The Golden Semradashu
Westward they blew, beyond the golden sails and through the wreaths of yonder. Consuming, rotting, nourishing. Lashing, they were, at the infinite sides of the world, like a gnawing blade against a porous rock. A presence? yes. A fear? no. But a horror… and so quiet a one, too. Quieter. Quieter. Quieter still. Until finally, silence. The last song. It was with a whisper not a roar, did that closing harmony emerge.
Do you hear it now? Teraspha’s drums still beat, neither seen nor heard. Is such a thing even possible? Can a song of destruction, sung of survival, live on for so long?
The old barges hung from cables, part scuttled, some five stories above the northernmost corner of the Docks. Huddled together in twisted metal, their rust-crystaled hulls formed a loose circle around a much larger, more intact barge. The Golden Semradashu they called it now, the latest in a long list of lost names. Once part of a small fleet of freight barges belonging to the Jacauri Hoard, these modest ships had found a new home servicing the many denizens of the Taqidoma Docks. Like a giant mobile hanging above the docks, these barges had become more than just unusual wreckage. They were a destination, a fixture, a statement even, and one quite beautiful enough that you could almost mistake them for a piece of abstract art.
Like most of the Bazaar, the identity of the Golden Semradashu had been augmented over the centuries, with each of its temporary occupants adding something new. Its current form, a dive bar of no particular import, betrayed the barge’s history somewhat… and yet it still wore the stories of its past on every scratch of its paint and dent on its hull.
These barges could pass as nothing more than dead shells from a forgotten era, and to many a passerby they did just that. Should those unfamiliar peer behind the rusted veil though, they’d find themselves mistaken… for it was the inside of these shells where the Semradashu came alive. The interior transformed these metal corpses into a scrum of tightly packed shops and eateries, most of which catered for dock workers and ship mates who had arrived at the Bazaar on someone else’s purpose. The Golden Semradashu was at the heart of this hidden fanfare, festooned in artifacts that took after the bar’s name sake. Its entrance had been cut into the hull of the largest barge, forming a misshapen gold relief that shone bright against the dull oranges and rotting greens of the barge’s flakey skin.
Through this retrofitted doorway, in a smokey corner of the Golden Semradashu, Ata leant back on a steel-wood stool. His teeth grasped his black cigar while he held his hand, palm up, on the sticky oak bar top.
“Cough it up then Daenor, 45 plates, as promised.”
Daenor, the old Siltois bartender that ran the Golden Semradashu, wore an irritable expression. This was made worse by the red scales that ran around Daenor’s face in a concentric pattern, the symmetry of it all lost now under a giant frown. The scales reflected light at different angles, making any expression seem many more times severe than what was perhaps intended.
The old Siltois Bartender looked Ata up and down in response to Ata’s demand, grunting in disdain as they did, but nevertheless took their leave to collect the coin. They ambled away with a limp on their left leg, a misbalance that was likely a result of their missing fourth arm.
Ata, meanwhile, took another large puff of his cigar, blowing its thick white smoke between the dusty bottles of Shet/Vorx whiskey that stood unopened on the tiers of shelves that rose from the bar to the roof. He gazed at the brown-glass bottles, with their short necks and embossed sides, as the smoke split at every possible gap, before swirling back together again on the other side of the bar. He couldn’t see the vintage of the whiskey from this angle, but it didn’t matter. Time moved at its own pace in the Heavens Bazaar and, crucially in this particular case, at a pace different to many of the worlds where these alcohols were distilled. This made it almost impossible to properly age whiskey here, or even accurately determine what age it was before it had arrived, assuming it was even imported in the first place. Ata had heard a rumour not long ago, that there were acres of malting facilities on some faraway curve of the Bazaar. The monger of this particular rumour had delighted in an explanation of golden fields of barley, motionless in zero-g, glowing under the starstruck reflections of giant steel fermentation tanks. A fascinating place to visit no doubt, but there was scarcely any point in Ata believing in rumours like this anymore. The Bazaar had rumours in spades. In fact, much of what was said about the Bazaar was either rumour or hearsay. Truths were stretched so far and so thin these days that they were almost indistinguishable from lies. Besides, Ata had walked this road too many times in his life, the road of trust or belief, only to find a trick on the other side. A robbery of hope, or a promise broken. He had been much kinder once, a little surly to be sure, but only over inconsequential things. The Collapse had changed him. He had seen civilization at its worst, and it had shattered his trust. Even two decades on he remained stubborn in his ways and distrusting of anyone but himself and perhaps his ship’s mate, Thealien…
Ata’s mind drifted back to the smoke and the bottles. No… he thought. The only way to age a bottle like this was to look at the dust. Chances were as good as any that the dustier the bottle, the longer it had been at the bar, and therefore on the Bazaar. But then, these bottles were on display and so were almost invariably filled with water or tea.
