Samuel Florman - The Aftermath

“Our forces are limited,” Ranavolana rejoined. “There’s only so much we can do. We need to keep an adequate defense on hand here.”

“Lady, we can do both,” Patel put in. “And we might find some more ships that have foundered or are lost at sea. We can always make use of more.” “ He smiled, showing his small brown teeth.

Queen Ranavolana did not smile. She steeled herself not to show any softness or humor—potential signs of weakness in the company of these men of action. She sought the opinions of others of her council. Some of them were more concerned with “internal security,” that is, unrest among the Malagasy survivors than defenses—against whom? they asked. There had been no other sign of human survivors since the fishing boat encounter. She listened, absorbed what the men said, then suspended the meeting so that she could consider her decision.

The queen of the pirates retreated to her private quarters, sparsely furnished with a pallet, a makeshift desk, and a chair. On a small table in one corner of the room, there was a large candle that flickered with golden light. Here she could read and meditate and relax, dream her grandiose dreams of power. Here, in her sanctum sanctorum, anything was possible, and she could be anyone she chose: she could even be Anne Marie Appleton, the lost soul who had wondered across the world to find… what? Herself? The meaning of life? The ultimate high? To find… to be the woman her now-dead family always hoped she would be?

Now there were many people—hundreds, if not thousands—who looked to her for life and death decisions on their survival and well-being. She gazed at the candle. It had been a gift from a young woman who came to her to ask for the queen’s favor upon her children who needed food and shelter.

It was still afternoon in this strange new world, but the sky was gravid with clouds that obscured the giant red orb of the sun. Night and day often melded together in a dull iron sky that gave sadly inadequate light or heat. On some rare occasions, it rained; but it was not the same rain she had known before the great disaster. It was a hard, almost steely rain—cold and piercing, blessedly brief. It was enough to dampen the earth and keep the inland plants and trees in flower, enough to provide potable water for the survivor community, enough to sustain life—barely. But, to what end? she wondered. Were these people, her people, better off for having survived?

She kept herself semidetached from them—the citizens of her isolated empire. She attempted to maintain an image of godlike dispassion, the calm of a remote ruler. Her commanders and henchmen did whatever dirty police work was necessary. The people themselves kept busy with the grim business of everyday life. There was another reason for her self-imposed aloofness. She could not bear to see so much misery close up. As much as she had, during her vagabonding years, seen suffering and death, she no longer had the stomach for it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by sounds of shouting and scuffling near her private quarters. A burly guard burst into the room and informed Queen Ranavolana that she was needed urgently by the council. She rushed out to see what the commotion was all about, heading directly for the pavilion on the beach where a large crowd was gathered. She pushed her way into the middle of the meeting area.

The council rose to greet their leader. “What is happening?” the pirate queen asked.

The tall Taiwanese captain, Louie, said, “The motorboat is missing—along with some fuel. There are two men unaccounted for, as well as some weapons and ammunition.”

An ominous silence fell over the assembly, and all eyes turned to Queen Ranavolana. Her eyes burned angrily as she demanded, and received, the details. The men must have slipped away the previous night, loading the fifteen-foot motorboat with as much extra fuel and other supplies as possible. They probably rowed it out to sea before starting the motor. That was many hours ago. There was no hope of catching them now.

“Who is responsible for this outrage? Who was guarding my boats?” she asked in a low voice, her head swiveling slowly as she looked into their frozen faces. No one answered her.

The Australian spoke up: “The men who were on guard at the time have been arrested. They—”

“Bring them to me.”

“But, Queen—”

“Bring them to me. Now!”

It took several agonizing minutes for the word to be circulated and the men brought forward. Their hands and feet were bound, and they were dragged before the queen and her lieutenants. The two men, who seemed pitiful and small, fell to their knees. They had been beaten severely, their eyes swollen closed, their faces broken and bloody. They trembled, speechless.

To the assembled crowd, Queen Ranavolana announced: “These men are criminals of the worst order. They have endangered all of our lives.” Glaring furiously at the wretches before her, she said: “I sentence you to death, at dawn.”

The evening after the artists’ parade, the Focus Group held a special meeting of their own to celebrate the success of Sarah’s extravaganza. It was now January 30, thirty-six days after the Event. Herb suggested that the date be observed in perpetuity as Parade Day. His motion, seconded by Roxy, passed without opposition.

“Quite a parliamentary coup,” Tom said drily. “Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a terrific idea. I just wonder what the greater community will think of it.”

As the night sky darkened, the group lit one of their precious candles and toasted the muses, drinking the sorghum beer that a Zulu dancer had given to Roxy, his fellow artist, as a gesture of friendship. The six were in high spirits, although well aware that this party atmosphere could not last.

“It’s back to the grindstone tomorrow,” Wil said. “For me it’s back to the good old Joint Planning Subcommittee.”

“What’s on the agenda?” Sarah asked.

“Ichiro Nagasaka will hold forth on the topic of iron and steel. This is the moment he’s been waiting for. Frankly, it’s a moment I’ve been waiting for, too. It’s exciting to be in the center of such a momentous enterprise. Rebuilding an industrial society from scratch.”

“Progress,” Roxy said. “Soon there will be factories, probably standing right about here, spoiling our view of the water. I can’t wait!”

“Soot-filled skies and black-lunged workers,” Herb put in.

“But you have to admit that it’s exciting,” Wil said. “Making our way out of the Stone Age into the Iron Age.”

“Iron schmiron,” Roxy said with a shrug. “Everyone carries on about the Iron Age, the iron horse, and all that stuff. I say it’s just bad poetry for a heartless world. Really, what’s the big deal about something that’s just a metal?”

“It is a big deal, Roxy,” Tom replied. “A very big deal. Instead of complaining, you people should be singing hymns of praise. The universe has given us ninety-two elements with which to work, and out of those ninety-two, iron has a special place, a very special place. Without this unique element—and without the people who were able to discover its secrets—human civilization as we know it would never have evolved.”

“Ninety-two elements,” Herb said. “Isn’t that a peculiar number?”

“It’s a fabulous number,” Tom said excitedly. “As you learned in your high school chemistry class.”

“You’re assuming a lot for this crowd,” Sarah put in.

“Anyway,” Tom went on, controlling his exasperation, “the elements are the basic building blocks of the material world. We list them according to the number of electrons they have spinning around in orbit, which is the same as the number of protons they have in their nucleus. You’ve seen those pictures of electrons in orbit around the atomic nucleus. Well, a drawing can’t really show what an atom is, but speaking as an engineer—not a nuclear physicist, mind you—I would say that the image serves us pretty well.”