Island in the Sea of Time (38 page)

“Anything more to say, Ms. Lisketter? Then I suggest you sit down.” She sat. “Joseph?”

Starbuck stood. The town clerk was as near to a minister of finance as they had. “And we’re not doing as well as Mr. Macy thinks, either. We’re living off our capital—off what we had before the Event. Yes, we’re growing and catching our own food, but we’re not building our own houses, making our own clothing, or shoes, or even tools for the most part—and what we are making, we’re largely making out of accumulated raw materials that were here before the Event. Consider the effort needed to find and smelt metals, for example. Or to find fiber and leather to replace what we’ve used, or glass. What Dr. Arnstein said is quite correct.”

That brought a thoughtful silence.
He’s got a point,
Cofflin mused. He pointed his gavel into the midst of the crowd. “Professor?”

“We do have an opportunity to do things better,” Arnstein said. “That doesn’t mean sitting on our behinds and finding infinite Mandelbrot sets in our navels. Let me tell you, people have
never
lived in harmony with nature. Goats and axes and wooden plows can ruin countries every bit as surely as bulldozers and chemical plants; it just takes a little longer. We’ve got three thousand years of knowledge to apply to a fresh world. Let’s do it right this time.”

There was a smattering of applause, growing louder and then dying away. Cofflin saw another hand raised. Surprise held him for a moment, and then he pointed the gavel.
Can’t let Swindapa speak and can him,
he thought.

“My hosts,” Isketerol said, bowing in several directions. His guttural English flowed, as fluent as a native speaker’s apart from the accent and an occasional choice of words. “I, a poor foreigner, cannot advise you . . . except that if you wish to trade, why deal with the poor and warlike savages of the White Isle, the island you call Britain? Instead, send your wonderful ships to the Middle Sea, where men dwell in cities obedient to law, not like bears in the forests. In Tartessos, my home, or Mycenae rich in gold, or splendid Egypt. Grateful for your many favors, I will be ready to advise and guide in whatever small way I can. You will find rich return, I promise you.”

That is one smart son of a bitch
, Cofflin thought. Yes, he was a slave trader and probably a pirate when occasion offered, but this was the thirteenth century before Christ—you couldn’t expect him to act any other way. He’d lived up to every bargain he made with the islanders, that was for sure. Nobody had any complaints about the way he’d behaved since he arrived, either.
But that proposition has its own risks.

“I think Captain Alston has something to say to that,” he said aloud.

Alston stood, her face the usual impassive mask she wore in public. “Once we’re in regular contact with the more . . . advanced peoples of this era,” she said, “they’re going to be able to sail here; that’s why we’ve been drilling our new militia. We have a military edge, but not a very large one, frankly. Consider the numbers, as well. And this island is a glittering prize, by local standards. If we wave that relative wealth in front of the locals who can come and make a try for it, I won’t answer for the consequences. It’s my opinion that we should limit our contact with the higher civilizations for the next few years at least. The British peoples of this era are no such threat.”

That caused an uproar; Macy was on his feet demanding to know why they couldn’t seal off the island from all outside contact.

“Because the ocean is a very big place,” Alston replied. “And we have only one large ship to date. Buildin’ others means we have fewer people growing food.” She indicated Arnstein with a jerk of her chin. “It’s the professor’s point again. Everyone we have do
anything
but produce essentials means fewer essentials, unless we can get resources from elsewhere.”

Cofflin tapped the gavel again. “We need trade,” he said. “We need to trade somewhere where the locals won’t be a menace to us. We could use allies, and extra hands, as well. Ms. Swindapa tells us, and our own experience in Britain bears out, that her people are basically peaceful—not saints, mind you—and they can produce most of what we need. Especially if we give them some help. That’ll include some military help, but not much; more a matter of showing them how to do things.”

Advisers and military aid,
he thought with a wince.
Well, by God, we can do better than LBJ and McNamara. At least I hope so.
Aloud: “Ms. Swindapa.”

The Fiernan girl rose again. “My people don’t have a, a government,” she said. “There is nobody who can order everyone to do things. But there are families and Spear Chosen who many will listen to. My family, the line of Kurlelo, is a family like that. We welcome peaceful traders, and we need strong friends. Please, be the friends we need.”

