Posted by: Konisforce
« on: March 10, 2013, 06:32:03 PM »~~~
Creekmouth Merchant’s Club
Creekmouth Merchant’s Club
Richard of Hampshire arrived in Creekmouth by carriage and punctiliously observed all the niceties of entering a gentlemen’s club of which one is not a member. He displayed his written invitation and placed his card upon the head butler’s silver tray, then waited in the anteroom which served as the brackish tidewater between the external riff-raff and those appointed access to the hallowed walls within. He did so ungrudgingly for that was his manner - open, kind, and honest. It was how he kept getting elected. Inwardly, however, he smirked.
He could have arrived without an invitation and simply by the nature of his status as one of the Kingmakers been given an immediate invitation by any of the men within. But he retained his status by not performing such petty slights. Such power was a form of social capital here in the heart of the Empire and he made his livelihood trading in such capital as surely as the men within the club made theirs trading in sides of beef and tanks of sorium. He had not become who he was by squandering such power.
The head butler returned and personally showed him into the club and up the stairs. Even if Richard’s face had not been among the most well-known in London, the fact that the head butler was escorting him to his destination would have been a symbol of some cachet. Richard moved easily through territory that was decidedly not his own, dispatching calculated nods where appropriate, a handshake and a warm word at one juncture to a particular associate of his brother’s. He was gratified to note that the gentleman was invited to sit at a central table moments after. The touch of a Kingmaker was as healthy as ever.
And of course here in the Merchant’s Club, the status of his brother - both merchant and Kingmaker - was downright vibrant.
“Lord Richard Pearson, Lord of the Commons of Hampshire,” the head butler announced. It was a stately show, of course. Lewis would have received Richard’s card and thus been informed of his presence. Not to mention Richard’s punctual arrival at eleven o’ the clock in the morning, as requested in the invitation. But in the waters in which the Brothers Pearson swam, such formal niceties were observed. It brought dignity to the proceedings.
“Of course. Brother, your usual?” Richard nodded. “Two, please. Thank you, Graves.” The head butler retired soundlessly, shutting the door behind him.
The social capital of a Kingmaker in his element was on full display. Lewis held court in a second-story balcony conservatory jutting from the south side of the club. The windows were thrown open to the morning winds, and the remains of a light breakfast adorned a sideboard. Richard placed himself in one of the open seats and stared out the window while waiting for their refreshments, allowing his brother to read his paper undisturbed.
Less than two years ago the site of the Creekmouth Merchant’s Club had been nestled among seedy, tumbledown shipyards. The south back of the river - aptly named Thamesmead - had been a low, marshy bend in the Thames, notably only as a source of stench and a common location to discover the bodies of those killed in barfights in the dock district upriver. Now the London Orbital Transit Station hulked on solid land just south of the river and the marsh was drained, flattened, and channeled to provide access to barges. No fewer than six East Indiaman freighters squatted in berths. Men moved cargo to and from warehouses nearby, waiting carters in the streets, or directly onto waiting steam barges. The black streaks of aether projectors shot from the ground to envelop a seventh space freighter and bring it gently to its berth with a precision unknown in the early days of aether funnels.
The butler appeared with drinks, placed them wordlessly in unobtrusive but near-to-hand locations, and glided back out of the sunroom. After a few appreciative sips, both brothers folded their papers and got down to business, content that they would be undisturbed until such time as they requested assistance.
“Thank you for coming, Richard,” Lewis began.
The Commons Lord waved a hand. “Please, brother. I’m always happy to partake of your hospitality.” He leaned back and allowed his brother time to come around to his point. Herbert, the eldest, always hurried their littlest brother in the same manner he had for years, and it wasn’t the sort of thing to do to a major representative of the East India Company, no matter how many times he’d cried over a skinned knee as a child.
Lewis sniffed, then inhaled deeply. “Still smells vaguely of fish droppings, but a significant improvement over the past few months.” He took a cigar from a box at hand and lit it, knowing Richard would not want one. “I do prefer the Club at Plymouth, if only because the Martianman putting in there represent so much more money. But the Orbital Transit Station does a fair share of business . . .”
He shifted from the window and focused on his brother. “I know, Richard, that your chosen calling is not the most lucrative.” He holds up a hand to stave off any protests. “I don’t gloat here, brother, nor do I seek to rub your nose in anything. Through my words or the venue.” He waves a hand at the buzzing mercantilism across the river.
“There is a concept in production, you may have heard of it. The ‘bottleneck’ theory. Simply put, a group of people attempting to achieve something will have a weak spot. A single point where no improvements to the surrounding process will make any difference. For you, that bottleneck is money, and always has been.” Richard only nodded. “It is the nature of public service. I have my business, our brother has our father’s lands, and you have only what you can gain from well-wishers and donors.”
Lewis pulled a card out from his waistcoat and handed it across the table. “See that man when we are through here, and purchase every bolt of Martian silk you can. Hold it for four days, then post an ad in any mercantilist paper offering to sell it at five times the price you paid.”