It was pointless to ponder all of this, Ata reasoned, as they were likely fake, and no one sensible would risk leaving their best products out to waste away in the space dusts of the Bazaar, least of all a Siltois like Daenor. The three-armed bartender was as sparing with their pockets as they were with their words. It felt like an indictment but it wasn’t, not really. To say that Siltois were not big communicators would be to take an ignorant, and very human-centric view on language, something that humans made an unfortunate habit of doing, more often than not. The truth was, the Siltois could understand, and speak most common tongues, but their first and native language was an incredibly complex and beautiful form of signing called Sxocian. By utilising all four of their hands and arms the Siltois were able to converse in a visual medium that was levels more detailed than most of the verbal languages that Ata knew to exist in the multiverse. It was a deeply nuanced language that Ata wished he could understand more, but it was always a sight to behold regardless.
The thump of a handful of rectangle plates startled Ata, bringing his focus away from his thoughts, and the fading smoke, and back to the centre of the bar. Daenor the Siltois had returned with 3 equal stacks of bronze plates, each tied together with strained rubber bands. The plates themselves were about the width of a palm and twice the height. Both backs and front were pressed with the three ringed emblem of the Exchange. On it, a Human and Siltois hand clasped one another against a circular background with three suns. The unmistakable sky of the Siltois homeworld, Kalotrictica. It was common for the Exchange to mint plates like these, in commemoration of its members, but it was a humorous coincidence that these particular plates now came into Ata’s possession. The irony wasn’t lost on him. In fact it was a great source of amusement, to think that Daenor was being forced to pay up with these particular plates. Here Ata was, a human, staring face to face with the grumpiest Siltois in all the multiverse, and yet the plates this Siltois begrudgingly handed over were smothered in reliefs of collaboration between their two peoples, shaking hands against the sunsets of a tri-solar world.
Had Ata offered his hand after receiving these plates, he was sure that Daenor would sooner spit on it, than shake it.
Ata chuckled wryly to himself as he wondered if Daenor would be up for another friendly bet, despite the circumstances, but he wasn’t given the chance to risk such a suggestion.
His quiet mirth had been interrupted by a chilling wave of foreboding. There was someone in here, someone different. Not just nearby, not just in the bar, but directly behind him. Ata was wreathed in an Icy breeze as a shadowed figure appeared behind him, barely noticeable in the haze of the windowless bar. They sighed in a cold feminine tone, loud enough that Ata didn’t have to adjust his seat but quiet enough that none of the other patrons would hear.
Keeping his cool, and keeping his eyes focused on the stack of bronze plates in front of him, Ata spoke to the mysterious figure, in a calm, but standoffish voice.
“If it’s money you want, here’s a plate with your name on it” Ata picked up one of the rectangular plates and waved it over his shoulder. “I’m not looking for any trouble. If you want to take my ship though, I wouldn’t bother. The old dog’s more trouble than it’s worth. You’d spend this plate and then some, just to get it fueled up for a run at the nearest track”. It was only after speaking did Ata realise that the rest of the sights and sounds of the bar were now partially obscured. He could still see the rest of the bar, continuing in uninterrupted activity, but it all seemed so distant now. Out of focus and muffled.
Daenor, who was also inside this strange bubble of exclusion, showed no sign of getting involved in this discussion, and stood behind their bar with their top two arms crossed and their third pressed against their hip. Wait, what was that? Ata thought. Something had caught his eye before shifting his gaze away from Daenor. The fingers of Daenor’s third hand were moving rhythmically, if not ever so subtly. It was a simple sign that even Ata knew.
It meant “Fear”.
The sense of urgency in the voice caught Ata off guard more than their silent appearance.
“Atawhai of Storm Shelf.” The cloaked figure said. The voice was throaty and airy. It ended at the mouth but began somewhere deep in the mysterious figure's chest.
Ata felt more uncomfortable still, as the strange voice wrapped itself around him, completely muting the rest of the bar, now. The world around him was engulfed in blackness, and only himself and the shadow remained.
“Look, stranger, if you’re here to recruit me, I’m not interested, the Harmony are…”
The figure interrupted Ata, cutting his sentence in half with their own.
“The Harmony… are wrong. They are without truth. You are known to us. You witness the Collapse. You see what comes. Teraspha’s drums sound in the darkness, and the World Eater stirs again.”
“The collapse happened” Ata said slowly. “you’re about two decades too late. The World Eater is a myth. Everybody in the multiverse knows that. Nothing more than a convenient story to scare children.”
Ata believed his own words, but he didn’t speak with confidence. There was something about the figure's wounding tone that made his skin crawl.
“Who are you?” Ata asked, finally turning to face the figure directly.
