Tides of Maritinia

by Warren Hammond

The Empire hadn’t arrived as promised by the admiral. Some were relieved. Some were disappointed. Others saw it for the lie it was.

  The killing lasted about a week. Maybe more. Maybe less. Couldn’t remember because the days bled one into the next.

  What stopped the slaughter? A principled rebuke by the Falali Council of Interpreters? A Jebyl uprising? Nothing so heroic.

  Instead, it was the lack of potable water that finally halted the savagery. When even Kwuba began to die of thirst, they were forced to come to their senses. Repairing the cisterns became a priority, and after several days of labor, the city’s lifeblood began to flow again.

  Even then, the admiral and Mmirehl continued to shout from the skyscreens, but when they eventually realized nobody was listening, they gave their hoarse voices a rest, and silence returned to a shell-­shocked population.

  Then came the cleanup. Day after day, bodies arrived on the quay. Like bails of kelp, they were roped and hauled behind the powerful legs of mammoths. Some of the dead were recognizable enough to be claimed by family. Others had been butchered beyond identification. And others had so badly decomposed that their flesh wouldn’t hold as they were dragged across the stone. These arrived as nothing more than bundles of naked bones held together by rotting sinew and stringy muscle.

  Falal received all of their remains in her waters, where some would get pulled under and others would float slowly out of sight, and out of existence. Out of everything but the memories of the survivors.

  I turned left onto Maringua’s broadest avenue. The quay was visible just a few blocks ahead. A month ago, this area was abuzz with activity. Now it was ghostly quiet. Rare pedestrians ambled like sleepwalkers, blank-­faced and numb to the nightmare.

  I hadn’t slept. For weeks now, I hadn’t slept.

  But when darkness fell, I’d pretend to sleep. Pretend, so I could journal.

  I’d gone crazy, you see. I could see it in the way ­people avoided me. The way they’d cringe when I yelled. The way almost every word I said would be followed by the exchange of concerned looks.

  My mind was diseased, and I had to drain the infection. My head had to be purged before it could be purified.

  So I journaled like mad. I put my mind’s impulses and urges into words. My thoughts into sentences. My memories into paragraphs.

  I’d keep journaling until I converted my entire self into writing.

  Then my mind would be empty. I’d be in the journal.

  And once my entire self was converted into words, I could rewrite myself. I could prune and graft and reorganize until a coherent me emerged. A sane me. A better me.

  Having created my new self, I’d do the long work of assimilating what I’d written. That was when my conversion would be complete.

  I’d be transformed. Re-­created. Rebirthed.

  If Pol could be uploaded from one mind, reprogrammed, and downloaded again, so could I.

  So could I.

  And I’d do the whole thing with my eyes closed.

  I stood on my rooftop. The ocean stretched out in front of me. Fields of golden kelp swayed under bottle green waves that sparkled bright under the afternoon sun.

  I held up a piece of bamboo to gauge its length. The next fish had to be cut a little shorter than the previous one. I looked down at the more than two dozen carved cuda fish stacked by my feet. I needed five of each size.

  Exactly five. Better count again.

  Dropping to my knees, I carefully sorted the fish into several different piles. Here were the shortest ones. And here were the next shortest, about a quarter inch longer from mouth to tail. And these fishies were a tad longer, but I tallied only four. Not five. There had to be five, dammit.

  I stormed down the stairs. “I want my fish, you stupid fucking freeloaders!” Reaching the balcony, I was greeted by the nervous stares of Jebyl refugees. Many had gone home after the killing stopped. Those who remained had no home to go to. I stomped my boot. “My fish! Somebody took one of my fish.”

  Buna stood, baby in her arms. “She’s teething. I thought it would help her sleep.”

  The bamboo cuda was clutched in the baby’s hands, its tail shiny with saliva. Buna gently pulled the cuda from the baby’s hands, which prompted the same frustrated flapping of tiny arms I’d seen when I’d rescued her.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Keep it until she falls asleep, but I want it back immediately after.”

  “Very well, bless-­ed one.” She passed the fish back to the baby, and the fishtail went back in the baby’s gnawing mouth.

  I leveled a commanding gaze at Buna. “Don’t take my fish again.” I spun slowly around. “Same for the rest of you. Don’t. Take. My. Fish.”

  Heads bowed and fingers nervously tapped hearts until the sound of a distant rumble turned all of our heads skyward. One of the Jebyl pointed, and I spotted the faraway speck of silver dropping from the heavens.

  said Pol.

  CHAPTER 33

  “The carver doesn’t see a blockk. The carver sees teh form insde the block. The carver’s job is simple. Whittls away the bits that don’t belong and reveal the frm for all tto see.”

  –JAKOB BRYCE

  The Empire’s squad of eight soldiers didn’t come for me until morning. They found me on my rooftop, my bamboo cudas and carving tools packed neatly into a pair of satchels.

  With one satchel over each shoulder, I followed them downstairs, past the dumbfounded stares of Mnoba and the Jebyl refugees. Their confusion was understandable. Didn’t the soldiers consider me a traitor to the Empire? Shouldn’t they shackle me or shoot me on sight?

