Fata Morgana

by Thomas J. Radford

  “We have a golem aboard,” Raines commented. “Have you seen it? A remarkable specimen, very unique. Carved from a shell of obsidian. A special commission, for a friend. You know the one I’m talking of?”

  Violet felt her mouth go dry. She didn’t answer.

  You know the one.

  “I will show you later. Golems are very useful, very useful indeed. Powerful, adaptable, but they require careful deployment and close supervision to be at their most efficient. Draugr were an attempt to alleviate that, a wider solution to a growing problem. A fraction of the cost compared to their golem cousins but able to manage so much more unattended.”

  Cousins? Violet wondered.

  “However,” Raines mused, “demand far exceeded our expectations. A victim of success. Over the last few decades Draugr have been pressed into many, many positions and roles within the High Lanes industries. So many that the Free Lanes have been stripped of what dregs did filter out to them and the shortcomings of the creatures themselves have become more apparent.”

  “A Draugr can’t sail,” Violet said. “They can’t pull lines or trim sails. Can barely manage rigging. They can manage simple tasks but not complex requirements. A Draugr might build a wall, brick by brick, but not a water wheel or windmill. They could dig a hole but not measure so that it wouldn’t collapse onto itself.”

  “Yes,” Raines leaned forward, eyes bright. “This. So much of this. You do understand. There are indeed many tasks a Draugr cannot perform. But where do these words come from, little one? These aren’t the words or thoughts of a girl with the veil of indoctrinated lessons still covering her eyes. Nor a cabin girl who might have travelled but never really seen. Which brings us to the question of whose words are you repeating?”

  Violet frowned.

  Just words, aren’t they? You heard the skipper talk like that. The captain. All the big people. The big people with big ideas. Piper, Gabbi, Sharpe, and that Kelpie navigator. Scarlett . . .

  Raines leaned back, stroking his chin. He continued to muse. “Like everything ever created, one must consider the inevitable applications. Everything in time comes to feed the war machine, whether directly or indirectly. Draugr, golems, these are no different.”

  He gestured around them. “This ship, how long do you imagine it took to construct? Ignore the theory and experimentation, the trials to reach such a design. How long to build such a thing?”

  “A year,” Violet guessed.

  “Somewhat more, but in the near region. And time is . . . limited, once gone it cannot be made up. Now consider the crew aboard, how long?”

  Violet frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “To make a sailor, perhaps fifteen years, from the moment they are conceived to when they begin to learn their trade. Perhaps another five before they are considered competent. Ten before they have the makings of an officer? Or twenty, perhaps, to determine a captain. A ship may require dozens or even hundreds of such souls. So a ship, in its entirety, is the product of hundreds of years of labour, carried out concurrently, but an immense investment of time. Not everyone is so patient.”

  “You want to replace that with your own creations?” Violet said.

  “Me, I want no such thing,” Raines denied. “But the question has been asked. For me, the challenge of the question itself holds the interest. I believe such a thing is possible. My Mandragora, golems, the Draugr, all are iterations of an attempted solution. All of which have fallen short,” he smirked at the diminutive Mandragora bustling around the lab, “if you will permit such a poor joke.”

  “What are Draugr?” Violet asked, looking towards the door the Draugr had been taken through. “What were you hoping to learn from . . . that?”

  “We are all the sum of our parts. Some have more, some function perfectly adequately without what others possess. Some parts are incompatible. It pays to refresh one’s knowledge of the intricacies.”

  “But what are they?” Violet asked again.

  “An evolution,” Raines said. “A progression of an idea, the same way a cart follows a horse and so becomes a boat and then a ship. Golems to Mandragora to Draugr and more. I had designs on another iteration, a perfect medium and balance between all of them.”

  “What happened?” Violet asked.

  “Distractions,” Raines said. “Experiments sometimes possess . . . an internal compass all their own. They go in unexpected directions you had never anticipated. Sometimes these directions yield results of their own, sometimes not. Such is the wayward path of progress.”

  “Did you have a name for this experiment?”

