Chapter 675.1: Next Stop, French Fry Harbor!
Governor’s Office, Ring Island.
As usual, Channing entered his office, tossed the freshly bought newspaper onto the desk, and prepared to start another peaceful morning of tea and headlines. But the moment he sat down, a sharp, rancid stench hit his nose, making him frown instinctively.
“What’s that smell?”
It reeked.
He stood, walked to the window, and pushed it open to air the room. The instant the frame cracked, a wave of putrid air swept in on the sea breeze.
His eyes watered from the fumes, and at last he realized where it was coming from.
Snapping the window shut, he pinched his nose and strode to the door, waving for his secretary in the next room. “Damn it, what’s happening down at the port? Why does it stink so much?”
The secretary, clearly suffering from the same odor, answered helplessly, “The Poor Bitch just docked and they brought over 1,000 animal hides.”
“Hides?!” Channing stared at him. “How can hides smell that bad?”
The secretary grimaced. “They’re freshly skinned from mutants and still covered in blood and flesh. Looks like they’ve even started fermenting.”
“Freshly skinned?” Channing’s eyes widened. “Where on earth did they get that many?”
Over 1,000 hides... that was no small number.
While the southern islanders occasionally hunted mutants along the beaches of the Baiyue Province, even the most seasoned hunters rarely dared stay long. Bringing back one or two carcasses per trip was already remarkable.
The islands’ main food came from the sea, fish, algae derivatives, and the occasional grain or livestock shipment from Silvermoon Bay.
He had never heard of any port producing that many hides,
Wait.
He suddenly thought of the New Alliance outpost on the northern shore of the Baiyue Strait, the one that had cheerfully broadcast greetings to the Southern Archipelago Federation under the name French Fry Harbor.
He had dismissed them as a joke, assuming they wouldn’t last the month. But he wondered if those lunatics actually held out.
As if confirming his thoughts, the secretary gulped, “The patrol said that the Poor Bitch docked from the settlement at the eastern entrance of the Baiyue Strait... It’s where the French Fry Harbor is...”
Channing fell silent, drew in a slow breath, and said quietly, “I see.”
The secretary nodded cautiously, sensing his superior’s brooding expression, and turned to leave, only for the office door to burst open from the other side, nearly hitting him in the face.
Before he could react, a voice stormed in with the gust of air: “Governor! We have to do something about that ship!”
Channing rubbed his temple as the angry figure strode in, then gave a subtle nod toward his secretary.
“Bring Director Stilwell some tea.”
“Yes, sir.” The secretary shot the rude man a sidelong glance before slipping out and closing the door behind him.
Once they were alone, Channing looked toward the furious director and said in a calm tone, “Please, have a seat...”
“Don’t waste my time.” Stilwell waved him off, cutting in sharply. “I don’t understand why you’re being so lenient with those people! This is a Federation settlement, not one that belongs to the New Alliance! If we let them scrub hides on our docks today, tomorrow they’ll be selling their asses right under our noses!”
Channing coughed lightly. “I doubt it’ll come to that... so far they’ve behaved within reason.”
“You call this behaving?” Stilwell marched to the window, pointing furiously toward the harbor. “The entire port smells like shit! Anyone walking by would think Shelter 70 just sent us a shipment of shit!”
“Well, technically there’s no rule against ships doing laundry on their own decks...” Channing trailed off under the director’s glare, coughed again, and conceded, “Fine. One week. If they’re still here after that, I’ll issue an ultimatum.”
“You said that last week!” Stilwell shot back. “Another week! Why not extend it to next month while you’re at it?!”
Caught red-handed, Channing flushed with embarrassment and irritation. “Alright, yes, I admit it. I am wary of provoking the New Alliance. But can you blame me? We’re already at war with Shelter 70, and things are getting worse by the day! Those old turtles shut their gates and hide while we’re left to feed and supply over a million people, not to mention the our navy’s needs! Do you realize what offending the New Alliance would mean right now?”
Stilwell snorted. “What can they do from 2,000 kilometers away? Attack us through the radio?”
Channing chuckled drily. “You would be surprised. I heard our northern neighbors learned the hard way what those people are capable of.”
Seeing the director’s expression falter, Channing took a sip of tea and continued, “If I were them, I wouldn’t even need to lift a finger. I’d just whisper to the Camel Kingdom to close the shipping lane from Silvermoon Bay. How many people here do you think can survive on seawater alone? You really want me to take that risk for nothing?”
Stilwell’s mouth twitched. “So we just... endure it?”
“A little patience won’t kill us,” Channing said, shrugging. “As long as they’re paying their fees on time, we’ll let them stay. They won’t linger forever anyway... unless you’ve got a better plan?”
Silence hung in the office.
Stilwell’s lips moved, but no words came.
At that moment, the secretary returned with a tray. “Your tea, Mr. Stilwell.”
The director looked at the cup, then at the governor who was firm on his stance, swallowed his frustration, and left without another word.
He still thought the Governor’s Office was far too soft on the New Alliance, but deep down, he knew Channing was right. Against the giant that the New Alliance had become, restraint was the only weapon they had.
...
Time slipped by.
The sun moved west, dipped below the horizon, and gilded the distant waves in shimmering gold.
Dockworkers sat by the pier, drinking beer in the cool evening breeze, watching the Poor Bitch, its hull still streaked with blood and grease, and the busy women working on deck.
By four in the afternoon, the smell had all but vanished.
Some scrubbed hides with mops, some kneaded by hand, others scraped with knives, cleaning every inch. Then they fetched buckets of seawater and rinsed the pelts again and again.
Under the flowing saltwater, the rotting flesh and fat were washed into the sea, bait for the fish below.
Once clean, the women hung the hides on wooden racks lining the deck like rows of sails.
Those sails became makeshift walls.
A short-haired lady and a giant white bear dashed between them, playing tag with laughing children.
The sight brought smiles to the mothers watching from the pier. It had been a long time since they’d seen such a scene.
On the other side of the deck, 20 or so girls, no older than 16 years old, worked under an elderly woman’s guidance, rubbing marine mutant fat into the inner layer of the hides.