“We are the ghosts of your future, the Fallbringers, the last craftsfolk of the multiverse.” The figure’s face was completely obscured in darkness but its breath emerged from the darkness as it spoke, wisping toward the back of the bar, in a similar pattern to Ata’s cigar smoke. It was likely a trick of light, but Ata could have sworn the breath that currently wriggled its way through the maze of Shet/Vorx whiskey bottles was blue.
“Dream” the figure said, recapturing Ata’s gaze. “Dream your truth and we shall meet you there, at the end of all things”. In the seconds that it took for Ata to muster a response to all of this, the figure had already slid away with no suspicion, as swiftly as they had arrived.
The silent vale around Ata lifted and the bar erupted into normality again. At the exact same moment, two Harmony officers in pressed black uniforms walked in, passing through the entrance the mysterious figure had emerged from only moments ago. Their uniforms were ceremonial outfits similar to those adorned to open new track gates or politicise on the Exchange. They were not heavy utility in any way, not stealthily styled nor pocketed for practicality. Even if they were equipped with side blades and scanners, the amount of pageantry between these threads made it hard to see them as anything more than symbols of excess. There wasn’t a doubt in Ata’s mind that these officers were from the crew of one of the sleek white Harmony Battlecruisers that he’d noticed moored in the docks outside.
Ata eyed the two officers as they scanned the room. They strode greedily toward the bar with a sense of bravado that instantly annoyed Ata. He had just had an altogether strange and, quite frankly, frightening encounter, and the boisterous attitudes of these two officers was muddying his retrospective. It had all happened so fast, he needed to find a quiet place alone, to let his mind catch up with his feelings.
Just as Ata made to rise from his stool, the conversation between the two pilots fell within earshot. “Well damn, look at that Dreeon.” The taller of the two said, many times louder than what was necessary. “I’ve never seen a three-armed Siltois before.”
“I wonder what happened to him? Can he still talk, do you think?” The officer called Dreeon replied, crudely mimicking some Sxocian with his hands.
“Hey buddy!” Dreeon shouted, directing his voice toward Daenor now. Daenor glanced up to see the two Harmony officers, scarcely acknowledged their presence, and immediately returned to the next set of glasses in need of polishing.
They were right next to Ata now, and already smelt of cheap spirits.
“Hey buddy!” The officer repeated. Visibly put out now from the lack of attention, the officer leant over the bar and grabbed Daenor by his right arm. “Hey!” He said, in a slightly more sinister tone. Daenor recoiled in a calm confidence befitting of someone who dealt with drunk patrons more often than they’d like. Ignoring the advances of the officer, Daenor made to collect some half finished bottles further down the bar.
Ata swore he could cut the air of angry machismo if he had one of the officers' vibro-knives. Dreeon and their taller friend had left, or were more likely kicked out from, the last bar they had patronised and had walked into the Golden Semradashu with eyes to fight the first thing that stood out. The three-armed Siltoisee could have greeted them like an old friend and they still would have chosen to respond with violence.
Another attempted grab from Dreeon.
This time it made contact with Daenor’s carrying wrists. It was enough to disturb Daenor’s footings and in the attempt to rebalance themself, they dropped the bottles they were carrying and one shattered on the bar top. It splintered from the bottom up and doused the taller officer in a fizzing bronze liquid. It dripped slowly from his hands, hands that were now angling towards Daenor, to join his friend’s in this foul volley.
That was enough.
As if freeing himself from his frozen bind or perhaps compensating for his earlier lack of action, Ata reached out to pull the two officers away from the bar. Dreeon saw him and jabbed to meet Ata’s advance but Ata was too fast, and about seven shet/vorx shots shallower than the maddened officer, and dodged the strike with ease. Ata wasted no time to retaliate, shooting his arm out from his side and connecting it with Dreeon’s jaw. It cracked on contact and the officer let out a gurgling exclamation. caught off-guard by the swipe, the taller officer fumbled for their side-blade but Ata acted instinctively, bringing his fists together and across from their last quarry and toward the officer’s wrist. This, followed quickly by a knee to the stomach, caused the taller officer to drop the side blade to the floor. It made a loud clash of metal-on-metal, and sparked slightly as the blade began to shiver on the ground. Ata kicked the blade toward the corner of the bar, away from both of them, defusing its vibrations and staring at it just long enough to watch the blade slide through a hole in the floor, and into the harbour below. Ata continued his momentum and pushed the taller officer towards Dreeon, causing them both to tumble to the ground. The entire bar was watching now, and while some seemed offended, most were indifferent to the sharp act of violence Ata had just levied against these two “officials”.
Dreeon and his friend reeled in pain on the ground for a few seconds before stirring to get up. They seemed dead set on continuing the scrap despite initial humiliations but, In the corner of his eye, Ata could see Daenor round the bar, now flanked either side by two hulking Lonkexn carrying electro-rods. Ata was sure they were only here for the officers, but he wasn’t about to wait around and find out.
