101 The Final Solution (1/2)

The governor's house was much nicer and more comfortable than Kirk's old royal palace in the Lander colony. It had a wooden floor, separate rooms, real furniture. It even had a bathroom; attached to the free-standing kitchen at the back of the house, it boasted a wooden tub and had heating of sorts, thanks to the proximity of the kitchen stove. It was cared for by Kirk's housekeeper, a thirty-something female that was neither attractive nor ugly.

There were nearly fifty females in the settlement, and some of them were very pleasant to look at. But Kirk chose a plain-looking woman on purpose. He didn't want anyone suspecting he was having sex with his housekeeper, who gave him a blowjob every Saturday evening. Kirk would close his eyes, and imagine someone else's mouth around his dick: of late, it was almost always Debbie.

He missed her. The five days he'd spent on the train so far translated into seven weeks in the New World, a world in which everything was much more physical. Absence did make the heart grow fonder; the old saw was very true. Of course, there was no question of his seeing Debbie in the New World until the Lander colony became legal, and it would be difficult even then. It would take three to four days on horseback to get there, and the same amount of time to get back. He couldn't abandon his duties for such a long period of time.

Kirk stood in the entrance of his house for quite a while, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The windows all had solid wood shutters, kept closed when no one was present in a particular room; it was getting chilly outside, winter was just around the corner. The moment Kirk opened the shutters on one of the windows, a blast of cold air blew into the room that served as Kirk's bedroom, office, and dining room.

Working quickly, he stirred the ashes in the fireplace, found that all the embers had gone out, and spent an increasingly chilly couple of minutes getting a fire going with flint and tinder. Blowing air at the tiny flames, he swore and cursed when hot ash got into his eyes. Continuing to curse, he arranged the sticks of firewood so that they would burn slowly and evenly, then went up the window and stood there blinking until his tears washed away all the dirt. He didn't want to rub his eyes. The first and the last time he did that in the New World, he developed conjunctivitis and it took a full month for his eyes to recover.

The window he stood at afforded a view of a field. Several women were tending the cows and sheep grazing among tree stumps that had proven too difficult to tear out. Kirk narrowed his eyes: from what he could see, at least two were pregnant. Fuck! More babies! Babies were totally unproductive, more, they cut into the productivity of his settlement. And he couldn't forbid sex; it was about the only entertainment the settlers had. The settlement's two doctors had tried to make contraceptive sheaths out of sheep intestines, but as could be seen the results were highly unsatisfactory.

Kirk closed the shutters, plunging the room into semi-darkness lit only by the crackling fire. It would be at least an hour before his housekeeper returned with whatever mushrooms and berries and firewood she'd managed to find. He felt like a nap. His housekeeper would wake him when dinner was ready.

He went up to the long, wide bench set against the wall and lay down on its leather cushions...

... and lay with his eyes shut for a while, listening to the rhythmic double thump of the carriage wheels as the train sped on towards New York.

He was hungry. He sat up on his bunk, and allowed himself the luxury of rubbing his eyes without fear of an infection caused by dirty hands. He carefully dragged the smaller of his two suitcases off the rack, put it on his bunk, and opened it. It was half-full of food; he'd already eaten the other half. He'd been warned that there would be no restaurant car on the train, and had prepared accordingly.

Smoked meat and bread again! Oh well; at least he still had some wine. While he ate, Kirk sought to improve his morale by thinking about all the millions of people who sucked their left thumb for breakfast and the right thumb for dinner and maybe, just maybe, got to eat some leaves and grass for lunch.

This reminded him that Brock was expecting to hear solutions to that very situation. But the only solutions that came to Kirk's mind were partial ones. Require everyone to grow their own fruit and vegetables? The average city dweller would find it hard to survive a month on a full year's bumper crop.

It was fucking hopeless. Many people would just have to die. Luckily, the unproductive ones would go first - old people, and babies. They would be accompanied by those whose lives depended on taking all sorts of pills regularly. The next batch would consist of people who were inherently frail in one way or another. Birth defects, inherited diseases, low aggression - all this spelled a quick death. Aggression was particularly important. Aggression led to initiative; aggression made people get up off their asses, it made them DO things as opposed to sitting and bitching and moaning.

Who knew? Maybe all those deaths would be a blessing in disguise. Survival of the fittest. That was the way Nature had planned it, and who could argue with Nature? Wasn't Nature always right?

Kirk sighed. It seemed the only solution he could think of was letting things run their natural course. He couldn't tell Carlton Brock that, or at least that alone: it would have to be supported by something else, something substantial. A good, strong idea that would cover plenty of bases.

A knock on the door to his compartment interrupted his thoughts.

”Yes? What is it?” he shouted.

A muffled voice informed him that the governors of Illinois and Oklahoma desired a meeting. Kirk stifled a strong desire to tell the man to go to hell, and shouted:

”Tell them I'll be there in ten minutes! And fuck off and die,” he added, in an undertone.

He looked a mess and it took twelve minutes before he emerged from his compartment, all dapper and fortified by two slugs of brandy from his chest flask. A worried-looking man in a rumpled suit and an unbuttoned overcoat - some sort of government flunkey - was waiting for him in the corridor outside.

Kirk followed him to the Omaha governor's compartment. It was located at the other end of the carriage. He passed an open compartment door on the way and glanced and saw a man in trousers and undershirt sitting on his bunk with his face buried in his hands. Kirk reached out and slammed the door shut and walked on, thinking: what a fucking idiot! Putting himself in public view like that! Some people really had no shame.

The Omaha senator was clearly one of those people: it turned out it was him that had called the meeting. However, he was quick to press a very big bourbon into Kirk's hand, thus proving to possess basic political skills. Somewhat mollified, Kirk seated himself alongside the Illinois governor, who was very busy with his drink: his glass was almost empty. Three governors, Kirk thought: two former senators against an arriviste Mr Nobody with money and good bourbon. He refreshed himself with half the contents of his glass and said to the Omaha governor:

”This is fine whiskey. Now what is this all about? You wanted to share something? Ask something, talk? Then let's talk.”

The Omaha senator looked uncomfortable. Then he said:

”It's governor Carlton Brock's request to come up with solutions to the present situation. You know. He's talked to you too. He's talked to everyone about it. I thought it could be a good idea for the three us us to get together and, you know, present it together. As fruit of our collective efforts. I would like a formal motion that we do so. We can vote on that right now.”

”I see,” Kirk said. ”You can't come up with anything so you bring us in on the chance one of us did. And then the two clueless ones vote to use his idea, sparing themselves the difficulty of some hard thinking. Am I correct? Is that the way you've figured it out?”