History, Politics And Current Affairs

Opinions expressed here are personal views of contributors and do not necessarily represent the companies, organizations or governments they work for. Nor do they necessarily represent those of the Board Administration.
It is currently Mon Nov 20, 2017 3:02 am

All times are UTC - 5 hours




Post new topic Reply to topic  [ 1 post ] 
Author Message
PostPosted: Tue Aug 01, 2017 9:55 pm 
Offline

Joined: Sat Oct 04, 2008 9:21 pm
Posts: 773
Albany, NY. January 15, 1770.

When First Speaker Franklin arrived at breakfast in the morning and saw a letter waiting for him, he smiled. Even in the New Day, the post would always continue. He had been deputy-postmaster of all of British North America for almost a decade, and in that time he had laid the groundwork that continued to take letters and parcels from Quebec to Charleston in a span of less than a month. Though the Hegemony may have been a different sort of tyranny it was at least a tyranny of largely benign neglect. For the major portion of the English subjects living in North America life hadn’t changed at all, save for the little things; Some taxes were higher, some goods were cheaper, rare flowers could be cultivated and sold for goodly sums of celestial money if one was cautious, and on the whole life was good. The seven years since the war with the French and their savage allies had been calm, even in the face of the heavens descending upon them. As Ben looked at the letter he noticed the postmark; Boston, only eight days ago. A marvel, it seemed, that it should have come so quickly.

Ben sighed and carefully cracked one of his eggs, dipping toast strips into the warm yolk. After a few bites, he opened the letter. It was from a John Adams of Boston, an attorney as he recalled. His stomach sank as he read, however.

Quote:
First Speaker Franklin,

I plead your forgiveness at the abruptness of my letter, and I hope it finds you well. I am writing you on behalf of a consortium of Boston merchants foremost among them my cousin the good Samuel Adams, a businessman and former tax collector for Massachusetts as he may be known to you. In the past week, a number of Bonstonian businesses have lost their contracts relating to celestial commerce, which a man of your authority is no doubt aware is vital to their livelihoods. The reasons for the cancellations of these contracts varies, and all have at least some merit to the claims, but they are uniformly similar in their transferral to the celestial trade corporation of House Mivon.

Please understand that it is my hope and the hopes of my associates that an amicable resolution can be reached to mitigate some of these losses, but this similarity smacks of unfair and unequal enforcement of the laws of the Hegemony. I have provided the appropriate citations of celestial law in the folio accompanying this letter, as well as formal notification to Albany that the men I represent are bringing suit against House Mivon for numerous violations of trade law.

A separate notification of the suit has been dispatched, and should be lodged with the official record of the congress by the 20th of this month.

I pray that a solution may still be found without dragging out a legal battle with our celestial masters, and I pray your aid in that endeavour.

Your most humble and obedient servant,
Samuel Adams Esquire.


Ben sighed and pushed aside his plate. Well, I’ve been shown what my week will entail. With a chuckle, he stood up and headed to his quarters to dress. He had several meetings today.


Mexico City, New Spain. February 3, 1770

From his palace overlooking the zocalo, Viceroy Joaquin de Montserrat, the Marquis de Cruillas fumed. Those damnable Jesuits! He threw a piece of fruit halfheartedly over the balcony and glanced around at his opulent room, failing to be cheered by it. The view was breathtaking, as befitting the oldest and greatest city in the New World. For two hundred and fifty years Spain had made its’ seat of power here, and the Hegemon had acknowledged its’ importance by building a silver palace of their own on the outskirts of the city to administer their holdings.

The mines of New Spain were prosperous, they had been even before the New Day, but now the Hegemon demanded additional tribute from the earth beneath his feet. New mining camps had sprung up to the north, all along the the rugged plateaus of the north country and even into the Californias. But those mines needed workers, and the Jesuits were not making it easy for him. They preached that involvement with the Hegemon could be dangerous for one’s soul, and so many were reluctant to work in the mines where they might interact with or even work alongside with celestial beings. He had begun allowing his men to forcibly conscript Indians and men from rural areas to keep up with demand and meet the quotas set by the Hegemon, but it of course brought new troubles with the people.