  “Perhaps,” Raines said. “Sometimes you do not know what to call it until after the experiment has run its course.”

  Violet frowned. “Distractions,” she said, parroting his own words. “But what are Draugr? Are they people?”

  “Certainly not. They lack the essential defining qualities. Speech, fears, drives, free will, as an annoying concept as it can be.”

  “Then can people be Draugr?”

  “Ah, the scientific approach,” Raines’ eyes sparkled, his voice quickening. “The other side of the equation. So . . . perhaps. Perhaps some people are Draugr but no Draugr are people. And if they become one then they cannot be the other any longer. Such is the crux. You follow?”

  Violet frowned. “No.”

  “Ah,” Raines tilted his head to the side, frowning. “I hear—best you hold on to something, child.”

  One of the Mandragora stumbled as the ship tilted. Violet heard the sound of the guns firing, the song of the rays in the black. It all happened at once but in slow motion. The Mandragora tumbled into the canister, the one Raines had said specifically not to touch. It fell, teetering off the workbench and then tumbling end over end. It didn’t shatter, as she half expected it to, but the lid detached, spilling the contents.

  It was full of air, the kind you could see. Like the mist outside but different, wrong and off. Tinged with green and yellow where there should have been no colour. Without thinking, Violet snatched the top, slamming it back on before more could escape. It latched on easily enough and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  That was her mistake. The not-quite-mist seeped into her nose and mouth. Violet waved a hand frantically in front of her face, realising her error and trying not to breathe in more. Too late though. She grabbed onto the floor, unable to stand suddenly. Dizzy, aimless. Everything blurry.

  What happened?

  Where am I?

  Who . . .

  She felt herself slipping, falling through the floor. It was dark, cold, alone. She didn’t like it. Falling. Falling. She reached out, trying to grab onto something, anything. Her hands felt huge, feet like tree stumps, giant footsteps and so much sound. But it was dark, she couldn’t see, could barely feel. She wanted to scream in frustration but she had no breath, no voice, no mouth at all.

  No, no, no. Not again. Not again!

  She lashed out. In anger. In pain? Pain would have been welcome, it would have been a feeling. She sensed metal tearing, wood splintering. But still felt nothing. It was all so wrong.

  Someone was shaking her, calling her name. Violet tried opening her eyes but everything was still dark. There were voices, talking over each other.

  “What happened down here?”

  “Did that thing do that? Gods . . .”

  “Is she all right? What happened?”

  “. . . don’t breathe it in . . .”

  “I think she hit her head.”

  “Find some chains . . . make sure it’s . . .”

  “Sir, did you see . . .”

  “Curious, very curious.”

  “This is bad. We need to make port. There isn’t time. I don’t think . . .”

  “I am not a child!”

  She grabbed onto those words. That voice. It sounded like her. Hers. Grabbing. Holding on. Kaspar. What had he said? Find something to hold onto. Something real. She reached out. Fingers searching. Grasping. Floor. Solid
. Cold. There, carpet. Rough, bristles. Wooden leg, a table. Warm. Flesh. Fingers. A hand. Who?

  Pain.

  Black.

  She sat up, gasping, clutching at her chest. The falling feeling, she’d hit the bottom now. A jolt to her chest, heart racing. She couldn’t see, just darkness. Voices all around her.

  Glasses, where were they? She needed to them, to see the colours. Without them the world was just black and white. Black and . . .

  She clawed at her face, found hands there. Warm touch, something she could feel, cradling her. She covered them with hers, held tight. So tight she drew blood, hot and wet under her nails.

  “Violet,” someone was saying. “Violet, you’re ok. Violet.”

  No. That’s not . . . right.

  When she opened her eyes, he was there. Holding her. The world was grey, but real. She could see him. He pulled back, sliding her glasses on and there was colour again. Blues and greens. And red.

  “Your . . . hands,” she whispered.

  Kaspar looked at the backs of them ruefully, gouged and running red. “Might ask you to trim your nails, Miss Violet,” he said. “Can you stand? Slowly now.”

