“Ah, shit.”
“I want to thank you for accepting this operation, Turyin,” says Shara. “I can think of no one else I’d rather have in Voortyashtan. And I want to thank you for returning to me, even if it’s for this one operation. I will not claim that I completely understand why you resigned, but sometimes I think I do.”
You obviously do, thinks Mulaghesh, otherwise you would not have sent that letter.
“Thank you again for your support, and your friendship, Turyin Mulaghesh. Your country honors you for the service you have given it—service in the past, present, and future. Good luck.”
A hiss, a click, and the voice fades away.
***
The door to the Tohmay reception room cracks open. Pitry, who has been staring over the balcony at the moonlit sea with his hands behind his back, glances back and does a double take as Mulaghesh emerges carrying a crystal tumbler full of what looks like very expensive liquor. “Wh-Where did you get that?”
“Helped myself to the bar.”
“But…But we’ll have to pay for tha—”
“Did you know?”
“Did I know what?”
“That Shara was sending me off to damned Voortyashtan?”
Pitry hesitates. “Well, I…I was somewhat aware you wou—”
“Fucking hells,” says Mulaghesh. She quaffs the liquor, then winds up and hurls the tumbler over the edge of the balcony. Pitry watches as what must be a forty- or fifty-drekel glass disappears into the ocean with a plook! “Of all the places in the world to send me sniffing up the Divine! As if I’d ever want to. Haven’t I seen enough of all of that? When am I allowed to rest?”
“But you’ll be among familiar company, won’t you? General Biswal will be there; he’s an old comrade. Which is not to say that your heroic days are necessarily behind you, of course….”
Mulaghesh’s face goes blank, losing all of its cynical swagger, and she stares out at the sea. Though Mulaghesh has not seemed pleased with this mission so far, this is the first time Pitry’s seen her genuinely afraid.
“He wasn’t my comrade, Pitry,” she says. “He was my commanding officer. I thought he was dead, frankly. I hadn’t heard wind of him for years. How did he get appointed to regional governor of Voortyashtan?”
“Because the last one was assassinated,” says Pitry, “and no one else would take the job.”
“Ah.”
“They thought he was the right man for the position, though. I understand General Biswal has a…a history of making do in contested territories.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Mulaghesh says.
Pitry glances at her. “What was it like?”
“What, the Summer of Black Rivers?”
“Yes.”
There’s a long pause.
“Do you remember much of the Battle of Bulikov, Pitry?” she asks softly.
“I…I do.”
“Do you ever want to see something like that again?”
“It is, perhaps, cowardly of me to say so, but…No. No, I do not.”
“Smart choice. Well. I will put it this way: what Biswal and I did to the Continent during the Summer of Black Rivers makes the Battle of Bulikov look like spilled milk.”
Pitry is quiet. Mulaghesh stares out at the sea, running the index finger of her right hand up and down the knuckle of her wooden left thumb.
“Get out of here, Pitry,” says Mulaghesh. “I want to be alone right now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and steps back through the door.
Saypur proudly claims that because it was a colony with no Divine assistance, it was forced to think for itself. We claim that because we were forced to innovate or die, we had no choice but to innovate.
This is somewhat true. But it is the notes of Vallaicha Thinadeshi that allow us keen insight into Saypur’s sudden technological advances—many of which originate with the forgotten Continental saint Torya.
From a smattering of mentions in Bulikov’s records of executions we can confirm Torya was a Taalvashtani saint who spent most of his life in Saypur, being sent there in 1455. As followers of the builder Divinity Taalhavras, Taalvashtanis were architects, engineers, designers, and machinists—people who tinkered with the rude materials of mortal life as well as the Divine miracles that supported so much of it.
Torya grew so bored with his work on his Saypuri estate that he often pestered his servants to feed him distractions, treating them as puzzles and problems. Some of his creations involved wheeled shoes that allowed his servants to race up and down his lengthy hallways, as well as a stove that used convection to cook bread twice as fast.
