Chapter 3 - 125 KM Approx Dist

A fat mote of water sank into the page over which The Man leaned. The Yellowed paper of the book absorbed it like a sponge. He brought a hand to his face. He felt the melting rime covering his beard - the moisture which had crept through the seam of his hood and mask, and hardened there unnoticed.

The Man leaned back from the scored top of his study desk. He pulled the bottom left drawer open; the brass knob burned coldly on his fingers, with the furnace still struggling to restore a healthy temperature. The Man shoved aside the tilted spines of some chartbooks and pulled a texel rag from the drawer. He leaned to the side and toweled his crusted beard. Chunks of ice and melted water fell to the floor.

As The Man cleaned his face he examined the study.

From behind him, the full stars shone. The Man had drawn a semi-translucent curtain the color of cream across the rounded observing window. The starlight fell across the space in filtered luminescence. The starlight cast The Man’s bent silhouette across his desk and the equipment strewn atop it: encyclopedias, journals, inkpots and quills, pencils, loose papers, a World Cylinder Model, and other tools for chartering and scribing. The starlight landed on walls covered in shell schematics, diagrams of plants and birds native to the sky, and maps of the frontier abutting the seacover. The starlight outlined the radio speaker above the curtain; the mesh surface rattled with staticky voices. The starlight reflected in the eyes of the Phaen, sitting on a pile of rope beside the door, and staring at The Man.

The starlight cast undulating shadows. The muted Wind pounded against the outside of the shell; on the inside, the floor bucked.

The Man set his damp rag on a shelf below the window. He bent back over the old Staegon trapper’s diary. He tried to block out the radio static, the Wind’s moan, and the staring Phaen. He picked up where he’d stopped, the paragraph conveniently marked by his beard’s water droplets.

I passed the Kamoko this cycle. I ventured down the other bank after transferring my cables to the striation on the opposite side. I found scoring wich suggests multiships coming before; likely their ship encountered grit amassed over this line, and made a respectable effort to clear the packed dirt and ise*. From the Kamoko I passed over to the farthest point in view on this side of the Nakadanan patch, from the point of junction of the striations. I found beyond a thick hedge of Dorren growing, though my multiship was able to pass through slowly on a three-track drive, with only a little pitching. I believe this a good place for a blind, and intend to engage my ship and this tangle for that purpose. I have already seen three Staegon, though they took flight before I could retrieve my spear. From this spot to the plase* I made my crossing is only 10 kilometers. On my return to New Yendo, I will try for an audience with the Luce Hace. He will no doubt wish a voyage himself. The view here is splendid despite the covering roots above. Looking west, between the seacover above and to the south, and Nakadana below and north, there is a lonely strip of the clear sea of sky over the great sea of water. This strip ends far in the distanse*, a meeting of two shades of blue, the place where the seas merge.*

The Man looked up from the text. He stared at his Phaen. It stared silently back from its rope nest. It made no sound, but The Man had felt its fixed eyes on him.

The Man shut the trapper’s journal and set it atop a stack of its kind. It wasn’t the account he sought. He pushed his chair back from the desk; the wooden pole-legs dragged ruts in the hard packed feathers insulating the floor.

The Man stood. He walked over to an iron wheel fixed to the wall, beside the exit curtain and below the radio speaker. Watching the Phaen the whole time, The Man spun the wheel clockwise.

The wheel turned a crank and gearwork system in the internals of the metal shell. The system spun a reception dish below the shell which pointed toward Leeges. When The Man had turned the wheel two quarters, the voices of the radio clarified.

Man and Phaen stared at one another for a moment. Then The Man stepped over to a glass-fronted case of two shelves, fixed to the wall by bolts.

The top shelf held The Man’s coilspear. He stored it with its spring untensed, but the barrel was well oiled, and the lastiwire line neatly wound. The spear itself was tucked in the holster, ready for loading.

On the bottom shelf were another set of books, journals, and diaries. All came from glass sky ventures.

