Authors: Chris James
That night, a Force Ten gale hit Eydos and blew ten weeks’ hard work straight off the shelf.
The short, sharp shock given Nillin by the gales in the night had left very little of substance standing in the settlement. Most of the buildings had only one or two walls remaining, not always in the perpendicular. Ninety percent of Harvey Giles’s poplar and cottonwood cuttings had been uprooted, along with most of the three hundred saplings that had already been put in the earth.
The communication system’s solar power mast had survived and the satellite dish had been found undamaged in the angle between a collapsed wall and the sunken roof. McConie had recovered and repositioned it in time for his eight o’clock watch. When Pilot appeared, the man gave him his seat in front of a laptop. All messages were sent and received in encrypted form and Vaalon’s decoded greeting was waiting at the top of the screen. ‘McConie has already reported no causalities of the human kind, but what of your other works?’ it read.
Pilot typed a short damage report, as far as he and Serman had assessed it, then went out to help clean up. The sky was beginning to reappear behind the storm’s retreating skirts and the added light was imparting new energy to the work parties, which at that moment were trying to reassemble one of the less badly damaged buildings in which to store the settler’s personal effects. Digging through the rubble of the mess hall, someone managed to root out the tea urn, a camping gas burner that worked and a tea caddy that was still dry inside. The milk was only an hour out of the sheep, milking stopping for no man nor Act of God, and within half an hour the entire company was assembled for the morning tea break.
As they sipped their Assam, rotor blades were heard shredding the air to the south. Over a hundred grimy faces turned and watched as the ponderous helicopter landed. It was the media. Eydos was news, the gales were news, and the two together were big news.
Aaron Serman, assigned by Pilot to deal with them, led the reporters on a short inspection tour, feeding them the same damage report they’d given Vaalon. No casualties. Much damage. Everything under control. Thank you for coming, but please go now so we can get on with our clearing up.
“I need to see Lonnie,” Austin Palmer said. Serman led him to a small tent on the far side of the settlement.
“The Admiralty have issued a response to your open protest about Britain’s submarine incursions,” Palmer said, handing Pilot an envelope. “It’ll be appearing in all tomorrow’s news outlets. The gist of it is that they think you’d be better off back home on benefits than in the Bay of Biscay playing diplomacy.”
In the cloudless, windless conditions that came in behind the storm, the Nillinites worked with humour, energy and resolve to put their city back together again. Half the uprooted poplars had been recovered, some from as far as a mile away, and replanted. They also redesigned the layout of the settlement, locating all the buildings in the lee of the western basin wall to provide an extra measure of protection from future storms. Most of Jane Lavery’s outdoor planting had been destroyed, so new seeds for winter crops were being sown. While her associates did this, Lavery applied herself to the problem of how to make Moringa leaves more palatable. All but one of her hydroponic grow tanks had miraculously survived the storm.
Two weeks after the gale, the adjutant for the Admiral of the British Atlantic Fleet opened a letter, postmarked Stoke Newington, cast a seasoned eye over it and passed it to his superior, pretending he hadn’t read it, discretion being one of the prerequisites of his post.
The Admiral was alone in his office when he unfolded the inoffensive-looking sheet of writing paper.
There’s
still
time
for
you
to
save
a
most
distinguished
naval
career
from
running
aground
on
the
shoals
of
scandal
and
dishonour
by
performing
one
last
act
of
courage
.
Use
your
influence
to
withdraw
the
nuclear
submarine
,
Gauntlet
,
from
the
territorial
waters
of
Eydos
immediately
and
to
ensure
that
no
such
incursions
take
place
in
the
future
.
*
The
Inverness
Hotel
.
January
1999
.
*
Timmy
Vernon
and
Rocki
Augenblau
.
*
Account
with
Corporate
Investors
Trust
Cayman
Islands
in
the
name
of
your
deceased
cousin
.
For
your
connections
with
the
above
-
mentioned
to
be
made
public
would
be
a
personal
tragedy
.
We
will
be
watching
the
situation
with
interest
.
--
EDE
Englanders
for
the
Defense
of
Eydos
.
EDE, a sub group of
Law
and
Freedom
without
Violence
, a 300-strong band of well-connected white collar anarchists based in North London, was the first of many secret supporters of Eydos that were to germinate within months of the island’s appearance and remain working in the shadows, unknown even to Forrest Vaalon and Lonnie Pilot.
The Admiral stared at the letter for a long time, hoping the tiny writing carrying the huge threat would disappear.
The argument put forward by the Admiral of the British Atlantic Fleet for the recall of
Gauntlet
from her current mission was that: 1) the climate of world opinion had shown itself to be strongly protective towards the settlers of Eydos against the major powers who made up her immediate neighbours; and 2) it was only a matter of time before the allegations and protests being made by the island about submarine incursions were substantiated by independent sources. How they knew the submarine was there in the first place was a greater worry and required immediate investigation.
Two prominent officials at the Ministry of Defense, both of whom had received letters from EDE containing compromising information personal to themselves, gave the Admiral unreserved support in his argument. Indeed, without it he wouldn’t have carried the day.
