Tag: book1

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“Around 2200AD a new order was emerging.”

“In Wor and the other big cities, the senior officers in the security services noticed that people were no longer showing up for work. Then some of the senior officers left too. Police and army! Obviously some senior officers didn’t leave. They wouldn’t go, or they couldn’t go.”

“City halls and town halls had emptied. There was simply no local government. And central government ended up with rogue police and rogue army officers in charge. They had some really toxic people at all levels.”

“Across Worringfolk, local government evolved into a hammer. It’s useful for hitting a nail, and little else. If you really want a screwdriver or a spanner or a saw, your hammer is going to make a real mess of the job.”

“Once one rogue boss cemented his control over one town, it all snowballed. It seemed like a last chance for the good ones to escape. So more left. Leaving behind an even worse crowd of scoundrels. The people who didn’t get out were swallowed up by a corrupt regime.”

KristalClear is totally gobsmacked, and looks on in complete astonishment, “you mean there were literally thousands and thousands of people coming into Wolfland, and Meirionydd?”

“Anywhere that had high ground, anywhere with abundant fresh water. Quality streams and rivers. The favourite destinations were the Lake District and Eryri. Welsh was already coming back into favour back then, although English speakers were able to fit in OK. It caused a bit of local animosity, but what could they do? The Cedyrn and the Wolfies accepted a lot of refugees.”

“They’d have to!” exclaims KristalClear, “you can’t just send people back to a wicked and corrupt regime.”

“Oh, some people tried!”

“Even in Lancaster there was resistance to the newcomers. Big demonstrations, protest marches! The migrants were Scouse speakers, different people, different customs, coming to steal our jobs they said. They were a wicked big tribe full of

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police and the army for example.”

“Now think of Worringfolk. All the good people in Worringfolk were moving out, and of course the police and army contained a lot of good people.”

“Some ordinary police officers decided to move. And ordinary soldiers. They crossed the nearest border. The new internal borders of the British Isles were becoming obvious. Some police and soldiers moved because their entire local communities were moving … to join the Peakies towards Derby, or the Pennites in what was once Yorkshire. Or they moved south to join the Potters around Stoke. Many of the people who lived in Worringfolk came here to Wolfland, and some went to Meirionydd.”

KristalClear listens intently and says, “this was never taught at school in history lessons! Nor in Civics! This is mass migration! This is a refugee crisis, right here, in the British Isles!”

“Yes!” says CandiCrush, “and do you know what a bunch of refugees looks like?”

“No!”

“The Garrison does. The Garrison is usually their first point of contact, and because there is nobody else doing refugee management, the Garrison is left to figure out how to care for them. Food, water, bedding and shelter.”

CandiCrush continues, “if the total refugee population was just 1,000 people, then 333 would be children. Each of them in need of protection! Sending them back where they came from would be inhumane.”

“What did the government do?”

“The central government in London was already collapsing. The Thames was flooding the city more often. Clean drinking water had become an expensive luxury. Like everybody else, government workers simply walked out of their jobs, literally walked, and they carried on walking in search of safe land, and safe drinking water.”

“I know more about Wolfland and Worringfolk than I do about London, so let’s focus on the local geography.”

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territories, and more than most people, she has learnt what she can about Worringfolk. The Wor government is quasi Roman. All the others are quasi Greek.

However, she wants to steer the conversation back towards equality, and try to minimise the discussion of governments.

“Even Worringfolk has female pirates!”

“They do?” says KristalClear, briefly clasping her hand over her mouth, before asking, “have you met any?”

“One or two! There’re not many of them, but they do exist. The Wor definitely evolved differently. Maybe there are other autocratic rulers in Europe, we don’t know, we don’t have the same lines of communication that we once had.”

Pausing briefly, CandiCrush continues, and delivers a long monologue.

“However, the Wor, the people, they’re still human! We’re all the same. Basically, we’re all like cavemen with a bunch of weird hormones that weren’t designed for modern life. We’re trying to manage a complex society with brains that were originally designed to eat berries and live in a cave! It’s in our nature to protect the tribe. To defend the things and the people we love. Some of us might be misguided, but we still protect our tribe. The average Wor family is just like us at heart. But they’ve had one or two deranged leaders who haven’t helped things!”

“How did that happen?” asks KristalClear, “where do bad leaders come from?”

“Ooh, now you’re asking!” CandiCrush looks at the sky, looking for inspiration, and says, “let me see!”

After another moment’s pause she says, “OK, London, we’ll start with London. Originally, the government was run from London. But, go back to the years just after The Decimation and people were packing up and moving out. London disintegrated. Loads of cities disintegrated. Literally! The internal fabric of public sector bodies just began to fall apart. It all started with the low paid, the bin collectors, the shop assistants, and the nurses. Initially, those with slightly better income stayed loyal to their own local leadership, the

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Chapter 11
Uncivilised Society

KristalClear and CandiCrush are still deep in conversation, discussing life, civic society, career opportunities, money, and men.

“There are plenty of men in the Garrison, aren’t there?” asks KristalClear innocently.