The Man selected a volume with a moth eaten cloth binding. He returned to his seat at the desk and flicked through the pages. He tried to focus on the words of the text, and not the voices of the radio now speaking with disruptive clarity.

---

Ma: “Do we think the hour’s come for Last Words, my friends?”

Dano: “Sure. I’ve said what I wanted.”

Nikon: “Let it out, Ma.”

Ma: “Actually I want to end our broadcast this time. Will you two chums go first?”

Nikon: “Ohhh, pleading for thinking time, are you?”

Ma: “I had some opinions in this broadcast. But if you two really want me to speak…”

Nikon: “I’m only playing thug. Sure! I’ll speak. I’ve got little that’s important to say as usual,” laughter “Listen up, listeners. Maybe you’re chattel and you’re catching this broadcast in the kitchen of your owner’s ranch tower before dinner. Maybe, you’re one of the guys who’s just shipped out aboard Dexio’s Ark, or The Ikleion, and you’re trying to forget about this silly little war for a few hours (I’m sorry pals if that’s the case - we screwed that up for you). Maybe you’re even Nakadanan, tuning in on some crackpot, highly-sensitive dish you’ve built atop your remote holdfast…”

Ma: “That’s unlikely.”

Nikon: “What I’m getting at is, no matter who you are, or where you’re listening from, I’ve got one bit of advice you can all take. Stay safe folks.”

Dano: “Wow Nikon. Really philosophical.”

Nikon: “What do you want? I told you I had nothing.”

Dano: “No, no, it’s good. I loved it. I honestly think you expressed what we’re all feeling in a plain way. I agree with everything you said. For my last words I’ll add this. To all our listeners; the launch of these ships by our kings to Nakadana is, in essence, their way of saying this ‘tech war’ isn’t leaving. I know we’d all - or most of us, anyway - hoped it was only talk. They never consulted me or Nikon or Ma, I will say that much. But if you’re one of the Leeges seamen, just now slipping under the seacover, facing this monster-storm, I’d say: use this chance to rest. Nakadana’s a tenday of sailing. I’m sure you can’t do anything aboard a ship when the Wind’s blowing radiation over the whole sea.”

Ma: “You’re sure about that Dano?”

Dano, laughing: “True. I don’t know anything about ships. I just mean, use this breathing time. Take your Melyna so you don’t get Wind sick. Find a space to collapse and get some extra hours. Play a few hands of Gangler’s Pass with your mates. Just forget about this conflict a bit. No shots have been fired. It’s just a lot of talk from people who’ve never been close to a coilspear. Whatever is meant to pass will pass, take it easy while you can. I guess that’s what I wanted to say. Sorry, I’m rambling.”

Nikon: “You’re shining, friend.”

Ma: “I thought both of you had great Last Words.”

Dano: “Thanks.”

Nikon: “Oh boy, here we go.”

Laughter Ma: “Yeah, here we go. Listen up, listeners. It’s no secret that I think this war we’ve declared on Nakadana is absolutely fucking nonsensical. I especially think this ‘defensive action’; sending Leeges ships AGAINST Nakadana; while we’re fighting ‘supposedly’ to keep our science out of their minds; I mean, who conjured this plan?”

Nikon: “King Orktis, Ma. Duh.”

Ma: “King Orktis is a glory hunter. And an idiot. And the worst part is that some people - a lot, apparently - support him. A lot of farmers and artisans across Leeges seem to think we’re keeping dangerous coilspear mechanics and chemical poisons out of the hands of Nakadanan savages. More likely Nakadana’s Luces want the kingdoms’ basic knowledge. They probably want to know our food and medicine skills: distilling Melyna, treating Windburn, root and grain diversity. Fellow subjects, I see the heroic appeal of this war. I’m as proud and protective of my Leeges heritage as the next man. But don’t let the speeches of our kings and generals convince you that you’ll earn glory in this fight. Don’t think they want you to join the army to make you a man. The Kings don’t care about you any more than they care about Nakadanan soldiers. To them, you’re a weapon. You’re useful to guard their hoard of science and win them glory. Nothing more. Please, please, don’t enlist in the service if Orktis or men like him are your king. And please, please, whether you be chattel or specialist, voice your opposition where the federation will hear it.”