Thirty-eight year old Victor Bosse, considered by many to be a potential future French Foreign Minister, had been given the brief of devising the exploitation of Ile de Bonne Fortune back in September. At first he had considered the assignment an annoying detour from his one-way climb to the top and an obvious snub from the incumbent Foreign Minister, who made no secret of disliking him. But as media attention focused more and more on the island and its strange settlers, Bosse came to view it as a golden opportunity for self-elevation. His authorship of the demands being placed on Eydos in return for her ‘independence’ had won him great favour among the French old guard, who had never recovered from Waterloo, and members of France’s nationalist faction which grew stronger the harder world opinion fell on their country.
Eydos’ invitation to the French Foreign Office to hold the talks on the island had been passed to Bosse, the Foreign Minister himself not wishing to get involved. Seeing the publicity potential, Bosse had accepted against the advice of the Ministry, which thought Pilot should prostrate himself in Paris instead. An aide was sent to Nillin to work out the details of the visit, while Bosse organized the PR army, whose job would be to package his first major international triumph for world consumption.
The settlers couldn’t believe it when the envoy arrived with Bosse’s official acceptance, but were put out by its terms. Pilot listened intently as Odile Bartoli translated.
“Monsieur Bosse and his entourage of military, scientific and commercial advisers will arrive by helicopter on the morning of 21 October to collect Lonnie Pilot and his party (no more than three nominated aides will be accommodated on the flight) before taking off again to visit the sites listed in the itinerary. The helicopter will then return to your campsite for the official signing of agreements. The Independence Ceremony will take place six months after the completion of the naval base.”
‘
Campsite
?’ Pilot had a whispered consultation with Bradingbrooke and Mara before responding. “Tell Monsieur Bosse that we look forward to his visit to Eydos. As a sign of goodwill, we will waive visa requirements for him and his party on the day.” When Bartoli had finished translating, Pilot shook hands with the sour-faced envoy and accompanied him to his helicopter.
Back in his room later, Pilot opened a letter he’d received from Stratospherix, the hot air balloon company he’d been in negotiations with since late July. Inside was the paperwork and invoice for the purchase of three hot air balloons.
In Storeroom 12, Pilot counted out the cash, put it in a briefcase and walked it over to Odile’s cabin. She was to take the mail helicopter to St. Helier and from there, travel to France on a false passport to complete the deal. Delivery of the balloons to Eydos had already been organized.
Seventy kilometers east of Paris is the town of Sezanne, home of ‘Stratospherix Entreprise de Fabrication de Montgolfière’. Within twenty-four hours of her touchdown, Bartoli was sitting in their offices concluding the paperwork with the Company’s Director, a member of the hippy-gentry with a Porsche and a slick black pony-tail down to his waist.
A
black
Mercedes
left
the
Adriatic
highway
and
began
climbing
the
narrow
hair
-
pin
road
up
to
Bosanka
.
When
it
arrived
at
the
derelict
restaurant
overlooking
the
walled
city
of
Dubrovnik
,
three
cars
were
already
there
.
The
driver
of
the
Mercedes
,
a
shaven
-
headed
man
in
an
expensive
suit
over
an
open
shirt
,
got
out
of
the
car
and
entered
the
building
,
where
seven
men
in
similar
tie
-
less
attire
greeted
him
with
bearhugs
and
handshakes
.
Spread
out
on
the
table
were
open
briefcases
,
a
couple
of
laptops
,
various
folders
of
different
colours
and
the
all
important
bottles
and
shot
glasses
.
Cigarette
smoke
hung
from
the
ceiling
in
blue
undulating
layers
.
Mercedes
-
man
called
the
meeting
to
order
,
raised
a
glass
of
raki
and
threw
it
down
his
throat
as
the
others
did
likewise
.
For
thirty
minutes
,
he
enthralled
the
room
with
his
inspiring
monologue
,
occasionally
calling
on
a
cohort
to
pull
a
document
from
one
of
the
files
and
pass
it
around
the
table
.
He
then
gave
the
floor
to
a
large
man
with
a
Bluto
beard
,
who
placed
a
brushed
aluminium
photographer’s
case
on
the
table
.
He
opened
it
with
a
flourish
and
withdrew
a
hand
-
drawn
map
and
a
laptop
,
which
he
powered
up
.
There
were
twelve
pie
slice
shapes
randomly
spaced
on
the
map
,
each
with
a
red
letter
at
its
apex
,
and
twelve
video
files
on
the
laptop
.
As
he
pointed
to
each
pie
slice
,
he
clicked
the
corresponding
video
and
began
running
his
finger
along
the
curved
edge
of
the
slice
as
if
it
were
the
camera
panning
the
landscape
.
Every
now
and
then
he
would
pause
the
video
and
draw
a
small
circle
on
the
map
,
inside
of
which
he
wrote
a
number
relating
to
a
list
each
man
had
been
given
.
When
he
had
finished
his
virtual
tour
,
he
opened
a
photo
file
,
clicked
the
first
jpeg
and
selected
‘
slideshow’
…
an
attractive
woman
holding
a
shovel
;
four
people
pulling
a
heavily
laden
wagon
;
a
self
-
portrait
of
Bluto
-
beard
himself
,
standing
at
the
water’s
edge
;
pegs
and
rope
delineating
a
large
square
area
at
the
base
of
a
cliff
;
six
people
sitting
on
the
ground
eating
something
rice
-
like
with
their
fingers
.
He
paused
the
slideshow
on
this
image
and
stabbed
the
third
man
from
the
left
with
his
heavily
-
calloused
forefinger
. “
Da
je
Lonnie
Pilot
.”