In all over seven thousand people were successfully provided with shelter, food and medical care within two days of arrival in this port. I should record that all this was achieved without any assistance whatsoever from the Ironship Syndicate. The few managerial representatives with whom I secured a meeting provided only empty platitudes and reminders of the wider crisis facing the entire globe. If anything, their demeanour was mostly one of irritation, as if the need to provide succour to thousands of dispossessed souls was a mere diversion from the real issue.
Over the years the Voters Rights Alliance has maintained contacts with various sympathetic persons employed within the corporate structure. I wouldn’t go so far as to describe them as “covert agents,” more a small number of individuals disenchanted with their employers and occasionally willing to part with relevant information. Once such person, who I shall name only as “X,” met with me in the aftermath of yet another fruitless approach to the interim Board to impart a singular and important fact.
“The Ironship Syndicate is bankrupt,” X told me. I had chosen a quiet corner in a secluded tavern for our meeting and was obliged to lean across the table to hear, the words being so softly spoken.
“Bankrupt?” I asked, finding myself suddenly lacking comprehension. I knew the meaning of the word but placing it in conjunction with the wealthiest single entity in the world was momentarily disorientating. “What exactly do you mean?”
“I mean they have no money.” X is not a character given to overt emotion so it was disconcerting to take note of a tremulous voice and twitching hands. “The company reserves are exhausted. There is no money to pay the workers in the manufactories. No money to pay the Protectorate soldiers. No money to pay the managers, executives or clerks. They’ve been printing scrip by the bucketload but it’s only a matter of time before a finance house attempts to convert a substantial amount of scrip into exchange notes or gold and discovers they hold nothing more than a pile of worthless paper.”
I must confess to a certain hesitation before asking my next question. Although I had spent much of my adult years longing for the fall of the Ironship Syndicate, the apparent reality of just such an outcome was sobering to say the least. The Alliance had always campaigned for a peaceful transition to representative government and regulated markets, but the sudden collapse of the world’s greatest corporation would herald an era likely to be anything but peaceful. In all honesty, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be true. Nevertheless I buttressed my resolve and asked the question anyway: “You have proof of this?”
In response X handed over a weighty stack of financial ledgers, all marked “Secret—Board Eyes Only” and all showing a zero in the total column.
“How could this happen?” I asked.
“Product.” X let out a laugh at this point, somewhat shrill and rich in despair. “It was all built on product. Take that away and what is Ironship? Just a collection of offices, ships and manufactories, all soon to stand empty. And it’s not just the Syndicate. The Chairman of the Alebond Commodities Board committed suicide two days ago after being presented with a summation of the company accounts. Yesterday, South Seas Maritime issued an order forbidding any of its ships from leaving port, for the simple reason that they have no funds to buy coal or Red to fire the engines.”
X gave another near-hysterical laugh, which soon faded, their features sagging into the pallid mask of a defeated soul. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” X said, rising from the table. “I need to go home, dismiss all my servants and tell my spouse they are married to a pauper. After which, I suspect I shall get very drunk indeed.”
I made a slow return to the offices of the Gazette, clutching the ledgers tight and gazing around at all the people passing by. Despite recent troubles there was still an air of normalcy to Sanorah then. Stall holders still hawked their wares, boys still ran around delivering the Intelligencerand constables still strolled the thoroughfares, every one of them blithely unaware of the calamity that had already befallen their comfortable world. Upon returning to my office I ignored the many calls for my attention, locking the door and spending several hours in silent contemplation of the stack of ledgers on my desk. The decision before me was stark and, I decided in a fit of cowardice, not one I was prepared to make without counsel.
Regardless of our short acquaintance, Mrs. Torcreek had proven herself to be one of the most level-headed and basically sensible individuals I had yet to meet. Also, her recent experience gave her a depth of insight beyond that of my immediate colleagues in the Alliance. Father knows more about corporate finance than anyone of my acquaintance, and was therefore far better attuned to the consequences of the act I was now forced to consider. Having answered my invitation they both stood in silence as I related the news. Mrs. Torcreek reacted with a stoic lack of surprise and a sympathetic shrug. “Trouble’s gonna find everyone sooner or later,” she said. “That’s the nature of the world right now.”
My father was notably less phlegmatic, removing his jacket to roll up his sleeves before spending over an hour in feverish examination of the ledgers. “Seer save us all,” he breathed, closing the final one with a snap, resting his elbows on my desk as he rubbed at his temples. “It’s true. Ironship is ruined.”
I should like to relate that I immediately rose to my feet with a suitably impressive declaration regarding the duty of the press and the rights of the populace to be informed of such disastrous news. However, in actuality I continued to sit behind my desk, staring at my father’s stricken features as I asked in a small, frightened voice, “What do I do?”
He stared at me for some time, long enough for me to take shocked notice of the tears welling in his eyes. “Once . . .” he began in a choked quaver then paused, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his eyes. He coughed before continuing in a voice that actually sounded like my father. “Once I would have implored you to wait, give me time to liquidise the family holdings. And I’m sure you would have had many ugly things to say about my greed and selfishness, and perhaps you would have been right. Now . . .” He rested a hand on the ledgers, shaking his head. “Now it doesn’t matter. A disaster of this scale will take us all down with it, regardless of any action I take. Publish today or publish tomorrow, but publish. The world should know what’s coming.”
“Your pa’s right, miss,” Mrs. Torcreek put in. “People got a right to know, and it’s your job to tell them, elst what are you doing here?”
“Well quite,” I said, voice still small and hatefully weak. Taking a very deep breath, I rose to my feet, thanked them both for their advice and opened my office door, calling loudly for an urgent editorial meeting.