34 Governor or King? (1/2)
The fifteenth day of January, 2035 was Martin Luther King Day in the United States. Carlton Brock took this opportunity to visit several boroughs with a large black population, riding around in a vintage but brand-new red Studebaker that was automatically applauded wherever it appeared. It was a beautiful car. It was a car that worked! Its appearance meant things really were returning to normal.
His speechwriters had been busy throughout the night: he delivered no less than three different speeches, recycling a couple at later stops. All three of his speeches contained the announcement that he was stepping down, or rather up, as the President of the United States. He was to become the UN commissioner for the US: a godlike figure in the new government that ruled both worlds - old and new.
Brock's speeches made it clear that he remained in charge. Should Penny step out of line, he would be gone. He urged the approving black population to freely speak out about all the hardships they endured under Penny's coming reign. He knew that there would be many, but did not share that knowledge with his audience.
He oozed confidence from every pore, and so did general McAdam, who accompanied Brock on his last presidential tour. New York in the New World was busy churning out iron tools. With New World spring in full swing, the intensity of bitching and complaining in the settlement lessened considerably. Thanks to the know-how shared by the president of Mongolia, the pioneers had started to produce a mildly alcoholic drink from the milk of mares replicated in the New World. Called kumis, it had become an instant hit in the settlement.
The only worry Carlton Brock had at that moment was establishing a network of reliable governors in New World America. One of his choices was senator Kirk Lander from California. Brock had offered him a district that corresponded in shape and size to Napa county. But Lander wasn't happy with that. He wanted all of Sonoma, and a big chunk of Marin county as well. He wanted good access to the ocean. He'd told Brock he was determined to plant the US flag on the islands of the mysterious South Pacific Archipelago. Brock couldn't help but agree with this sentiment.
But Lander was also unhappy about the money. The thing was, he wouldn't be getting any money. He would have to earn it. A colonial governor's position paid a percentage of the profits from his district. A colonial governor was employed by the Colonial Council as an independent contractor that could be replaced if his district's profits were below par.
No salary and no job security, thought Kirk Lander as he sat in his study, sipping a Wallbanger. On the other hand, he would have total, absolute power over all the settlements in his district. The Colonial Council wasn't interested in how he ran things, as long as the money kept coming in an ever-increasing stream.
He would receive 25% cut of that money. And that cut wouldn't be limited to what he would produce in his own settlement. He would be getting his cut on all goods he'd obtained from the settlements in his district: by trade, by force, by whatever means he thought appropriate.
And there would be a lot of these. His own settlement - administrative center, as Brock put it - would automatically be the capital of the whole district. As its governor, Lander would also control all of the implant kits, hiber beds, and scrolls in the corresponding area back on Earth. His priority would be to grow his settlement as quickly as possible to produce a surplus of food, clothing, tools and other goods needed by the colonists in his district.
Trading this surplus with the settlements in his realm had the potential to bring in immense profits. But even the biggest financial bonanza wouldn't erase the basic disadvantage of becoming a governor.
He couldn't call himself a king. And deep down he yearned to be a king, not some goddamn governor. What was a governor? A bureaucrat. A fucking bureaucrat. He wouldn't be ruling his district, he would be an overseer over a collection of independent colonies. He wouldn't be able to have his own coat of arms! He wouldn't be able to design his own flag!
What was more, the Lander colony in the New World was developing very nicely. They were already smelting iron - Bernard, his dear younger boy had been instrumental in achieving that. The private school he attended was definitely worth the huge fees.
There was plenty of food, too. Adam had been busy on his bicycle, and the colony now had chicken, geese, and dairy cows. It was also growing potatoes, beans, and peas. This was Debbie's brilliant idea. She'd implanted a few spuds that had begun to grow shoots, and they were successfully replicated in the colony. Bean and pea sprouts followed, and there was more to come.
Kirk Lander's daughter, Karen, was in charge of obtaining seedlings for a whole variety of useful plants. She was in the process of replicating tomatoes, cucumbers, strawberries, and marijuana from Bernard's little plantation of cannabis plants, strictly for private use.
”It's hemp, Dad,” she'd told the frowning Lander. ”It's a very useful fiber. And we can use some recreation over there as well. Maybe you could be induced to smoke some weed, too. It will be a while before we have booze over there.”
Kirk had shook his head. He'd tried pot, and didn't like it. It made him paranoid. He was a man with plenty to get paranoid about, and getting stoned had been very unpleasant.
”Get going on tobacco too,” he'd said. ”I like to smoke a cigar after a meal.” He would have said more, but then the telephone rang with Brock's call and the whole household went crazy with excitement.
Communication had been restored! Kirk was on the phone with Brock for a long, long time. During that time, the remaining members of the household ran around trying to get anything electric to work. Nothing did.
When Kirk had concluded his talk with Brock, he immediately shut himself in his study, ignoring questions and demands. He needed private time to think, he'd told them. They would all get together in an hour and he would tell them about everything. There were important decisions to be made. In the meantime, could everyone fuck off and get busy looking for another salt lick in the New World? The one they'd found was poor, and close to being exhausted.
He got up from his chair and started circling his study, hands clasped behind his back, head bent with heavy thought. He was interrupted by Adam, who knocked on the door and shouted: