by Exurb1a
We should also note that during worldsea battles it was quite common to fire stimulant chemicals at an enemy raft. This was a clever attempt to awaken the enemy raft, thereby winning the battle.
The raft we shall follow, however, was called Tarnovo.
Tarnovo was one of the oldest rafts on Morae, an original. Its decks were wrinkled and its corridors were cracking in places and it had a tendency to veer wildly off course if a strong steering hand wasn’t applied. It was part of none of the major raft allegiances. It engaged in no trade pacts. Allegiances and trade pacts are for countries in need. Tarnovo was poor but it wasn’t in need. It drew its political power from a single weapon aboard.
A good sized raft might weigh several million tons, more even. There are foul storms on Morae. Without some method of staying upright, a raft will topple, usually drowning everyone aboard. Tarnovo had an elegant solution to this, right in the very bowels of its structure, in the bilge. It sported an ancient gravity machine, hailing from the days of the Old Empire. It tripled the mass of the raft and consolidated it into a single, fine point right at the raft's centre. Tarnovo was a spindly, asymmetrical mass of spires and domes, but as far as the laws of physics were concerned — thanks to the gravity machine — she may as well have been unsinkable.
It was a well-known though unspoken fact aboard Tarnovo that in the event of an unwinnable battle, the gravity machine could be overloaded. This would generate an enormous whirlpool around the raft. Tarnovo would be sucked in of course, but so would any attacking rafts nearby. Mutually assured oceanic destruction.
Well then. There is the stage.
Our story starts with a message.
It was received by a number of the major rafts — Glossia, Tibs, New Rhozhen — and of course, Tarnovo.
Aboard Tarnovo the message was intercepted by a gamma operator, then copied onto parchment and taken to the Communications Faculty. The Communications Faculty couldn't decode the thing and took it to Linguistics. Linguistics couldn't make sense of it either and took it to Mathematics.
An old mathematician was working at his desk one night when someone gave him a copy of the gamma burst. It was not his academic background that cracked the message, however. Rather, his mother had taught him a little of the Old Empire tongue, Galactic Standard, and he remembered enough to unscramble: New, Vessel, Ribbondash, and Rapid.
The mathematician's name was Dr. Alexander and he felt excitement and dread at exactly the same moment. Excitement was justified of course: this possibly meant Morae was not the last remaining inhabited planet in the ruins of the empire, as was generally accepted these days. The dread originated from knowing he would have to tell the Sar of this.
He arranged a meeting with the Sar and entered the royal chamber at the pre-agreed time. The Sar was sat in a swinging wicker chair on the balcony, a bottle of chacha in hand, already clearly drunk. His name was Meto Ferdinand, though few ever referred to him as such, given his status. His rolls of fat were expertly disguised beneath his robes, but still clearly detectable.
“This better be bloody important,” Meto muttered. “I'd put down to bed and was good and asleep.”
Dr. Alexander stood awkwardly, the message in his hands.
“Sir, there's no easy way to say this…”
“Then say it anyway and don't waste my time,” the Sar spat.
Alexander offered the parchment to the air. “We've received a rather unusual message.”
“Why isn't the Espionage Faculty telling me about it then?”
“Because there are strong reasons to believe it didn't originate from Morae, sir.”
Meto turned the chair about and stared and said nothing.
Alexander continued. “It came in the form of gamma pulses. The signal strength was degraded and probably originated from the outer edges of our system, judging by its inclination. It could've been from a voidship or a satellite. I suspect the latter. Furthermore—”
“What does it say,” Meto growled, his eyes pinned to the mathematician.
“The message was sent in Old Empire. I believe I'm the only soul aboard who knows the tongue, and my competence is weak at best. Still, it appears to be warning us of an inbound voidship in the system. I believe the message itself originates from an ancient satellite, probably left in the asteroid belt by our ancestors when they first journeyed here.”
Meto was quiet for a while. He's calculating how to use this politically, Alexander thought. The fat fool has no head for matters of science or culture.