As far as we can tell, he did this solely as a cure for his boredom—not out of any charity.
It was his Saypuri valet who realized the opportunity Torya presented. Over a series of months the valet fed him a variety of large-scale problems for him to solve, and Torya became so involved in his work that in 1457 he felt obliged to create a series of rules for the mortal world: laws of mathematics and physics that applied to reality without any Divine intervention, as well as some innovations that could easily exploit these rules. As Torya had access to countless Divine devices with spectacular properties, he was able to establish these rules both quickly and accurately.
This soon proved revolutionary. The valet secreted out copies of Torya’s writings and had them sent all over the country. Within a decade Saypuris were farming with irrigation, building structures faster and better than ever before. But it was the creation of a small steam-powered loom in 1474 that brought unwelcome attention, for the Saypuri who created it lived in a Voortyashtani colony—and Voortyashtanis understood the nature of power and knowledge far more than the Taalvashtanis did.
The Voortyashtanis realized someone had taught the Saypuris these methods, and quickly traced the information back to Saint Torya. The Voortyashtanis then executed every slave and servant who had come in contact with Torya’s estate, and petitioned Bulikov not only for Torya to be defrocked, but also executed. They won their petition, and Torya was brutally disemboweled in 1475 for crimes against the Continent’s colonies.
But the Voortyashtanis’ victory was not complete: Torya’s laws persisted and were worked upon in secret. When the Kaj himself created his mysterious weaponry to slay the Divinities in 1636, a copy of Torya’s laws was one of his most heavily used references. And in the 1640s, when Vallaicha Thinadeshi began the great technological revolution that would secure Saypur’s place in the world, none of it would have been possible without the work of Saint Torya, performed just under two hundred years earlier.
Saypur, being a proud nation, would not like to admit that a Continental contributed so much to the foundation of their technological achievements. But we forget another lesson of history when we do so: a slave will use any tool to escape their slavery, even those of their masters.
—DR. EFREM PANGYUI, “THE SUDDEN HEGEMONY”
First the rain—the screaming, awful rain. The slap of the downpour is so stunning that Mulaghesh, who’s spent the latter part of her trip cloistered in her cabin aboard the Dreyling cargo ship Hjemdal, is almost stupefied by such brutal weather, and it makes her rethink the desire she’s had for the last two weeks: to get the hells off of this chain of boats and set her feet on dry land.
But not this land, she thinks. Not any land that exists under weather like this….
She shields her eyes, walks out on deck, and looks.
She is faced with the wide, expansive mouth of a river—the Solda River, of course, whose waters once passed through Bulikov, the very city where she was stationed for nearly two decades. On each side of the river mouth are two vast, ragged peaks that slowly recede down to the waters in a rambling jangle of sharp, broken, blade-like stones. No wonder they call it the city of blades, she thinks. It all looks like rubble, as if the cliffs surrounding the city have been steadily collapsing—yet amidst the stones about the peaks are lights, streams of smoke, and thousa
nds of glimmering windows.
“So that’s the city of Voortyashtan,” she says grimly. “Well. It lives up to expectations.”
Then she sees the harbor. Or, rather, what will one day be the harbor—maybe.
“Holy shit,” she says.
The main issue with reconstructing the Continent—the underlying aim of nearly all of Shara Komayd’s legislation—is one of access. There has only ever been one functioning international harbor on the Continent in modern history: Ahanashtan, which has always been Saypur’s key foothold on the Continent. But if you’re trying to bring aid and support to the entirety of the Continent, having only one way in and one way out makes it quite difficult.
Yet as the Continent’s climate changed—growing steadily colder with no Divinities to miraculously warm the weather—there became only one remaining decent warm-water port: Voortyashtan. Which happens to sit on the mouth of the Solda River, which, if brought under control, would give the entire world access to the inner recesses of the Continent.