Another hand shot up. Cofflin sighed and pointed the gavel. This was bad enough, and they were only discussing a hypothetical situation. Wait until they got the report about the Indians approaching Providence Base and offering to trade.
That
was going to send Lisketter and her crowd completely ballistic.

The core of the Nantucket Council stood and watched the new militia at practice.

“Big turnout,” Jared Cofflin said, surprised.
Wouldn’t have thought so many people would volunteer for more sweat
, he thought. Of course, with harvest still some time off and the fishing going so well, people weren’t nearly as hard pressed as they had been in the spring. And this was a novelty.

Alston nodded, her armor rustling and clanking slightly as she moved. “It’ll thin out when it sinks in how much work it is, I expect,” she replied cynically.

“I’m surprised we have the time,” Martha Cofflin said thoughtfully. “I assumed that without machinery, we’d be working every hour of the day and night.”

Cofflin the fisherman-turned-policeman chuckled; so did Angelica Brand the farmer, and Marian Alston the farmer’s daughter.

“I said something funny?” Martha inquired tartly.

“My daddy used to say that farming is two kinds of butt work,” Alston said. “Bust your butt working fit to kill yourself, then sit on your butt ’cause there’s nothing to do.”

“Fishing’s a lot like that, too,” Cofflin added.

“Seasonal,” Martha said. “So there’s time for this.”

The big sandy field held several hundred men and women. All the
Eagle
’s cadets and off-duty crew, of course, for whom it was compulsory, and nearly as many volunteers. The islanders present were a mixed bag, mostly younger; a good many were friends the cadets and crew had made in the months since the Event. There were enough crossbows for practice, and shields with foam rubber bound around their rims, spears with blunt cloth-bound tips, extra-weight wooden short swords. A few worked with
bokken,
wooden replicas of the
katana.
Nearly half the
Eagle
’s complement were in the new armor Leaton was turning out, getting accustomed to the weight and heat. Trainees attacked wooden posts and practiced simple formations. Grunts, Rebel yells, and the thump and clatter of wood on wood and metal sounded across the dust raised by so many feet. The
Eagle
’s instructors were busy hammering home the basics of close-order drill. Cofflin watched with interest as a column of about thirty countermarched, each pair’s spears crossing in an X as they turned. A little farther off two rows with crossbows faced a hastily-erected wooden wall backed by earth.

“Front rank!” the officer drilling them shouted. “Ready!” crossbows came to port-arms position, held across the chest. “Aim!” The weapons came up to their shoulders with a unified jerk.
“Fire!”

WHUNNGGGG!
The strings released in near-unison.

“Reload! Second rank,
fire!
”

The first rank braced the butts of their weapons on their hips and pumped the levers built into the forestocks. The second rank took half a step forward and fired in their turn. By the time they stepped back, the first rank were clipping bolts into the firing grooves of their weapons.

“Think that’ll do much good?” Cofflin asked.

“I think so,” Alston said; she’d been looking at her watch, and gave a grunt of satisfaction. “It’s what Maurice of Wassau originally developed drill for. Few of us can match”—she pointed eastward—“for individual ferocity and skill at arms just yet, but the Iraiina aren’t much at coordination, which can be more important. From what I saw and can get out of our guests, battles are a series of individual brawls here.”

Cofflin nodded. “They’re having a lot of fun, too,” he said. “Working off some energy.”

Martha chuckled. “Human energy we seem to have enough of. Amateur theatricals, people giving lessons in the guitar and piano, quilting bees, glee clubs, learn-how-to-make-it groups, debating societies, mushroom-collecting circles . . .” She shook her head. “We’re going to have to move the notice board out of the Athenaeum and put a few more in down by the Hub convenience store. Getting in the way, it’s so crowded.” She looked thoughtful. “Blackboards and chalk, perhaps?”