Alexander said, “I've already had the Astronomy Faculty scan the sky for crafts, but nothing yet, sir.”
Meto took a long draw on the chacha bottle, then said, “It's a ruse, good doctor. It's a ruse by one of the major rafts, probably Glossia. They've been building up to such a thing for some time now. It's a ruse, mark my words.”
“Sir, unless they launched their own satellite somehow, then broadcasted the message from the edge of—” Meto raised an eyebrow and Alexander shut up.
“A ruse,” Meto repeated, slurring now.
Alexander knew full well how ridiculous the idea was. No raft had an interest in rockets. Nothing had punctured the atmosphere since those first ships to bring the ancestors, several thousand years ago. He injected his voice with diplomacy. “Perhaps then, sir. But in the unlikely event that it is a genuine message—”
“It isn't—”
“—then it may be wise to prepare ourselves for a…visitation of some kind.”
Meto turned the chair about to the balcony again. Below was Tarnovo, gleaming, silent, a wild mesh of spires and bridges, of improvised shanty villages, of marble temples. And beyond that was the dreamdark ocean.
Meto pulled a lever on his chair and a bell rang distantly. An orderly entered the room with his head down, collected the empty chacha bottle from the Sar and replaced a fresh one in his hand, then left. Meto took a draw from the new bottle and said, “Radio down to my strategy man, doctor. Tell him to raise the war alarm. Then go to bed.”
“Sir, I respectfully suggest that we—”
“How old are you, Alexander?” Meto said flatly.
“Eighty-nine, sir.”
Flatter still: “Do you have designs on reaching your ninetieth birthday?”
“God willing, sir.”
Meto mockingly peered over the balcony. “It's a long way down. A long, long way down. Radio the strategy man. Then go to bed and refrain from telling another soul about the message.”
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
The Sar's twin brother was called Tisho Ferdinand. He was quite pale for a Tarnovan and rather short. He had rejected the offer of working with Meto in the palace, and chosen instead the life of an astronomer, following in the footsteps of their father — Ivan.
Ivan had been a gentle Sar. He'd ruled remotely and with reluctance, and only sanctioned executions in the most extreme circumstances. When he had died unexpectedly in his fifties, and since twins hold no obvious position over the other in terms of age, it had not been clear who would inherit the throne. The public knew very little about introverted Tisho, but still appeared to prefer him over his overbearing brother Meto. Still, Tisho left a respectful few days between himself and the decision, and announced that he would be entering the Astronomy Faculty and possessed little interest in leadership. He had no stomach for executions or administration or speeches or diplomacy. He preferred the night sky and sometimes beer.
That evening, as most evenings, he was out on a deckchair on the observation deck of the Astronomy Faculty. The physicists and cartographers had all gone home. With a stellarlabe in hand, he was plotting the positions of the Meagre Stars. He preferred that constellation over most since it was rumoured to be where the first Mass Migration started, where humans had originally begun their journey out into the galaxy. There was no way to verify this of course, but they had to have started from somewhere, surely.
There came the distant noise of a party, perhaps thirty decks be
low: cheering and screaming. It was name day for anyone called Ivan and many men were called Ivan in honour of Tisho's father. Lots of drinking would happen that night.
Tarnovo had been in total lockdown for two days now. No diplomats were granted entrance into the raft and all diplomats currently staying aboard had been expelled. The Tarnovan army was on high alert. The navy balloons were fuelled and ready on the War Deck, prepared at a moment's notice to lift off into the night and drop liquid fire on any attacking rafts. Tisho had heard rumours of a message from the black, but speculation about the Old Empire was a common activity aboard Tarnovo, and this time seemed no different. Meto was being overly cautious.
He caught a flash of fire in his peripheries and turned about. There, perhaps a mile away, an arc of orange shot down through a cloud and exploded into the worldsea. Within a second the light was gone. It was accompanied a moment later by the quiet muffle of an impact.
He got to his feet, heart pounding. No activity followed.