---

The Man closed the book with the moth-eaten binding. His eyes had passed mindlessly over the last few pages. The radio distracted him. He had read and recognized enough to know this was also the wrong account.

The Man glanced up. He caught the Phaen still staring from its place by the door.

The Man returned his attention to the desk. For a moment he seemed unsure what to do.

Suddenly The Man pulled another book toward himself. Not an encyclopedia or explorers journal, this one. This book was The Man’s own notes. The page was open to the day’s log. He’d marked down his estimated average heart rate of each hour. He’d taken notes on the sky’s features this day: roughly two hundred and fifty roots of non-clustered Aedra, three clusters of ten to fifteen plants, one small Rhok that had been black or grey in coat seen flying at a distance of fifty meters, lump-snow forming all through the day, Wind signifying a storm toward the stars’ waking. Interspersed with these were quick notes on the landscape, and a log of supplies.

• ‘Seacover 3-5km north’

• ‘No striation branch’

• ‘No artifacts, Human or Golem’

• ‘11 day burnables; 25kg Staegon flesh (lean), 5kg Staegon flesh (fat), 3 jars live birdworms, 3 jars dropped (dead), whole supply (25kg) dry grain stew dropped (Skarba infestation), 5 mineral tablets’

• ‘10hr spin; 125km approx dist’

The ink of these notes lay matte and dry on the page.

The Man grabbed this log and stood. The radio hosts still chattered. So much for last words, thought The Man. The voices vibrated the dust particles floating in the cream colored light, so that the atmosphere was like an ancient temple resounding with hymnal chants.

The Man ignored the noise. He stepped beside the Phaen. It perked its head up, but The Man didn’t look at the bird. He stepped to a gridded map, drawn on a huge hide of leather, and fixed to the curving metal wall with four rows of iron screws.

The Man picked up a piece of charcoal from a nearby bucket. He consulted the open page of his log. He threw his mind back to the landscape seen in glimpses through the window, prompted by the logbook.

The Man began marking upon the pale leather. Remembered patches of Aedra became sets of three charcoal prongs. He drew a wavy line near the top of three squares of the grid to represent the distant seacover. He struck a quick tiny V-shape to represent the Rhok he had glimpsed. He made a line of dashes across three of the grid spaces. The line stood for The Man’s passage. The Man ended it with a hard dot to mark the day’s rest.

It took only a moment to fill in the grid. When he had, The Man stepped back.

Only the bottom quarter of the map had any markings at all. Most were three-pronged plant marks, with an occasional V-bird. Dashed lines and the forks in them represented the striations. At one place he had drawn a box; it stood for a manned multiship he had seen traveling a different striation branch.

A third of the way up the map he had begun drawing the wavy line that marked the seacover. The Wavy line split the leather into two, with The Man’s markings in the smaller bottom part. The Man had marked the grid close to that wavy line in places, but the swathe of leather above the wavy line was empty.

The Man felt a nudge at his leg. He glanced down. The Phaen poked him with its bone covered beak. It stared at him, an expectant look in its blue eyes. The Man grew suddenly aware that the radio voices had stopped. Now, echoing in the hollow shell, came music. The Man recognized the tune. It was a ghost tale without words, played by a horn blower and three strings.

The Man took another long look at the map. His dull brown eyes became unfocused on the blank span of canvas.

Then The Man set the charcoal back in the bucket, and the book on a nearby shelf. He walked to a chest beside the case with his coilspear and notebooks. Between the chest and the wall, where it wouldn’t fall when the floor rocked, The Man had tucked his crescent.

The Man pulled the crescent from its nook. He strung it. He plucked notes and tuned the curving instrument with pegs running along the two wooden horns. Behind him the Phaen shifted on its rope nest.

The Man carried the instrument to his sleeping hammock. The hammock hung from two wall pitons, behind the study desk. He sank into it, and met The Phaen’s gaze across the room.