  I offered no explanation. Didn’t say a word on my way out, or the entire way to the quay, or when I boarded the squad’s squid-­powered boat and sat near the bow.

  We set sail for the Ministry, and I stared straight ahead as the squids dragged us through corpses that thumped the hull. No sign of cuda. They’d long since had their fill.

  The skyscreens had been wiped of the admiral’s bull of a face and now glowed with the gentle smile of the Sire. I stared at his perfectly positioned teeth for most of the trip, waiting for him to open his mouth so I could see his forked tongue.

  Approaching the Ministry, I studied the Empire’s transport vessel floating in the deep water perhaps a hundred yards behind the domes. Like an iceberg, most of the ship’s bulk was submerged, its dark shadow looming below the rippling surface. The ship’s perfectly sloped steel walls rose a few a few feet out of the water, where they flattened into a broad circle centered by an open hatch.

  A pair of gunners stood behind firecannons on tripod mounts. Another soldier was busy stringing gold bunting from a rickety wire framework.

  said Pol.

  Ignoring Pol’s commentary, I turned my gaze on the soldiers who had retrieved me. Several could be older than me, but to my eye, they seemed very young. Like toddlers who had just learned to walk.

  They were good little soldiers. Follow orders, get a cookie. Carry out your mission, get another cookie. Always stay inside the lines.

  They were too green to know the lines were drawn by a tyrant whose one and only goal was maintaining and extending power. The Sire and His minions had no respect for this world or its ­people. They didn’t care that Maritinia breathed with a life her own.

  So they’d kept this world chained in fear and ignorance. And when Maritinia defeated all odds by breaking free, the Empire took advantage of that fear and ignorance by manipulating us into cannibalizing ourselves.

  I turned an eye on the sergeant, his head scanning left and right like the training manuals taught. The fool still believed the manuals could prepare you for any situation. I wanted to ask him what the manuals said abo
ut hatred that could spread from person to person like a voracious cancer. What kind of prepackaged wisdom did they offer to explain the tide of bodies fouling these waters?

  The wounds this world had suffered were unfathomable. But I believed recovery was possible. Even if it took generations. Touching my cheek, I knew the deepest wounds grew the toughest scars.

  But the Empire wouldn’t allow this world to recover. Instead, they’d put us on display. They’d take our story to the Empire, a little show-­and-­tell to demonstrate the disasters that await those who experiment with self-­rule. And when that story ceased to be useful, they’d put us back in a box and leave us to suffocate.

  Our boat arrived at the Ministry, and, tossing my satchels over my shoulders, I climbed onto the pier. A woman waited for me. A straight-­lined suit hung over an authoritative posture, gray hair draping over an erect collar with starched points. Shallow wrinkles added a good measure of gravitas to an otherwise youthful face. She waited for the guards to move out of earshot before speaking. “Mr. Bryce, I presume.”

  I nodded.

  She offered a regal smile. “I’m Governor Prima. Your Sire sends his congratulations. He’s very proud of what you’ve been able to accomplish under the most trying of circumstances.”

  I shrugged. And then I strode away.

  “Where are you going?” she called.

  I didn’t stop. Had no interest in listening to her platitudes.

  Up ahead, two soldiers put their hands on the firerods strapped over their shoulders. Telling them to stand down, the governor hustled up to fall in step alongside me. “We met no resistance last night. The admiral and his officers are locked up. It’s absolutely amazing what you accomplished.”

  Reaching the ringed island, I barely glanced at the lagoon and turned for the domes.

  “I have to introduce you to Major Lensa. He and I need to debrief you. Perhaps it’s best you take a short break to relax. We have a room ready for you, and when you’re ready, we can talk.”

  The domes. I was saddened to see the damage they’d taken from the missile blast I’d engineered. Patches of silver tiles had been stripped away, leaving pieces of shrapnel embedded in small craters of stone. Repair should be a high priority.

  The governor took hold of my forearm. “Are you okay, Mr. Bryce?”

  I stopped to glare at her hand. Manicured nails painted pastel green.

  “Maybe we should get you to the doctor,” she said.

 

  I kept drilling her hand with my eyes. When it finally lifted off my arm, I resumed my brisk pace. She kept up but didn’t speak, her breathing growing labored. Too much time behind desks could do that to you.

  Passing the first dome entrance, I started counting my footsteps. One. Two. Three.

  She started prattling again, but I didn’t listen. I was too focused on counting. Eight. Nine. Ten. I’d wanted to know how far apart the domes were. I was betting on 107 steps from door to door.

  She talked the whole way, but all I heard was background noise, like the drone of an engine. As we neared the second dome, I became aware of an increasingly worried tone, like her engine was running too fast on a low gear. Then I heard the words, “Get the doc.”

  A soldier ran off, and I had to concentrate even harder to keep from getting distracted by the hurried rhythm of his clopping boots: 122; 123; 124.

  Taking my 125th step, I found myself under the arched entrance of the second dome. Interesting. Almost twenty paces farther than I’d thought.