He raced to a radio. “Yes, steerage? Please have the helmsman alter his course seventeen degrees, three-quarter speed. That's right, immediately.” The operator was reluctant, insisting the Sar had to be woken. Tisho added, sternly for him: “This is by decree of Prince Tisho. I saw the phenomenon myself. There is no need to wake my brother. Seventeen degrees please, it won't take us much off course.”
A few moments later and Tisho watched the stars swivelling with the course change. He fetched a telescope and glassed the worldsea over and over but to no avail.
He entered the raft, raced up the twisting main stairwell, four, five, six decks, and appeared in the bridge. Twenty-three pairs of eyes turned quietly on him, all curious of the course change.
“Have we sighted anything?” Tisho asked the lookout.
“Nothing sir.”
He glassed the sea again. The bridge was deathly quiet. They knew well enough what was coming.
“What the fuck is going on?” rang Meto's bellow. He was in his night robes, red-nosed from chacha.
“I saw something,” Tisho said. Meto stared, his mouth open. “Something came down in the ocean,” Tisho added quickly.
“And we're headed for it?”
“We should get a better look.”
Meto crossed the bridge to his brother and within full view of the staff smacked him on the head. Tisho stepped back, wincing.
“Who am I?” Meto yelled.
“Look…”
“Who am I?”
“The Sar. You're the Sar.”
“More.”
“The protector and sage, the custodian of the six million lives of Tarnovo and—”
Meto smacked him again. “You're correct, yes. And who gives steerage orders on this raft, exclusively?”
“Meto, I just wanted—”
“Who?”
“You do.”
“That's right.” He ran at Tisho and threw a mock kick and Tisho flinched. Meto spat on him and the spit landed on Tisho's hair. “That's right,” Meto roared. “And Yeshua so help me, if you do that again—”
The lookout spoke up quietly, “Sir, I think you should see this.”
Meto kept his disdain fixed on Tisho another few moments then took the lookout's telescope and glassed the sea. He stopped suddenly. “And what the hell is that?”
“I don't know, sir. I've only just noticed it.”
“An enemy vessel?”
“I don't think so, sir. Perhaps a marooned sailor. I believe it's a person on a piece of flotsam of some kind, though it appears to be lit.”
Meto squinted down the telescope again. “Well it's not one of ours. Ready the cannons.”
A few of the staff glanced at each other.
“Meto…” Tisho muttered but no reply came. Hauling himself up, Tisho crossed to his brother and gently wrestled the telescope from him. He scanned the worldsea a few moments then sighted the object. There was no doubt it was a person. They were waving their arms directly at Tarnovo, stood atop a thin sheet of something.
“We have to take them aboard,” Tisho said. In a flash Meto turned on him again. Tisho cut him off: “Tibs regularly mutinies and throws their rulers overboard. What if we picked up a prince or a queen? They'd spill all their tactical knowledge to us. Or it could be a technician. Think about it.”
The rage in Meto's eyes slowly gave way to cold calculation and he cocked his head. “Or it could be a spy.”
“Then we can just keep them in a cell. Please, we have to take them aboard.”
“We don't have to do a damn thing. We will do whatever I tell us to do.”
“You're right. I'm sorry, you're right. But please just consider it a second. There isn't any risk yet, not really.”
Meto juggled the thing in his mind and grabbed the telescope back and said, “All right. We'll make a deal. I'll exercise my infinite compassion in this instance, and if it benefits us somehow, the glory is mine. And if it should turn out to be a spy or a useless sailor, as it of course will, then the dishonour will be yours.”
“Fine,” Tisho said.
Meto called out to the bridge, “On account of my infinite compassion then, maintain course.”
Tisho put the telescope to his eye again. The figure was close enough to make out vague features. He couldn't be sure, but it appeared to be the figure of a woman.
“Military men,” Meto barked and several joined his side. He exited the bridge and Tisho followed, leading them down the great spiral staircase that ran the vertical length of Tarnovo's hundred-plus decks, past the Linguistics Faculty, past the Mathematics Faculty, past great libraries and laboratories and theatres, men and women and children stopping to bow to the Sar as he passed, waddling on tree trunk legs, his guards and advisors in tow. And then his brother, dawdling at the back.
