly a hundred of them, and they were a force to be reckoned with.

“Are you sure? That obnoxious little twerp, their leader, was here just yesterday. I had the impression they were determined to stay. He asked for another two weeks’ food supply.”

“It’s all fixed. A Sheraton bigwig arrived the other day and told them Sheraton is going into the New World in a big way. They’re going to develop a big chain of resorts for people who want to experience the New World without any hardship. They’re calling in all of their people to start the required settlements. Luckily for us, they won’t be starting a settlement from here.”

“Luckily? I don’t know,” said Deacon. “It would’ve meant a lot in taxes.”

Dave Ramsey couldn’t help himself. He stopped pretending that he wasn’t listening to the conversation, and said:

“Henry, this just shows how important it is to have people fully committed to this town. Those are the people you can count on in the New World.”

“Come back into my office,” said Deacon, and dismissed his assistant. He closed the door and faced Harold and Dave and said:

“A colony spot has just become vacant. I’m giving it to you, Dave; you won’t have to share with Harry any more. You can get up to ten implant kits with your license, so that’s more than enough to take care of you and your little brood. But that means I have a problem with you, Harry. This leaves just you and Gladys as the founders and owners of an independent colony. I’ll be blunt: I cannot afford to give a good colony spot to someone who wants a retirement home in the New World. When you come in to get your license, make sure you’ve recruited at least six other colonists. Of both sexes, and of procreation age if you know what I mean.”

Harold Pendelton did exactly that. It turned out to be really easy. He paid visits to the young people who’d staffed the town’s fast food outlets. Out of jobs, money, and hope, they were very eager to join his scheme. Within two days, he had signed up eight colonists that included the manager of the local Pizza Palace and his girlfriend. He had their written declarations of commitment in his briefcase.

Most importantly, he was happy with his recruits. They were great kids, disciplined and highly motivated. The former Pizza Palace manager had already begun designing an easy-to-build baking oven for their New World settlement.

He heard and felt a ripple of excitement move through the lineup. He raised his head: the town hall doors were opening. Henry Deacon stepped out, and there were many gasps. He was wearing an elegant morning suit complete with a top hat, as if he was about to attend an important wedding. He surveyed the crowd before him, and said:

“Good day, everyone. We’re open and we’ll stay open until everyone is served, so put your minds at ease. But one at a time, please. Madam, please follow me.”

And he disappeared inside the building. Two soldiers in full combat gear popped out immediately, and took station on both sides of the entrance. Helmeted and armed with assault rifles, they did their best to look very fierce.

The young woman who was at the very front of the lineup had already started following the mayor; now she stopped. She was wearing a black leather biking jacket and leather jeans and she clearly regarded herself as someone who didn’t take any shit from anybody. She looked at one of the entrance guards and said:

“Stop frowning so hard, that pimple on your forehead is set to burst.”

“Please move to the end of the line,” said the soldier. “Next!”

The second person in line, a middle-aged man in a light suit, lost no time at all in plunging inside the building. The young woman said:

“This isn’t right! I was the first in line. I’m going in.”

“No you aren’t,” said the soldier. “We’re the ones letting people in. And we’ve just decided people with oversized mouths come in last.”

“I was the first,” said the woman.

“You aren’t any more. Now get to the end of the line, unless you want to get arrested.”

An abnormal hush reigned over the waiting crowd as the girl meekly moved toward the end of the lineup, her face set in a mix of fear and anger.

So this is what it’s going to be like, Harold thought. He looked around, searching for Dave. Dave had his hands full: one of his sons arrived the previous evening, and he was busy settling him in. He’d promised to join Harold by the time the Colonial Office opened.

But Dave was nowhere to be seen. Harold looked up: a seagull was perched on the edge of the roof’s rain gutter. It was too distant to tell, but Harold had the feeling it was watching him.

The door to the town hall opened and the man in the light suit came bounding out, grinning as if he had just won the lottery. Harold stared at him and felt a small shock of recognition. The man’s name was Nicky Rizzo, and he was widely believed to occupy a senior management position in the drug network that supplied the town’s holidaymakers with basic necessities.

“Next!” called out one of the guards.

NOTICE

This work is available to read online exclusively at Webnovel.com.

https:///book/15767933905886705

If you are reading it at a different site, it has been copied and reproduced without the author’s consent. The owner of that site is a thief.