Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(7)

When Darrick presented himself at the compound door, a squad of heavily armed guards stopped him from entering.

“Apologies, my lord. May we know your identity and that of your companions?”

“Karim de Neuilly, company shareholder. My secretary, Cavalin Rufiange. And my bodyguard.”

“You walked here?”

“I landed today. I needed to stretch my legs.”

The port was near enough for the story to be plausible. Darrick soon got to meet the director’s assistant, who checked his papers and introduced him into the director’s office.

The new factory manager was a middle-aged man, though his few blond curls were outnumbered by the white ones. His long, strong face might have seemed open and friendly when young flesh softened its outlines, but it was now a mere bony mask, whittled down by age and its pains.

“Jéconiah Jutras.”

They shook hands and kissed in the French manner. Darrick was on the lookout for any hint of distrust, but the director was treating him exactly as he should treat a visitor from France who was a major shareholder of the CPF.

The ironbearer expected nothing less. For years, he’d waited for the appointment of a manager who wouldn’t recognize him. Jutras was from Montreal, where the hydroelectric dams built across the Ottawa and St. Lawrence supplied a few factories and universities with enough electricity to function. But Quebec was best situated to trade with the French, and Montreal had dwindled into relative insignificance.

From the first words they exchanged, the ironbearer sensed that Jutras wasn’t merely loyal to the Compagnie Phénix-France, but genuinely in love with French culture. Darrick won him over with a gift of an excellent olive oil from Normandy.

“You didn’t waste any time,” Jutras said approvingly.

“Why do you say that?”

“I saw a ship come into the port earlier.”

“Yes, I was aboard. She’s leaving again in three or four days, and I expect to sail with her.”

“So soon? You’re not staying to visit then.”

“My business interests in France require my presence. I cannot stay away too long.”

“Of course. I understand. And how are things in France?”

Darrick tried to gauge his counterpart’s intentions. On the North American side of the Atlantic the question could be considered subversive. Quebec’s governor was adamant that the Laurentian Valley sheltered a civilization on par with the remaining technological societies found elsewhere on the planet.

“Nothing like here. The whole country doesn’t lack for electricity and there’s enough for everybody. Industry, transportation, city lights…”

“At home too? Is it true that you still have televisions and computers, like in the old days?”

“The age of miracles is over. There’s enough wattage to run such devices, but we no longer know how to manufacture them. You’d need rare earths that are only found in recycling centres in France. And microchips so complex that giant factories were once needed to produce enough to justify the initial investment. France alone can’t justify building a factory large enough to supply half a continent. So, yes, there are televisions, but they’re built with tubes. And the only computers belong to the government. Not that they’re telling anyone whether or not they still work.”

“What about the other European countries?”

“More like what you have here. Lots of wind turbines, a few hydroelectric dams, biofuels for vital transportation needs. France retains its nuclear advantage over the rest.”

“But what would it do without our uranium?”

The director smiled smugly, without realizing how offensive his smirk looked.

“Speaking of which, what is the current state of Canadian reserves?”

The man waxed optimistic. Canadian uranium came in part from old Saskatchewan mines, but it was also recovered from the ruins of Ontario’s nuclear power plants. And the company’s envoys were still negotiating with the Algonquin farmers of the Far North to open new thorium and uranium mines.

Farther east, the company had set a pilot project to strain out the uranium in seawater, using the electricity produced by wind farms around Rimouski.

“We could do as much in France,” Darrick commented. “What about the taxes?”

“What about them?”

“Did the governor increase them since last year?”

“Granger de Limoilou is smarter than that. He’s got a new family to provide for – his fifth – and the new relatives are grabbing all the plushy jobs. My sister studied medicine for 10 years, but she was passed over for a young niece of the governor’s new wife. She had to take a position out West. Last I heard, she’d set up shop out of a fort in the middle of the Rockies.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Darrick said in a voice that implied quite the contrary. Jutras snapped to as he realized his rashness. He inquired instead as to the reason for the ironbearer’s visit.

“I’ve come to pick up the new fuel rods.”

“Today? I wasn’t expecting it. Nothing is ready.”

“No, not today. Tomorrow morning will do. My men will show up to pick up the first load at eight sharp. The captain of the Express de Rouen promised me to clear out the needed space in the holds of her ship, and I trust her to keep her word.”