They came to the Reception Deck, which was generally used for greeting diplomats from other rafts. The marooned woman was close now, trying to paddle herself towards Tarnovo. Meto ordered a harpoonist to fire a guideline and so it went. The woman grabbed the line and dragged herself and her platform towards the entourage. And then she was aboard, climbing the railings like a thoughtful cat, and standing on the deck before them.
She was tall, pale, and with a quiet mix of kindness and intelligence in her eyes that spoke — maybe — of great wisdom. Tisho thought so anyway. She wore a single plain white toga of some kind, no shoes. And beside her floated a perfectly smooth marble-looking sphere, glowing softly to itself.
“Welcome aboard Great Tarnovo,” Meto said with ironic politeness.
The woman put her hands to her lips and made what might have been a thankful gesture. She offered her hand and, cautiously, Meto shook it in his bear vice.
“What is this?” Meto said, pointing to the sphere.
The woman replied cheerfully in a language entirely incomprehensible.
“What?” Meto said.
She chattered and chattered, evidently explaining something quite complicated. Sensing the effort was pointless, she stopped.
“Does anyone recognise this language?” Meto called out to his entourage. No reply came.
Tisho had been schooled in most of the common tongues of Morae, but he didn't even recognise the roots of this one. It was almost entirely vowels, with no clear delineation between words.
He scrutinised the visitor. There was a strangeness beyond just her foreign features. Yes, the eyes, they were an almost glowing blue, and the irises themselves were hexagonal.
Tisho pointed to himself and said, “Tisho Ferdinand.”
The woman pointed to herself and said, “Io Clements,” and smiled politely. Then, evidently remembering an important thing, she drew their attention to the wreckage she had been surviving on. Below, they saw, was an unconscious old man. Several military men fetched the body.
“Weak pulse, sir. Internal damage too.”
Meto said, “Have him taken to one of the hospitals. Tight security.”
“At once.”
The woman who called herself Io Clements tried to follow him, but Meto put a hand in her way. “We have questions for you first. Above all we would be very curious to learn which raft you originate from.”
She continued talking in her strange, liquid language, obviously upset at the removal of her companion.
“Enough,” Meto growled. “Give her one of the high-quarters, post guards outside the door. Feed her if she wants it. We'll deal with this in the morning.”
Two guards put hands on her shoulders. The woman's floating sphere came alive now and zipped around them a few times, audibly cutting air as it did so. The woman muttered something and the sphere calmed. She was led away.
The entourage came for her the next day: guards, Dr. Alexander the mathematician, Meto, and Tisho. “She has a soft spot for you. That'll be useful,” Meto had muttered to his brother.
Meto waved the guards aside and knocked on the door. Io Clements appeared, dressed in Tarnovan overalls, though wearing the top-bodice back to front.
Meto walked right past her and on into the quarters and the guards followed, then Tisho. The chambers were beautiful, usually reserved for high-diplomats from Glossia or Tibs, requiring only the most lavish treatment for their good favour.
Meto sat down and the guards joined him.
Io Clements appeared perfectly calm, her sphere floating at her side.
“Well then,” Meto grumbled. “I appreciate you don't appear to speak a lick of the common tongue, but we must follow the customs nonetheless. It is my belief you are a spy working on behalf of one of the major rafts with a view to sabotaging or otherwise damaging Tarnovo. With this in mind—”
“Not so, sir,” Io said in a fairly decent Tarnovan accent.
A long silence. “You speak Tarnovan?” Meto growled.
“I do now.”
Meto went to yell, but Dr. Alexander spoke up first. “Madam, is this to say you learned our tongue in an evening?”
“And a morning, yes.”
Another pause. “How?”
Io smiled with perfect innocence and nodded to the various books about the room. “Alphabetic ungendered grammar, reflexive modal operators. If I may say so, sir, it is not such a difficult language. I'm terribly sorry for the confusion yesterday. Before arriving we had no way of familiarising ourselves with your tongue in advance.”