A slender servant entered “Excellency, he has arrived.”

Joaquin took a slow breath and straightened. “Show him in.” The servant bowed low and ran back into the room, returning a moment later with a tall man with a severe, regal bearing who was followed by a mall younger man dressed in robes.

“Excellency, I present José de Gálvez y Gallardo, marqués de Sonora and Inspector General of New Spain.” The servant bowed low again as did the younger man, and the Inspector General knelt and took Joaquin’s extended hand to his forehead.

“I greet you, Inspector General.” Joaquin studied the man carefully. “I trust your trip from Madrid has not been too taxing.”

“Not at all,” Jose stood and regarded the view. “The ship to Veracruz was uneventful, and the Hegemon’s new rail coach is a very smooth ride. Quite remarkable.” He took a breath and looked at the servant, who disappeared almost immediately. “I bring the personal greetings of the king, he wished me to inform you that he knows of the difficulties you have and understands that you have made your best efforts in the New Day.”

Joaquin’s stomach sank at the hidden meaning. The king knows your efforts have not been good enough, and so I am here. “The new mines are operating well, Inspector, the shortfalls of last summer have been attended to.”

“Really?” Jose raised an eyebrow and reached out a hand to the young priest who attended him, accepting a folio of documents. “It appears here that your shortfalls continued into winter, leaving New Spain lacking a dozen tons of gold, silver, and other ores.”

Eyes wide, Joaquin stammered as he recognized the dispatch in Jose’s hand. That information was to have been kept secure, for only himself and a few others. That this new Inspector General had been supplied with it was deeply troubling. “A small shortfall to be sure, Inspector. We are increasing our numbers of workers even now, and have begun hiring back Olok which have been quit from their contract.”

Now it was Jose’s turn to appear surprised. “There are Olok living in New Spain out of contract? How?!”

“According to the representative, it was too expensive to move them offworld.” The Viceroy shrugged. “Many have opted for transport to the English colonies, they prefer the weather, but there are small camps at several of the mines with dozens or hundreds of them.”

“Living at the camps? Are they being taxed?” Joaquin smiled.

“No.. I-”

“Make a note, Miguel.” He snapped his fingers and spoke to the priest. “All residents of New Spain must pay necessary tax, and back taxes as well, be they Spanish, Indian, or Celestial.” The priest nodded. “Now, your excellency, could you have me shown to my quarters so I can rest. There will be much to do if we are to make New Spain shine once again like the jewel it once was in Spain’s Crown.” Without waiting for response, he swept out of the room.

Joaquin was left awestruck by the dismissal he had just felt. It had come like a slap in the face. He looked at the table and grabbed a silver bowl, flinging it off the balcony. Jesuits and Inspectors!


Albany, New York. February 20, 1770.

The main chamber of the assembly hall fairly buzzed with energy. The Albany Assembly was sometimes referred to as the North American parliament, but it was more of a forum where the various colonies and nations came together to discuss issues of common concern and to bring them in arbitration before the Procurator. A large and handsome building, it was nearly the size of a cathedral, built of wood but with modern techniques provided by the Hegemon. It could seat the sixty representatives of British North America, as well as dozens of guests and envoys from other parts of the world or worlds beyond. One platform held stools designed for Suvai, who preferred to crouch like birds on their oddly-bending legs.

Ben looked around, feeling the tension of the room. He could see the delegation from Massachusetts, along with Adams and his cousin. Word had spread like wildfire, even more quickly thanks to the engined skiffs which plied the coasts and carried gossip as well as goods. Every single colony and nation in the territory had sent its’ representatives, the arguments aired today would have profound consequences for years to come. He scanned the room and saw his Pennsylvanian brothers, and other countrymen from the thirteen colonies. Also present were the regal looking Quebecois delegation, as well as some lordlings from the maritime colonies. A rare appearance was Nancy Ward, from the Cherokee nation far to the south, seated opposite from a Mohawk Warchief and Seneca elder, both wearing sensible suits but with small tribal adornments.