  “I don’t need a doctor,” I said finally. “I’m going in to see the Falali Mother. Then you can debrief me whenever you want.”

  I strode into the dome and made a straight line past the water pumps to the tunnel that led to the underwater complex. Down the stairs I went, the tapping of the governor’s heels right behind me.

  Reaching the bottom, I stopped at the hatchway and dropped my satchels into a puddle. Opening the satchel on the left, I started sifting through my bamboo cudas.

  “What are you doing?”

  “The Ministry entrances require blessings.” I picked out one of the shortest of the batch, the perfect choice for this particular hatchway, and balanced it on the metal lip over the opening. “Have you fixed the pumps? Three of the five stairways are flooded.”

  “We’re working on bringing the pumps up to full capacity now, but for the moment we’re not worried about the stairways. The priority right now is repairing the control center.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I pointed to the satchels. “Looks like I carved more fish than I needed.”

  She squinted her eyes like she was trying to bring me into focus. “I can only imagine what you’ve been through. I’d like you to see our doctor.”

  “No doctors.”

  “Can’t you see how strange your behavior is?”

  “By strange you mean crazy?”

  She tilted her head. “I wouldn’t use that word. How about erratic?”

  “I can see why they sent you,” I said. “You’ve got a talent for diplomacy.”

  “Why do you think the hatches need blessings?”

  I didn’t respond until I found the right words. “The fish create balance.”

  Her eyebrows pinched together as if she didn’t understand what I’d said. “How so?”

  “I’ve watched hundreds of thousands get butchered in the streets. That’s a lot of angry souls to appease.”

  “Angry souls? You must be referring to the Falali myth that those who are wronged in life are reincarnated as cuda fish.”

  “You’ve done your research.”

  “I spent an hour with the Falali Mother last night. She had much to say.”

  “Emmina is very wise.”

  “She’s been made aware of recent events. We’ve barely begun to sift through all of the footage captured by the skyscreen cameras, but we have a good idea what happened here. Isn’t it horrible what can happen when ­people reject the Sire’s leadership?”

  I picked up my satchels and measured the bamboo cuda I’d set over the hatchway with a good long stare. Yes, that was the best choice. “I need to bless the other entrance that isn’t flooded. Then I want to talk to the Falali Mother.”

  I ducked through the hatchway, Governor Prima following right behind. “I can arrange that. But before I let you talk to her, I want to get your assessment. She demands to be set free so she can heal her ­people’s spirits. Is she being earnest? Or is she a seditionist?”

  “You needn’t fear Emmina. All she wants is the best for her ­people.”

  I sat in the conference room, alone at the table, in the seat the admiral used to occupy. My fingers traced the table’s wood grain. Such beautiful Karthedran redwood. Ducking my head under the table, I counted six table legs. Thick as my thigh at the top, they tapered down to narrow ankles before terminating in circular feet.

  What a pleasure it would be to carve real wood. Sea bamboo was a limited medium for my creations.

  Did this table really need all six legs?

  The governor arrived ten minutes later. By that time, I’d moved all the chairs, tipped the table on its side, and was one screw away from unfastening a leg.

  “Give me a minute,” I told her.

 

  I paid Pol no heed. I wasn’t taking advice on my mental state.

  A few seconds later, I heard a male voice from the doorway. He asked what was wrong with me, but I didn’t look up to see the new arrival. Using the handle of one of my carving tools, I gave the screw a turn.

  “I think he’s had a bit of a breakdown,” said the gover
nor.

  “I don’t have time for this,” said the man.

  “Be patient. He’s been through a lot.”

  After several more turns, I’d loosened the screw enough to finish the job with my fingers. Pulling the screw from its bracket, I let the hunk of wood fall heavily into my hands. “There we go,” I said. “I’ll make good use of this.”

  “Apparently, he likes to carve wood,” said the governor.

  I waved at the man, a major according to the stars on his chest. “Help me stand this table back up.”

  He closed the door and complied with a sour smile. As expected, the table stood fine on just the five legs. I took a chair and sat down. “You must be Major Lensa.”

  He sat next to the governor on the opposite end of the table. “Yes, I am. But”—­he glanced at the door to make sure it was still closed—­“you should know that my military posting is just a cover. My true allegiance is to the E3.”

  “You have my condolences.”

  His eyes wrinkled up in the corners. “Only you and the governor are authorized to know that I’m the political officer for the resettlement effort.”

  “Political officer? I’ll be sure to never turn my back on you.”

  His face darkened.

 

  For the first time in weeks, Pol made me smile.

  “Where’s the Falali Mother?” I asked the governor. “I told you I wanted to see her before my debriefing.”

  “We’ll bring her to you,” said the governor. “But the major and I want to talk to you first.”

  Gauging their faces, I knew further argument would be fruitless. I set my carving tools out on the table. “What do you want to know?”

  She sat next to the major. “We want your story. We need to know everything that happened. Then we need your assessment of the current political situation. We’re putting out calls on the skyscreens right now. We’re asking that each population center choose representatives, including both Kwuba and Jebyl. We’re asking that they come here to the Ministry so that we can restore the Empire’s economic and political structure.”