The Man brought his fingers up to catch the playing song’s tune.

He stopped, startled by memory. The Man laid the instrument down. The Phaen cawed and pulled its head into its torso, as if sulking. The Man ignored it. Swiftly he returned to the chest where he’d retrieved his crescent. He pulled the nail holding the chest latch shut. The rusted hinges groaned as he lifted the lid.

The chest was lined in fine, soft velvet. Dried lavender in a side pocket filled the box with perfume. The smell was almost cloying to The Man’s nose, conditioned to the sweaty must which permeated the shell. A lead-lined, copper cuirass lay atop the belongings piled in the chest. The copper showed scratches and aging color, but also a patina of dust. It had lain in the chest for some time.

The Man shifted the armor aside. Beneath it was a Leegesman’s uniform, folded neatly, with two rows of black buttons running down the front in the style of an Anastian warrior. He set this gently atop the armor. Under the armor and clothes were loose identifying documents, a set of walking sandals, an iron waterskin, and a leave-taking letter.

The Man pushed all these aside to get at the books beneath. There were five of them. They were fictional, and mostly without worth on the sky.

But The Man picked out one book easily. It was bound in roe leather, with a spine crinkled by use. It was the account of a real adventurer - one of few who’d passed the frontier from Leeges, into the unknown seacover. Into The Engi.

The explorer had earned fame, of course, but taken too many liberties in his account to be trusted.

The Man knew the passage he wanted. He thumbed through the first third of the book quickly, then turned the pages one by one. The Man spotted one of his charcoal blotches. He read a part of the text beside it, which he had circled in a finer line of ink.

To landdwellers, it may seem strange that a crew can want for light so close to the sky. But the blackglass is a desert unlike the wavy dunes of the Schatz or Wendleland’s frozen tundra. A layer of grime - only a finger thick, but utterly opaque - coats the surface of the sky in this place. There is no light but what the multiship makes, and that is scarce enough. The temperature drops by only five or so degrees, but the dark seems to give the chill a greater sting. All the while, one suffers the knowledge that many kilometers below, a plane of water waits like stone to catch whatever falls.

The Man skipped the rest of the paragraph and jumped to the next page. It was not the marked passage which he wanted, but the succeeding text.

“Why do these Rhoks travel in the storm?” I asked Lowka.

“Flying with purpose. Other masters follow.”

I mistook Lowka’s words as meaning some other multiship - I could not believe a crew would be sailing their vessel through such a Wind. I remembered, though, that to Lowka, all hunters of other creatures were ‘master’. I understood. Rhoks - ‘masters’ themselves - fear only one other predator on the sky.

Anka.

I skipped supper, as did many of the scullers. We kept our windcoats tied and slept below the steps leading to the deck. Despite my wishes, I dropped off to sleep.

Suddenly I woke. Something heavy had struck the ship. I noticed, in that same moment, a scream, and a louder howl of Wind, and the blast of cold air. I flung my blanket off and rushed to the landing.

The door to the deck stood open and snow covered the steps. I rushed to the top and looked outside. Other men stood, disorganized, over the deck, their hoods wagging in the gale.

At that moment, I caught a glimpse of a wide shadow flit against the sky.

The ship’s electrics were almost spent, and the lanterns threw a flimsy light across the grated metal of the deck and the blackglass above us. I saw Lowka sitting near the foretrack, leaning with his hand pressed to the deck. Kutz, the old hand, lay prone beside him, unmoving.

With difficulty I gathered my thoughts. I questioned Lowka on what had happened. He only said, “Anka! Anka took man.”

Then I noticed another hand, Laus, was missing.

Lowka seemed paralyzed with terror. At any other time, his drawn eyes behind the ill-fitting goggle hood might have been comical. This time it was I who kept my composure.

Why had there been men on deck at all?