And long ago, Voortyashtan did once possess a harbor. In fact, back in the days of the Divinities, it was far, far larger and busier than any harbor the contemporary powers could ever aspire to. But it was put to unspeakable, monstrous purposes—purposes that make modern Saypuris shiver to think of even today.
“Every obstacle,” Shara used to say (before her own career became mired in its own obstacles), “is always an opportunity.” Would it not be a tremendous symbolic victory, she asked, if Saypur built a new harbor in Voortyashtan and put it to good use? Wouldn’t they all sleep a little better at night knowing Voortyashtan, that most backward and dangerous of cities, was slowly being modernized, led along like a mule is led by a dangling turnip?
So it was decided that the Department of Reconstruction, with the approval of the polis of Voortyashtan, would reconstruct its ancient harbor, thus bringing swift aid to the other half of the Continent, and probably making Voortyashtan the second-richest polis on the Continent in the meantime.
But as to who would do the actual work—that was another issue. Saypur, being a naval nation, naturally had a dozen contractors and companies willing to do the job—but for Saypuri prices, all of which were astronomically high. For a while it seemed the harbor would never be built without some outrageous financing miracle, but then the newly founded United Dreyling States—having overthrown the corrupt Dreyling Republics a mere three years ago, and desperate for income—came forward with a series of bids so low that Saypur wondered if the Dreylings were using slave labor. But in the end, the Southern Dreyling Company—or SDC, as many prefer—finally captured the prize and signed the contracts.
Though from what Mulaghesh last heard, the construction of the harbor has so far proven to be more difficult than anyone anticipated. She remembers hearing about how some tremendous wreckage from the Blink blocked up much of the Solda River’s mouth and would have to be removed. And if she recalls, all of SDC’s most brilliant engineers were still scratching their heads over it.
Yet now, just outside the Solda Bay, she sees that they seem to be making headway. Remarkable headway, in fact.
In the mouth of the bay is a forest of dredging cranes, each 150 feet high, all in lines radiating outward from the shore. Some of the cranes are building other cranes, reaching farther and farther out to sea, while the ones closer to the shore are deconstructing the cranes at the back. It’s a brilliant, confusing, impressive mess of construction work, and for a moment Mulaghesh wonders if these mechanisms are here to repair the ruined mess of Voortyashtan or if they’re here to tear it down. The shore behind the cranes is awash with activity: tiny timber structures and makeshift piers all fueling the work taking place in the bay, reforging this ruined metropolis into what could one day be the trade capital of the western coast of the Continent.
But where’s the wreckage the cranes are supposed to be hauling away? From what Mulaghesh can see, the Solda Bay is wide and clear.
“We’ll have to cut a sharp turn here, ma’am,” says the captain of the Hjemdal. “Might wish to hold on tight.”
“Cut around what?” says Mulaghesh. “It damned well looks like we’re in open seas to me, Captain.”
“Stand on the port side and look down, ma’am,” says the captain, “and you might catch a glimpse of it.”
Mulaghesh does so, holding tight to the railing.
The ship veers beneath her. Dark water washes up the hull. She sees nothing, but then…
There is a disturbance in the current a few dozen feet out: the surface of the water is rippled where it ought to be smooth. She squints, and sees something down below….
Something white. Something wide and smooth and pale, just below the surface of the water. As the Hjemdal cruises by she spies the faint outline of an aperture in this white surface below the water—a long, thin gap, pointed at the top and flat at the bottom. As they near she sees molding lining the gap, and a shutter hanging off of one ancient, rusted hinge.
Then she understands: It’s a window.
“That…That was a building,” she says aloud, looking back. “There was…There was a building under the water back there.”
“Welcome to old Voortyashtan,” the captain says with false cheer, waving at the mouth of the Solda. “Though you can’t see much of it these days. It’s moved, y’see, about three hundred feet. Vertically, straight down.” He grins and laughs wickedly.