Ata tossed his bet-winning plates back to Daenor, who caught them with two of their hands. “Sorry Dae’. Mess tax” Ata said, taking a last look over his shoulder at the Harmony Officers who were desperately attempting to get back on their feet before the Lonkexn reached them. Oddly, Daenor seemed less annoyed than when he’d lost his bet, which eased Ata’s already creeping guilt somewhat. Though a fight was bad for business, Siltoisee history with the Harmony meant that Ata had maybe just recouped some admiration from the grumpy bartender.
—
Ata continued to stride from the scene towards the misshapen entrance of the Golden Semradashu. Once he was clear of the bar and its patrons, he began to up his pace. His hands were shaking and though he didn’t feel remorse for his actions, it had been a long time since he’d so readily engaged his fists in such a crude way. He gazed between the other barges, and to the central gravilator that connected them all to the concourse below. It was the quickest way down from where he was, to the quiet of his ship along the docks, but he didn’t want to run afoul of the officers friends, whom he assumed were already on their way up to the scene of embarrassment. He considered whether to risk the fast way down or take the sharp winding steps of the nearest access funnel, but before he could decide, Ata’s decision had been made for him.
As if on cue, his assumption was confirmed, and at least 10 Harmony officers rose in the gravilator’s current cycle, towards the Semradashu. Ata broke into a reluctant jog to avoid any further encounters, moving between the many market stalls and hole-in-the-walls that flooded the barges interiors. He was already out of breath by the time he arrived at the entrance of the nearest access funnel. There were a few of these hidden routes connected to each barge, nothing more than steep steel steps surrounded by metal funnels large enough to house a few humans at once. The steps were grated and overlapped one another by about half their width, which meant they functioned more like a ladder than an ordinary set of stairs. The barges were strung at least 200 metres above the concourse which provided Ata with an uneasy view from the top of the funnel to the bottom. He wanted to hurry but he didn't want to risk his life by trying anything clever. Instead he held onto the steel rope railings and, facing inwards, worked his way down to every second step.
Condensation from the heat of the barges turned the inside of the funnels into a hot house, which added a dangerous combination of metallic residue and human sweat to an already treacherous path. After 5 fragile minutes, Ata made it to the edge of the funnel, which hung about two body heights above the damp tarmac of the concourse, and kicked a lever on the side of the bottom step. The stairs screeched and extended a few more metres closer to the ground. Ata followed the last steps down into the thick heady air of the Taqidoma Docks and jumped down onto the concourse. His gumboots splashed lightly against the thin puddles that had formed from the access funnel’s condensation, flinging murky droplets up his front. Ata spun around, puffing from the climb, but ready to make the final slog to his ship.
But it was not to be.
It never seemed to just be for Ata.
Ata rose to barely half a squat before his stomach sighed with tiredness. Seven Harmony security officers walked in a v-shape towards him, blocking his path to the docks proper. A tall, broad chested man in a pristine white commander’s uniform stood at the point of the march. His face was framed by dark shoulder length hair and set with a thick, laser-groomed beard. It was the face of a man all too familiar to Ata. The face of Immanostra Stronfac, 7th Fleet Commander of the Harmony’s Insulation Division. A mouthful of a title for a handful of a man. Him and Ata had a long history, and though there were certainly worse people to be confronted by, the chiselled, grizzled face of Stronfac was the last thing Ata wanted to see appear before his sweaty brow under the circumstances.
“Well well well…” Stronfac said, “If it isn’t Atawhai, the saviour of storm shelf. In the flesh”. The commander’s white cape billowed under its own momentum as he came to a stop a few metres away from Ata. “Aren’t you a little old to be getting in to bar brawls, Ata?” The commander asked, with a wry cheek ill-suited for the situation. The commander raised a knowing eyebrow, as if he expected Ata to agree with him. “Fuck off, Stronfac…” …“I’m not…” “ …in the mood” Ata said, rattling between breaths.
The commander regarded Ata from head to toe and smiled slightly. “I can see that.” He said. “…and I’m sorry about Dreeon and Foaldriq. They’re both insubordinate little…” Stronfac stopped himself for decorum’s sake before continuing in a slightly softer tone. “Dreeon’s father sits on the Harmonium Justicar, so you know how it is. I’ve got to take you in, make a whole show and dance of it in front of the big wigs.” Ata stood with his hands on bent knees, still trying to regain his breath. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of Kespara’s Lodge now would we?” Stronfac continued. “I don’t think either of us have the energy left these days, old friend.”
Ata took a deep, resigned breath and gestured with a lazy wave and a nod for Stronfac’s force to approach, and so they did, electro-rods and restraints in tow.
At least, Ata thought, he would get some of that quiet time after all, even if it would be in the cold white expanse of a Harmony Insulation holding cell.
