From behind the dark lenses she watches the young families, the fathers gawky and long-legged in their too-short shorts, the children awkward, mumbly, desperately earnest. She watches, envious, as the young lovers caress one another.
When did such opportunities become closed to me? she thinks as she watches their clear faces, bereft of scars or kinks in their noses, or their smooth shoulders, which have clearly never borne the weight of a pack. She shifts her left sleeve so it covers more of her false hand. When did I get so old? When did I get so fucking old?
She’s startled by a sharp whistle and sees that she’s been so lost in thought she completely ignored the ship’s arrival. She picks up her bag and tries her hardest to not think about the journey back to the Continent, the land where she fought a war in her youth, wasted decades of her life in bureaucracy, and lost a hand, all in the shadow of that nation’s dead gods.
***
To call the Kaypee sumptuous would be an understatement, but Mulaghesh has no eye for its latticed ceilings or expansive decks. Instead she marches straight to her cabin—not one of the nicer ones by a long shot—and waits for evening. She sleeps all the way through the ship’s departure, nestled down in the folds of her greatcoat. She forgot how comfortable it is, and as her shoulders and arms lose themselves in its fabric she is reminded of long rests outdoors, in the cold and the rain and the mud, memories that would be unpleasant for most but have gained a somewhat rosy hue for Mulaghesh.
How sad it is, she thinks as she dozes, that on a luxury passenger ship I am cheered most by memories of miserable soldiering.
The sky is purpled and hazy through her porthole when she wakes. She checks her watch, confirms it’s 1600, rises, and winds her way down to the Tohmay reception room.
An attendant out front politely inquires which company she should be listed under. “Thivani Industries,” she says. He checks the list, nods, and opens the door for her with a smile. Mulaghesh enters and walks down the narrow hallway until she enters the final chamber. Like the rest of the ship, it is ridiculously luxurious—How much did they spend on my damn ticket?—though, to her regret, the bar is deserted. The only person in the room sits at a table before a row of glass doors that look out on the wide, dark sea.
Pitry Suturashni hears her coming, stands, and smiles. His face is a pale green color, and there’s a stench of vomit about him. “Welcome! General. I’m glad you could make it.”
***
“I’m going to assume,” says Mulaghesh, “that the only reason I’m on this ship is because it was the first available.”
“You are correct in thinking that, though you are a valued resource, we would not normally opt for such transportation.” Pitry hiccups and places the back of his hand to his mouth.
“You need me to get a bucket?”
Pitry shakes his head, though he has to think about it. “As…unpatriotic it might be for a Saypuri, I admit my seamanship is not…terribly accomplished.”
“Shara had a terribly sensitive stomach, I recall,” Mulaghesh says as she sits. “You just had to show that girl a picture of a boat to make her paint the walls with her breakfast.” Pitry’s shading grows more unpleasant. “This ship’s bound, I note, for Ahanashtan. Is that where the operation is?”
“No,” says Pitry. “You will be taking a ship from Ahanashtan to your final destination. Though Shara has given me strict instructions that she would prefer to tell you about that herself.”
“Herself?” asks Mulaghesh. She glances around the room. “Is she…here?”
Pitry reaches down and picks up a leather satchel from beside his chair. He pulls out a small wooden box and places it on the table in front of them.
“What, is Shara in there?” asks Mulaghesh.
“In a way,” says Pitry. He slides a panel from the side of the box, revealing a brass tube that he rotates out so it points toward Mulaghesh. Then he slides the top panel away, revealing a small, oily black disc in the center of the box. Pitry finds a small lever on the side of the box and cranks it for about twenty seconds. Then he hits a button and the box begins to hiss.
“Oh, what fresh hell is this,” says Mulaghesh. “Another contraption?”
“One of the Department of Reconstruction’s interesting new projects,” says Pitry, with a slightly hurt tone.
“The DOR never found a functioning thing it couldn’t fuck up,” says Mulaghesh. “I dread what would happen if they tried to reinvent the toilet.”
Pitry sighs again, takes a file from the satchel, and hands it to her. It has a fat, red wax seal on the front. Mulaghesh notes that the seal has no insignia or symbol. So whatever’s in it, thinks Mulaghesh, certainly didn’t come from any of the normal authorities.
“Crack it open when she tells you to,” says Pitry.
“She?”
Then a voice rises up from somewhere in the box’s hissing, soft and somewhat sad, and sounding much, much older than when Mulaghesh last heard it: “Hello, Turyin.”
“Damn,” says Mulaghesh, surprised. “Shara?”
“She can’t hear you,” says Pitry. “It’s a recording. It captures sound, just like telephones transport it.”
Mulaghesh squints at the box. “Where does it keep it?”
“Well, it’s…The sound’s carved, I suppose, into that little black disc bit….At least, I think it is. They had a bunch of graphs when they explained it to me….Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Pitry,” says Shara’s crackly, ghostly voice, “if you’re still there, you can leave us now.”
“See what I mean?” says Pitry. He smiles again and slips out the door to the balcony, leaving Mulaghesh alone with the box and the file.
***
“I hope you’re well, Turyin,” says Shara’s voice. “And I hope your time in Javrat has been comfortable. I apologize for approaching you with this task, but…everything aligned far too well for me not to make the ask. It’s been ten months, and you are still a general of prestige who has slipped from the public eye. And you also have good reason to be on the Continent, touring nearly anything you like, and everyone will believe it’s solely to earn out your pension—your country doing you a favor before it puts, how shall we say, a reliable old horse out to pasture.”
“Shit,” says Mulaghesh. “Don’t pull your punches….”
“It is, of course, unusual to appoint a general of your stature to such fieldwork,” says Shara’s voice, “but even more than all the reasons I have listed, I believe that you are personally suited to this task for a number of reasons which I hope will soon become clear.
“I’ll explain now. This message cannot be replayed, so listen closely.”
Mulaghesh leans in until her ear is almost right next to the brass tube.