“There are two ways to answer that,” observes CandiCrush, “and I’ll assume you don’t mean husband hunting! So we’re talking about equality?”

KristalClear doesn’t mean to generate any anguish, and she had genuinely intended to explore both angles.

“It’s complicated,” says CandiCrush, “yes, we’ve had equality for more than 400 years. Though it wasn’t like that at first. It wasn’t until after The Decimation in 2162AD when men finally got the message. Until then, there was still a latent sexism.”

“Then men realised that we can actually be just as good as them. Even better sometimes, especially in a crisis, organising things after a catastrophic disaster!”

“The Garrison has an almost perfect fifty fifty ratio. We have some non binaries too. Nobody cares anymore.”

“There are plenty of opportunities to find a romantic partner, for the ones that want to. I’ve not really been looking, and I’ve not stumbled into any ‘love at first sight’ scenarios either. From what I can see, you’re one step ahead of me on the man front.”

“You mean Dash?”

“Who’s Dash?”

“Oh! Dave! NutJob! It’s my new pet name for him. But don’t tell him I told you. You must always call him NutJob, please!”

“Yes, NutJob. He knows his world history too! Have you read the actual book The Penrith Chronicles?”

“No! At school our textbook is The Penrith Moral Compass. It covers the same stuff I think.”

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boy? Looking at her closely MickeyWarr is trying to see if there is any trace of stubble on her face.

No. And it looks like she actually has long, soft, hazel brown hair brushed up and concealed inside her bicorn hat. Her outfit is equally as neat as the captain’s, but less extravagant, and she too wears a belt carrying a narrow scabbard and a rapier. MickeyWarr tries not to stare.

But she notices, and she looks at him inquisitively.

It crosses his mind momentarily, but it’s dismissed instantly. This girl is not Angel. This girl is prettier. She has gorgeous eyes, and an intensity of gaze that is simply stunning.

BlackDog continues his uninspiring motivational speech as SpudGunn jams his hands into his pockets. His chin begins to quiver and he’s on the verge of blubbering when he notices the Captain’s lieutenant.

“It’s a girl!” he exclaims loudly, and steps backwards.

“Mr Buffoon,” howls BlackCloud in his high pitched falsetto voice, “this is not a maternity ward!”

SpudGunn stumbles backwards and falls over. Unable to break his fall because his hands are still in his pockets, he lands awkwardly, striking the back of his head on the concrete. But not badly enough to become unconscious, just semi conscious, which after all is the normal frame of mind for SpudGunn.

He lifts his head a little, groans, and lies back again. Slowly, he closes his eyes.

“You’re as useless as a chocolate teapot!” squeaks BlackCloud.

SpudGunn’s eyes open, wide and bright.

“Chocolate’s good!” he says, “you can eat chocolate!”

That infuriates BlackCloud even more.

“Put him back in the Asylum!”

Almost everybody on the quayside, and on the ship, has erupted in laughter. But one of them hasn’t.

MickeyWarr is already plotting his escape.

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consumers want it. The Brittania Bridge is now history and the remaining railway line operates only two locomotives between Fflint and Bangor. Hence domestic produce in Meirionydd is often moved around by ship.

“Who wants some gold?” demands BlackDog.

A less than enthusiastic cheer ripples along the quayside, drowned out by the eager shouts from the pirates on the ship’s deck. They’re up for it. Gold, or silver, or bronze!

MickeyWarr’s not joining in, he’s too busy examining the Laurel and Hardy lookalikes. The big one has a wide, black, tricorn hat, and is wearing a loose fitting sackcloth shirt with most of his buttons undone, revealing a hairy chest that’s as tanned as his face. Black baggy trousers are held up with a gold coloured braid instead of a belt. The sort of braid that’s normally reserved for use by senior military officers as lanyards. On his right hip there’s a wide brown leather sheath which appears to contain a long broadsword.

Captain BlackCloud looks at the two newbies standing next to each other, MickeyWarr and SpudGunn. Their behaviour sets them apart from the others.

One is standing impassively still and silent, with a look of concentration on his face. The other shuffles a little on his feet, fidgety, about to chew a fingernail or two, before quickly lowering his hand to his side in a clenched fist. Squeezing his fist too tight SpudGunn now looks like he’s about to cry. Or wet himself!

Stepping forward two more paces, BlackCloud focusses on MickeyWarr, who’s still carefully inspecting his oppressors. A flimsy, lightweight, navy blue waistcoat with gold buttons, fits neatly over BlackCloud’s clean white shirt, with its poncy, frilly collar. The wide, flowing, bell bottom trousers are held in place with a slim black leather belt. And the ornate silver handle of a rapier emerges from the top of a narrow leather scabbard at his left hip.

One step behind the captain is his lieutenant. She’s a little taller than her boss. With her short hair and her slim build she could reasonably be mistaken for a young boy. Is this a young

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trimmed with yellow material that seems to contain flecks of real gold!

Captain BlackCloud steps forward a few paces.

A wiry little man, he stands barely taller than 1 metre 60. He’s accompanied by his fat, ill tempered, ugly first mate, BlackDog. Much taller, and with a bulk about three times the size of the captain.