  “I think so.”

  With help she made it to her feet, leaning heavily on the ensign.

  “That was . . . unexpected,” Raines commented, holding the canister the Mandragora had knocked over in one hand. He eyed the creature with annoyance but considered what he held. There was a look on his face.

  Contemplation. Or realisation.

  Big words.

  “Kas! You in here?”

  Gravel burst through the open doorway, skidding to a stop, out of breath. He caught sight of Raines whose attention had snapped to him, angrily.

  “Sorry, sir!” Gravel snapped to attention, chest still heaving. “First mate sent me, to check on you all.”

  “Yes, yes, well, we are fine, sailor . . . sailor . . . whatever your name is,” Raines dismissed him, then thought better of it. “What happened? What is going on?”

  “Was a ray, sir, a big ’un,” Gravel said. “Gunners winged him and he had a right go at us. Did some damage to the underside, got breaches and worse.”

  “Worse?” Kaspar repeated. Violet’s arm was around his shoulders. He tried to disengage himself from her and set her down in one of the chairs. She resisted, holding on tighter until he gave up.

  “Yes, how do you mean worse?” Raines followed up.

  “Breach in the pipes, sir,” Gravel told them. “They’re burst, venting gas into the hold, going to need some patches. Trying to shut the valves off further up ship.”

  “It’s not gas, it’s . . . never mind. Venting? I need to see.” Raines tossed the canister he was still holding aside, indifferent to it now. It fell to one of the stuffed chairs, a soft landing but one Violet’s eyes followed. Raines stopped at the doorway next to Gravel.

  “The hold, you said. And a ray . . . never mind,” he turned, as if remembering Violet. His eyes met hers, searching, but flicked away with a grimace. “Take her back to her room. Watch her, advise me if there appear to be any . . . symptoms.”

  “Aye, sir, be doing just that,” Gravel told him. “Here, Ensign, give you a hand, she looks heavy.”

  Kaspar winced. Violet was still groggy, but she settled for leaning as hard as she could on Gravel as getting her own back. She needn’t have bothered, he was built more solid than the lightly muscled ensign. Even saying that it was only the narrow corridors that prevented him from carrying her like a maiden back to her room.

  “Mate didn’t send you,” Kaspar whispered fiercely to Gravel as they lay Violet down on her bed. “The hells were you doing in the hold?”

  “Haven’t heard you swear like that in an age, sir,” Gravel replied. “Was all true, things are bad down below. Gonna be limping in to port if they can’t plug the holes there.”

  “All true?” Kaspar repeated sceptically.

  “Aye, except for Aristeia, that part I made up.”

  “Obviously. You’re off watch, should be in your hammock.”

  “Was worried, sir, obviously.”

  “About me?”

  “Aye.”

  “You’re an awful liar.”

  “Better than you, Niko.”

  “Can still hear you both,” Violet complained, laying an arm over her eyes. She found she was still wearing her glasses. Made for uncomfortable resting. Why was she so tired? Shutting her eyes helped, could think clearer.

  “Sorry, Miss Violet,” Gravel apologised. “Relieved you’re all right, is all. Both of you.”

  Violet smiled, still covering her face. “Bandit ok?”

  “Aye, he is. Probably found some new hidey holes even, Miss.”

  “What happened, Brandon?” Kaspar asked.

  There was a long pause before he answered, enough so that Violet lifted her arms to see Gravel’s face when he answered. “The golem, one in the hold. Went berserk. Or maybe not, went for a walk maybe. Tore a path through things that mattered. Things are a mess down there. Ray showed up not long before we started making smoke signals. All a bit of a mess.”

  “That’s impossible,” Kaspar said firmly.

  “Aye? Which part? ’Cause it all happened. Familiar territory, Niko. Unless they fix what got broke, we’re adrift again.”