“It’s underwater?” she asks. “Wait…The wreckage that’s blocking the Solda is the city itself? How have I never heard of this?”
“Because someone would have to survive to tell you,” he says. “This here bay is practically a minefield, ma’am—hence why we won’t be going much farther—and once you make it ashore, and you’re among those wild Continentals, why…I’m not sure if your odds improve any.” He stops when he spies a small cutter making its way through the forest of cranes. “Ah, here’s your escort, ma’am. I’ve no doubt you and them’ll have plenty to chat about.”
***
The cutter zips across the bay, ripped back and forth by the howling winds. Mulaghesh shields her eyes from the gales as they draw close. The area’s not totally bereft of civilization, she sees: farther down the west coast stands a tall, beautiful lighthouse, its slow, revolving beam lancing out to dance over the waters. Beside it is a large, colorful wood-and-stone structure that feels very out of place amid dark, dreary Voortyashtan. Large banners festoon the stairs leading up to it, each embroidered with the letters “SDC.”
“They’re certainly setting up shop, aren’t they,” mutters Mulaghesh.
The cutter pulls up to a pier just east of the lighthouse, which is deserted except for one person, who stands at its end with a flick of glowing cigarette ash suspended in their shadow. Besides this, all she can spy is their thick, sealskin coat with its hood up, wrapped tight about their face.
Mulaghesh awkwardly descends the rope ladder to the pier, forced to compensate for her false hand. The figure at the end of the pier waves to her.
She remembers what Pitry said as the Hjemdal shipped out: We’ve secured you a source, who will contact you when you arrive.
She asked: Who is it?
The best possible resource, the chief technology officer of the whole of SDC. They should know absolutely everything about what’s going on in Voortyashtan. Though now that she thinks about it, Mulaghesh realizes he never actually told her the CTO’s name.
Mulaghesh walks down the pier, her bag slung across her shoulders. “Are you here for me?” she shouts to the figure.
The figure just waves again. As Mulaghesh comes closer she sees another SDC badge on their breast, though this is of a bright yellow color with a gear insignia below, suggesting something different.
“Thank you for meeting me here,” says Mulaghesh as she approaches. “But it won’t mean much if I drown to death in this rai—”
She stops as the figure pushes back their hood.
She expected to see some dour, red-f
aced, glowering Dreyling, a foreman or dockworker with an abundance of scars and burst blood vessels and a receding hairline. What she did not expect to see is an intimidatingly beautiful Dreyling woman in her mid-thirties, with high cheekbones, bright blond hair, and glacial blue eyes set behind a pair of austere spectacles. She’s tall, over six feet, which means she towers over Mulaghesh. The woman takes a massive drag from her cigarette, flicks it into the sea—it sizzles angrily, begrudging its abandonment—and smiles at Mulaghesh.
And Mulaghesh sees many things in that smile. She sees charm, wit, and a roiling sea of cleverness; she sees a sharp, diamond-hard attention, recording everything that’s witnessed; but what Mulaghesh sees most in that broad, white smile is an unshakable, concrete confidence that its owner is at any given moment the smartest person in the room.
The woman says, “Welcome, General, to the polis of Voortyashtan. I hope our crew treated you well?”
Mulaghesh stares into the woman’s face. There is something familiar about her that she can’t quite place….
In her mind, Mulaghesh removes one of the young woman’s eyes, adds a brutal latticework of scars, and replaces her charming smile with a look of implacable, lethal menace.
“By all the hells,” says Mulaghesh. “If you’re not the kin of Sigrud je Harkvaldsson, then I am a dead fucking dog.”
The charming smile evaporates. The young woman looks at Mulaghesh, astonished, but instantly recovers: she gives a delighted laugh, though her eyes can’t quite match it.
“You have a head for faces, General!” she says. “You are correct. I am Signe Harkvaldsson, chief technology officer of the Southern Dreyling Company. And you, of course, would be the famous general Turyin Mulaghesh.”
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