It seemed Lowka had woken to find the door open. The hands apparently had heard a noise on the deck. Fearing for the tracks, they had ventured out into the high Wind to check the sound. So foolish. Lowka had peeked out the open door, and at that moment saw Anka right above the multiship. The monster had silently plucked Laus off the deck, without hurry, as though it knew none could stop it, and carried him screaming into the sky. Lowka had yelled alarm, and the other scullers had charged on deck with their coilspears.

I picked up my own weapon, but did not know what to do. The night was utter blackness beyond the faint globes of our lanterns. One of my scullers thought the beast had flown off to the right, while Lowka pointed the exact opposite way.

I asked Lowka to climb one of the tracks, him being lightest, but he refused. I decided to climb myself. The track was flash-coated in storm ice. By effort I made it a few yards, but the ice and Wind bit through my heavy gloves, and I fell back.

Lowka looked to the black sky. He said, “Leave off. Soon stars wake and storm end.”

I had no idea how the foolish man knew, but had learned not to question his motives.

We stepped back into the hold and drank coffee.

Presently the Wind died. Our stove hands loaded the furnace, and soon the ship electrics hummed with life. Lowka and I stepped on deck and examined the surroundings with the searchbeam. We found the thick bramble of Dorren ivy in which the beast must have nested. There was no motion now, and it must have flown on. Riche and Lowka went to inspect it when we had anchored the spear rope to the nearby sky. From spoor in the thicket, they reported that this Anka was old and sick. It had waited long in the Dorren for a sound of passage. It had only risked attacking because of the strong storm, Lowka said. It had attacked our ship when it heard the cables rattling in the storm, and taken the hand when it heard his footsteps on deck. When Lowka told me this, I asked him if the old Anka was hard of sight. He said, “Anka no see, but listen very close.”

I suggested we do an extra shift on the spinners that day, but that we keep a man on deck. Lowka agreed.

The Man scanned the pages before and after. There was no more account of Anka. The Man knew that no other section of the narrative referenced the creature. Only this short, dubious excerpt. Perhaps another of the books aboard the ship referenced the great hunter in the sky - but The Man didn’t think so.

Yet, even an embellished tale was more than nothing. The sound he’d heard might also have been another bird, or some trick of the Wind. The Man did not worry; it would not help. The Man would listen with care, and keep his shell portal tightly bolted. He could do no more.

The Man committed the account to memory. Then he returned the book to the chest. He organized the other belongings inside. He started setting the lead-lined cuirass back, but reconsidered. The Man went to the glass case holding his coilspear and set the armor beside the weapon.

The radio music caught The Man’s attention again. The song was a new one, an old tale of a buccaneer in The Katamas, and his doomed love for the daughter of a Nakadanan Luce. This one too, The Man knew.

The Man glanced at his Phaen. The raptor creature had curled its beak beneath one of its wide white wings. It seemed to be asleep.

The Man marched to the curtained window. He peeled a corner of the cream-colored drape back and glanced at the wakened sky. The stars burned golden beyond the glass. The Wind storm had brought Vapor Wraiths - bright, thin clouds, like strands of pale algae left to dry on tree trunks after a drought - and the stars lent the clouds a spectral look.

The fraction of starlight fell onto the insulation at an angle. The Man pulled the curtain back farther so that the light went over his Phaen. Still the bird did not stir.

The Man let go of the curtain. The yellow shine returned to muted cream. The Man returned finally to his hammock and crescent. He plucked a string in the beginning of joining the song. The Phaen kept its head tucked.

The Man tapped his boot twice, softly, on the floor. Instantly the Phaen scurried from its rope pile. Its talons tore tufts of feathers from the packed insulation. It nearly slammed into The Man in its haste to sit on his boots. The Phaen stared up into his face with its bright blue eyes.

The Man brought a palm down and ran his fingers through the soft white feathers on its crest. The Phaen cooed softly.

The Man said, “An atom in a thimble.” He paused, glanced at his leather map, and added, “We shall persist.”

Then The Man picked up his crescent. He strummed along to the radio’s song. The cream-lit study filled with his softly plucked strings. At his feet, the Phaen settled into a deep sleep.

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