  Chapter 16

  RUMOURS RAN THICK and fast on a ship—sailors liked to talk, loose lips and sinking ships aside—and the retellings of what happened grew wilder with each day. Something about marines, Violet suspected. Gravel loved to talk too, fed it all back to her, much to Kaspar’s annoyance. She was tempted to try and send a tidbit or two back but a little voice in her head told her not to be so mad.

  “Like the last tavern after the shortest shore leave,” Gravel said. “Knee deep in water and tar and air not fit to suck on.”

  He was talking about the hold, around where the ray had hit the ship. Wounded and in pain, its death throes had seen it fly headfirst into the hull.

  “What’s wrong with the air?” Violet asked.

  “Stuff in the pipes,” Gravel shrugged. “What makes the ship go round and round.”

  “Ship’s going round and round but not round the right way,” Violet said, eliciting a grin from Gravel. It was true—the ship hadn’t settled right and couldn’t hold a straight course, worse than a drunken sailor on his way home.

  “Aye, air’s not too healthy here aboard. How’s your head, Miss Violet?” Gravel asked her. “Not making you dizzy and sickly with all this motion?”

  “No,” Violet insisted. “Was that stuff from Raines’ office what made me all . . .”

  “Flopsy?” Gravel suggested.

  Violet scowled at him. “Terrible word.”

  “Don’t know any fancy words, Miss Violet, perhaps the good ensign could share a few, hey, sir?”

  Kaspar ignored them both.

  “Rather he shared what’s in the pipes,” Violet said. “Bet he knows.”

  “Mist,” Kaspar said shortly. “And it’s not a secret.”

  “Mist ain’t dangerous to breathe,” Violet objected.

  “Can be. There’s mist and then mist.”

  Violet considered this. “Like what Raines had in his workshop, all bottled up?”

  “That wasn’t mist,” Kaspar told her.

  “Fancy words,” Gravel nodded. “Always figured mist was just mist, myself.”

  “It can be miasma,” Violet grinned, getting into the banter.

  “Never could tell the difference.”

  “One you find in the black, the other you find near worlds and such where it mixes with the clouds and all.”

  “Ah, clever. Which is which though?”

  Violet touched the side of her nose, conspiratorially. Gravel mimicked her in response.

  Kaspar sighed again. The long despairing sigh of the long suffering. “That’s not even remotely accurate.”

  “Leave us simple souls our folklore, good sir,” Gravel told him. “Don’t have
time for all that fancy book learning you of the leisure time do.”

  “Are we going to make port?” Violet asked, changing the subject. Tease him too much and Kaspar would sulk and swear off on the two of them, citing official duties or some such rot. Better to keep him around as their window into the officers’ camp. “Ship’s as banged up as you say then we must need to set down.”

  “We do,” Kaspar said. “Problem isn’t the repairs though, we can fix what’s broke easy enough. The problem is putting back what was lost, refilling the pipes that make the ship go . . . round.” He made a face, realising he’d fallen into their wordplay.

  Violet and Gravel exchanged wicked grins at his dilemma. “So fill them. Just mist, ain’t it?” she said. “Plenty of that outside.”

  “Not the right kind.”

  “Should have brought more of the right kind then,” Violet told him.

  “We did,” Kaspar said. “Barrels of it, sealed tight in metal drums and all the gaps coated in tar. Whole stock room of it.”

  “All of which, most of which at least, got smashed up at the same time the pipes burst,” Gravel said.

  “By the ray?” Violet asked.

  “That’s the official words we’ve been told to sing along to, aye.”

  Violet looked down at her hands. So . . . not just my imagining things. Big rock really did get loose. Smashed things up good. Not good for much else, are you?

  Are you?

  “What now then?” she asked. “Captain must have a plan?”

  “Called for help, flares and signals and that,” Kaspar said. “Seems to think someone’s around.”

  “And if not?” Violet asked sceptically. Privately it seemed ridiculous that the captain or first mate would even consider asking, let alone calling for help. Seemed too . . . proud, if nothing else.

  “There’s a place we can go,” Kaspar said. “Out of the way, fix the pipes and fill the tanks. Only it’s not safe.”

  “What’s that mean?”