As BlackDog lumbers forward to stand alongside BlackCloud, MickeyWarr can see that the big man’s weight is affecting his walk. It’s not slow by any means, but it’s not regular either, his right leg seems to be laboured with an exaggerated movement of the hip.

The third officer is quietly standing behind them.

An assortment of other people have assembled on the ship’s deck, and are looking down at the twenty or so sad, pathetic figures lined up on the quayside. MickeyWarr looks at the three officers more closely. The big one could almost be wearing a black cat on his face! His full beard masks much of his face, but a brief, sinister smile reveals a momentary view of his teeth. Just enough to spot that they are blackened after years of neglect.

That’s a distinct contrast to the little fellow. He sports a wispy moustache in the style of a French musketeer, but otherwise he’s clean shaven. His skin is noticeably paler than the others. Clearly this is a man who does not spend all of his time out in the sun.

Even though BlackCloud is the pirate captain he has a natural, calm smile, giving the impression that his nature is not entirely sinister. The smile reveals a brief look at his white teeth, which appear perfect when compared to everybody around him.

“Bronze! Silver! And gold!” bellows BlackDog “that’s what we want! None of that healthy rabbit food we got last time! I’ve had enough lettuce thank you very much!”

The last successful raid hauled in a shipment of various salad stuff, alongside some more welcome things like wine and grapes. Conwy has more of that than they can use, and Amlwch

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Cargos of wool and sheepskin regularly move from Conwy to Douglas, and high quality rum and Manx tea travels in the opposite direction. Occasionally the ships carry gold going north, and zinc or lead or silver on the return trip.

The pirates don’t know what they’ll get until they see the freighters. They might not get anything, but they know that the ships which sit lower in the water are the ones carrying the heavy metals. Even if the cargo is simply sheepskins or rum it’s all valuable and tradeable on the black market.

Given the volume of traffic along the Meirionydd coast the pirates have plenty of opportunities and they know they’ll be lucky sometimes, and seize particularly valuable cargos. Newly minted Sovereigns are the biggest prize. But it’s risky, because the Meirionydd coast is patrolled by the Byddin and their allies, the Garrison, the Sidooryn and the Láigen.

There’s an exchange system in place where personnel from one territory work with another. A detachment of Garrison marines might serve on a Láigen ship for a while. The native services normally use their own languages, although English is common to all of them.

That really helps when there’s a Sidooryn detachment on a Byddin ship for example. Rather than using Manx or Welsh it’s more practical for them all to use English. Which is lucky for the native English speakers who generally struggle with other languages!

On the quayside in Boot, TallyBen has lined up a motley crew of old hands and the involuntary new recruits. Berthed next to them is a dirty, old ship with three masts. The gang plank has been lowered to the quayside, and six people descend. They’re walking with a purposeful stride which conveys the message “we’re in charge here”.

Pausing in the mid distance, they survey the shoddily dressed rabble of misfits. Then come a little closer.

MickeyWarr has already noticed that three of them are carrying swords, and the other three aren’t. That probably means three senior officers, and their juniors. One officer is especially short and has a particularly pompous tricorn hat,

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Chapter 10
Bronze Silver and Gold

“Women are nothing but trouble,” says SpudGunn, “you don’t see many of them here do you? We’re better off with the pirates! No Ambers, no Angels!”

“No freedom either,” says MickeyWarr, failing to see how this encouraging pep talk can in any way be described as encouraging!

SpudGunn continues his preaching, “we weren’t free before! Mr Potato Head has all of Worringfolk under his iron fist.”

“Under his thumb?”

“That’s right. Under his iron thumb! Here it’s the same. It’s different. We help the pirates, not the mob. Then the pirates feed us, clothe us and give us somewhere to sleep. It’s as easy as falling off a piece of cake!”

“Falling off a log?”

“Yeah, that’s it, failing like a frog!”

“I thought you said you wanted to escape, if it’s so much better here, then why don’t you stay?”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

“You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Too right! We’re clearly not sinking!”

“Is there anybody else here I can talk to?”

SpudGunn was captured two months ago. But he’s so inept that even the pirates don’t like him. Nobody wants him on their ship, so he’s spent most of his time locked up in “The Asylum”. It’s not actually an asylum, it’s the nickname for the stone warehouse on the dockside where the pirates keep the newcomers and the trouble makers.

TallyBen keeps tabs on all the newcomers and he has MickeyWarr earmarked for the next Conwy raid. Like all the new faces, the first test of his worth is normally an interception on the Conwy Douglas route. TallyBen uses that to grade the newcomers and work out which ship to assign them to on a permanent basis.

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“What’s that thing you’re always saying? ‘Must dash’. I’m going to call you ‘Dash’. Sounds nicer than NutJob don’t you think? My special pet name for you.”

NutJob can feel his cheeks warming up. He’s not sure what to say, and he says the first thing that pops into his head, weakly suggesting, “you could call me Dave,” as he tries to suppress the blushing.

His face is clearly turning red, KristalClear notices, but pretends she hasn’t.

She smiles at him tenderly and says, “yes Dash!”

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