The Mohawk had long traded with the dutch and later the english, but they and the rest of the Iroquois protected their territory carefully. Since the end of the war in 1763 their lands were to have been protected, but the colonial authorities and the Hegemon seemed unwilling to prevent the encroachment of settlers. The fact that the Hegemon considered Indians and English equally ‘savage’ was somewhat amusing to Ben, but many took the mere presence of two Indian delegations in Albany as an insult. Consequently, the Iroquois took every chance they could to throw it in the colonials’ faces.

Before his ruminations could proceed any further, a gavel was pounded. At the head dais stood Procurator Nakosh, barely looking over the assembly given his small (even for a Suvai) height of four feet six inches. “Aessemmbly… you honor me with your attention, as the Hegemon honors you with position. Hail the Hegemon!”

A perfunctory “Hail!” was the reply, mandated by ritual older than the printed word.

“Isss there any issues to be brought before the Hegemon?” He settled back on his haunches and listened. There were the standard trivia of the day; tarifs here, a land dispute there, increased demands for celestial medicine from the Indians (a new science called vaccination could stop disease before it spread) and then it came to the business of the day. “The chair will hear the delegation from Bossston.”

John Adams stood up and stepped to the middle of the room. Everyone stared intently as the lanky lawyer from Boston addressed worlds. He took a breath, paused, and then spoke in the hissing language of the Suvai. “Most honorable Procurator Nakosh I and my countrymen have come to you to seek redress for a series of grievous harms done to our merchants and people.” He took a moment and paused, watching Nakosh for a reaction. The Procurator’s frill twitched in surprise at the proper speech, and he nodded to John to continue. “For the last two months, several upstanding businessmen in Boston have been viciously slandered and cheated by agents of the House Mivon and-”

“I rebuke sssuch a claim!” Another shrill Suvai voice cut John off. The room began to murmur.

“The Assembly recognizes Underlord Zivish of House Mivon.” Nakosh banged his gavel.

“Honored Procurator,” a plump Suvai accompanied by a bodyguard made his way to the floor. “Thiss human means to bring a legal action against my House through improper means.”

“I beg your pardon sir,” John shouted above the din “but my papers are entirely in order.”

Zivish’s ears twitched. “You may think so, as is your right, but your primitive understanding of the laws of the Hegemon are obvious. House Mivon has no formal station on Avria-3, and as such cannot be the subject of claims here.”

“No formal station? Mivon owns three fourths of the Boston waterfront!” Samuel Adams now shouted from his table, waving a fist. Cries of ‘foul!’ began to echo through the crowd.

The gavel banged to quiet the room. “Be that asss it may, good human,” Zivish continued “A formal House Station has not been established. These things can take time to be done… properly.”

“Then we wish to file suit in the appropriate territory.” Samuel shouted.

“That isss your right,” Nakosh replied. “Please inform the assembly when your delegation arrives on…” he looked to Zivish who replied a bit too smoothly.

“Silvik-5.” The Underlord’s ears twitched again.

“Offworld passage for humans is not permitted without license!” John looked to the procurator. “We petition for license.”

“I will take it under advisssement and review.” Nakosh banged his gavel. “This forum is hereby adjourned.” He and Zivish quickly walked out a back door near the dais as bodyguards held back the crowds. The room erupted.

Ben carefully made his way through the crowd and put his hand on John’s shoulder. “I think we should talk, my good sir.”


Top
 Profile Send private message  
Reply with quote  
Display posts from previous:  Sort by  
Post new topic Reply to topic  [ 1 post ] 

All times are UTC - 5 hours


Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest


You cannot post new topics in this forum
You cannot reply to topics in this forum
You cannot edit your posts in this forum
You cannot delete your posts in this forum
You cannot post attachments in this forum

Search for:
Jump to:  
Powered by phpBB® Forum Software © phpBB Group