“No more mass media, it isn’t surprising people’ve turned back to making their own pastimes. We’ve got a lot of Internet junkies going through withdrawal pains, as well,” Dr. Coleman said. He smiled, a not altogether pleasant expression. “Not to mention real junkies. Suicides are down, though. I guess most of those inclined that way are gone.” His smile turned rueful. “The rest of us are getting disgustingly healthy. Lots of exercise, low-fat diet, no cigarettes, and not much alcohol. Did you know that the average islander has lost ten pounds?”

“If you could sell it back up in the twentieth, you’d be set for life, Doctor,” Cofflin said.

That brought a chuckle from the rest of them. The group began to split apart, only Cofflin and Martha accompanying Alston toward the circles where individuals sparred.
Alston looks quite natural in that stuff
, Cofflin thought. There was a sort of archaic handsomeness to her face above the enameled metal, and she swung along as if oblivious of the weight and the hot summer sun, which must make the inside under the padding like a solar oven. Her long sword was slung across her back in a special baldric tight-cinched to the armor, and it rattled slightly as she walked, clinking occasionally against the neck guard of her flared helmet.

He grinned mentally. In fact, he knew she still felt hideously self-conscious in the armor, even though she’d issued an order, backed by the Council, making it the equivalent of working and walking-out dress for Guard and militia members.

As they reached the chalk circles for individual sparring, Swindapa fell backward out of one, winded, armor clattering. She lay stunned by the impact for a moment, blond hair leaking out from under her helmet brim. The islander she’d been fighting advanced his practice spear and tapped her on the chest; then he looked up and saw Alston. He came to rigid attention, blanching a little under the flush of exercise.

“Sorry, ma’am, I, ah, got carried away, and—”

Alston frowned. “Middleton, you were doing what you’re supposed to be doing. If you ever have to use that pigsticker, it’ll be for real. And Ms. Swindapa wouldn’t thank you fo’ playin’ patty-cake.” She turned and hauled the blond Fiernan girl up with a forearm-to-forearm grip. “Here, let me show you.”

She took the
bokken
, the oakwood practice
katana
that some of the advanced students were using rather than shield and short sword. In shape and weight it was exactly the same as the real weapon, although the aerodynamics were different, since the wood was thicker.

“Slow-time, Middleton. Here’s what you did, ’dapa.” She stood with the hilt at waist level and the point slanted up toward her opponent’s eyes. “
Chudan no kame
, for starters.”

The young man advanced, thrusting the spear with both hands. Alston brought the wooden sword up under the cloth-bound point, hands braced widely on the long hilt.

“So far, so good.” The wooden shaft rose as it slid across the sword until the breastplates met with a
cling
sound. “Here’s where you went wrong. Come on, Middleton,
push.”

“You were tryin’ to
stop
his impetus like a wall. Bad idea. If you fight, you’ll be fighting men, and they’ll likely be bigger and stronger, and weigh more. Don’t try to oppose strength with strength.”

“I was trying to get into a place . . . a
position
to cut strong,” Swindapa said, a frown of concentration on her face.

“It isn’t cutting strongly or weakly that’s the point, ’dapa.
‘One is totally involved with getting the opponent to die,’
” she quoted. “Watch. Middleton, we’ll go through this again. Slow-time, please.”

They set themselves. The spear came forward, and the sword rose to meet it. This time it circled from left to right, pushing the spear slightly aside and down. “Don’t stop the thrust, redirect it.” Her right foot skimmed forward. “Now turn yo’ hips at a forty-five-degree angle. Turn the edge of the sword to face your opponent—it’s just a motion of the wrists. You’re inside his guard and he can’t stop moving toward you, or not quickly enough. From here you can strike at the upper arms, at the throat, or at the face, snapping your hips into the movement for added force, then follow through.”

Her
bokken
tapped the areas indicated. “Again.”

“If you can’t step aside, redirect the spear, not the man.” She faced the thrust directly, snapping the
bokken
up from right to left.

“That puts you in position for a diagonal cut. His spear is over your left shoulder, and so is your blade. Let it fall back until the point is almost touching your back. Now
quickly,
elbows out, hands light on the hilt, you bring it down. At the same time, your legs go down, your arms come around as your hips pivot, elbows moving together, wrists clench, breathe out, and the blade strikes
so.”
It tapped at the young man’s right shoulder and slid down across his torso. “Drawing the cut.”