Richard accepted the card and cocked an eyebrow at his brother. “I seem to recall Herbert lost a fortune speculating in coal futures on your advice. . .”
Lewis waved a hand vaguely. “Stuff and nonsense. Not a fortune, hardly, and he needed to have his nose tweaked. To remind him that I am in business for myself.”
The Lord of the Commons of Hampshire sensed the jaws of the trap closing and decided to get ahead of the situation. “And speaking of being in business for yourself, what exactly do you want for this boon?”
“Nothing we don’t both already want, brother. The East India Company will soon be putting for bills in the House of Burghers. Greater control over the Plymouth Civilian Shipyards. Increased support for Martian colonization. Colonization of the Middlesex system. Construction of further cloud factories for deployment on Mars.”
Richard nodded. “The Commons could be brought to bear, certainly. Perhaps trading on the vestiges of the fervor for the Martain Land Act, and a bit of dealing behind the scenes. I can promise you support.”
“Excellent. It’s in everyone’s interests, of course. If two hundred years of mercantilism have taught us anything, it’s that moving people away from the goods they need and then charging them to move the goods is a lucrative business.”
Richard glanced at the card once more and stood. “Well, brother. I won’t keep you, then.” Richard paused a moment. “Out of curiosity . . . simply curiosity, not doubting your recommendation . . . but how do you know the price will jump in four days?”
Lewis did not turn. “The Thames Pride puts in from Mars in two days with a hold full of silk. By design, the ship’s cargo holds cannot be accessed from the crew section, only on the ground. When they open the hold, they’ll discover it was somehow infested with moths.”
“Oh dear, what a pity.”
“Quite . . .”
~~~
Excerpted from the notes of Vice-Commissioner Dylan Wall of the British Colonial Administration
20th of July, 1852 - The Jovian Research Corps has finished cataloging the ruins on Ganymede. That completes the cataloguing of all known ruins in the Sol system, with a few hundred each on Ganymede and Diotima, and the massive known complexes on Mars. I’ve dispatched the Corps to help with the cataloging on Ares, but it is a faint hope that Ares was the original home of the Martians, it would seem.
22nd of August - Two more Jump Phoenix class ships, the Hydra and the Griffin have been floated, but I cannot find the funds or support for any more. Frankly, I don’t want to, either. The initial buzz about Mars died off to show the bleak reality of living on a world inhospitable to life, and Ares is no better. And the idea of finding the original inhabitants of Mars seems intellectually interesting, but politically - and militarily - foolish. We will likely scout out any further jump points found in the Middlesex system, but the will to expand there is lacking for now.
19th of October - Even with two faculties of the Royal Society working, the ruins on Ares are still beyond our abilities. Though they have refused to report it yet, I am fairly confident that the civilization which made the ruins on Ares is different from the one here in Sol. They have cited difficulties in deciphering the different dialect of the three settlements here in Sol, but none have taken as long as this. I’ve sent the Royal Geology Corps to Ares. Though initial surveys found nothing, perhaps there are aether elemental riches waiting to be uncovered. One can hope . . .
29th of October - The Phoenix has reported back that there is another jump point in Middlesex, a fair distance from the Sol jump point. There is enough lingering curiosity about the Martians that everyone thinks they are over the next rise. I have my doubts, but the survey vessel will tell.
4th of December - The pioneer brigades on Mars have uncovered some three dozen advanced engines. They’re being shipped back to Earth for study. I say advanced, of course, but only study will show if they are any better.
24th of December - The Phoenix has jumped back into Sol with news of the system past Middlesex, which has been dubbed Surrey.
Surrey’s star is approximately the size of our sun, which nearly four times the brightness. There is a planet akin to Venus in both distance, temperature, and atmosphere, then a gas giant, then a terrestrial world. The gas giant has a number of moons, three of which seem to be able to support life, though it would require mechanical assistance like Mars.
Next out is a small chunk of rock, and beyond that a terrestrial world that is - should the uridium spectrograph readings be correct - already breathable, though a bit too cold. This is, naturally, the homeworld of the Martains, as far as everyone is concerned.
The rest of the system is another rocky world, then five gas giants, some of which are quite distant from the sun. There are various moons around each, with eight of them theoretically colonizable but all quite cold.
All told, a far richer solar system than Middlesex, and even that Sol by some measures. Follow-on surveys will tell us if any have ruins or civilizations, and what resources exist.
I had the unfortunate pleasure of being present at the meeting with Queen herself, along with her Prime Minister and various naval officers, when she was told the news. It was made perfectly clear that, while a survey of the Surrey system would be completed, the military would need to provide far greater assurances that the aether navy was developing military capabilities. As uncomfortable a meeting as it was, it is still heartening that the Queen understands what is at stake.
18th of January, 1853 - An intact research facility has been found on Mars. It is being shipped back to Earth, first to be studied and then to be put to use. Such a facility, in combination with an earlier ground force training facility, make it clear that the Martians were on Mars to stay. Military facilities, science campuses, and terraformers. What would Earth have been if they had stayed? And what made them leave . . ?