| Pages: [1] :: one page |
|
|
| Author |
Topic |
Stitcher
Duty.
    |
Posted - 2008.05.30 08:37:00 -
[1]
As befitted a holder of stature, his home û he fancied himself too humble to call it a ôpalaceö - was a needle of gold, it's every burnished curve highlighted with a ruddy sheen where it caught the light of the star. As the star wheeled through the heavens overhead, this needle of glory served as the gnomon for a large and precise sundial, and the city's builders had incorporated this, placing decorative parks precisely within the planned city of Dar Atash. As the world turned, the shadow cast by it's owners' residence swung, until the shadow came to momentarily rest, on the hour every hour, on the statue that stood in the precise centre of each park. The parks were linear, and the statues rode slowly up and down their length on gleaming golden rails, taking a year to complete their journey from solstice to solstice and back again. All to ensure that, when the hour came, they were in the correct position to fleetingly embrace the very point of the distant tower's shadow before it swept on. It was a feat of mathematical and engineering ingenuity that never failed to impress, and a fitting testament to the ingenuity and perfection of the Amarr.
The citizens of the city, of course, rarely got to see this glory from above, although the parks that marked the middle hours of the day, when workers and shop owners were granted a few hours off to eat and pray, were often very popular on sunny days, as the citizenry of Dar Atash gathered to witness for themselves the evidence of that architectural glory, before returning hurriedly to their business as the shadow swept on, taking the hour with it.
The attempt to fathom his precise emotion towards those distant, busy sparks of intellect had occupied the holder's thoughts, intermittently, for some years now. When epiphany came, he had been intrigued to discover that what he felt was a subtle, potent melange of pity, contempt, fatherly condescension, and envy. The former three, he could understand... but envy? Deep in the heart of hearts of Korimo, patriarch of House Daresh and lord of the city of Dar Atash and the world upon which it stood, a small yet hot and acknowledged - but never confessed-to - ember of covetousness was burning. The problem of why it was there, and what specifically it was that he found attractive about their lives, had never kept him awake at nights, but it did occasionally flare at inconvenient times, drawing his attention from more important matters at hand.
He mentally replayed the last few seconds of his guest's speech as he turned away from the window and its glorious view, forcing himself to focus.
ôAnd you believe that war is now certain?ö he repeated, suppressing the urge to grimace. His guest was Caldari, and to Korimo's eyes he appeared to be ugly as sin, like most of his kind. Beneath that crude, square-jawed skin, he knew, lived an abomination û a resurrected thing that should not exist. Whatever it was that drove this man's body, it was not, in the eyes of God, a soul. The technology that the Caldari were so proud of had kept something in the shape of this man alive and functioning, but it was not a real human, and he felt unclean merely talking to it. Nevertheless, this walking, talking golem of meat had pledged itself to the service of God and Empire...
ôInsofar as anything other than the will and glory of God can be called 'certain', yes.ö the man drawled. His name was Doro Kaminati, and his accent made strange work of the holy Amarr language, elongating vowel sounds that should have been clipped, and harshly tripping over consonants that should have been smoothed and languid. ôThe Caldari are up in arms over Malkalen, and the Federation are stirring the pot by conducting military exercises right on their border, alongside the Matari.ö he continued ôUnless some unforeseen miracle occurs, I don't see it going any other way.ö
(cont...)
-
Verin "Stitcher" Tarn-Hakatain. |
Stitcher
Duty.
|
Posted - 2008.05.30 08:38:00 -
[2]
Edited by: Stitcher on 30/05/2008 08:38:26
Korimo lowered himself gently into the high-backed chair behind his desk, and steepled his fingers beneath his nose in contemplation. ôMeanwhile...ö he mused ôMeanwhile, the Empire's trade caravans within republicö he spat the word ôSpace are being brutally murdered. The barbarians are too feeble to even hold onto their own star systems, and too disorganized to control their own laughable excuse for a fleet.ö as he spoke, he poured himself a crystal glass of spiced wine. Age made his hand tremble slightly, and a little of the wine splashed upon the desk, prompting a slave to rush forward and mop it up. He proffered the decanter to the mercenary captain, who politely declined.
ôWhat do you think, Kaminati?ö he asked ôI can only conclude that there will be a crusade, soon. If the Matar cannot govern themselves, then I think it is time for an older, more competent civilization to ease them of their burden.ö
ôI agree, lord.ö the pilot said, without any hesitation, though he did not offer any further opinion. Korimo Daresh nodded, and sat back to sip his wine.
ôWhen that crusade begins, Kaminati, I want house Daresh to be well-represented. We're sat perilously close to the border here, and though I do not doubt the might of the Imperial navy... I do doubt it's speed. I would rather that my world become a military staging post, a beacon around which the fires of God's wrath will gather, not a weak candle for the heathen tide to engulf. This marvellous worldö he waved a hand behind him to broadly encompass the span of the white city visible through his window ôWill offer relief to officers on shore leave, not plunder to Minmatar barbarians. This tower will stand and its shadow will continue to beat out the hour, and to do that, we will need ships. Do you understand me?ö
ôPerfectly, lord.ö Kaminati replied. He bowed, and departed. That, Korimo reflected, was the true advantage to having a Caldari overseeing the administration of your space-based resources. He really did understand what needed to be done, and how to achieve it. It made his life that much... simpler.
For a long second, he stared at his drink, keeping his expression carefully blank. Then, with a wave of his hand, dismissed the slaves who had been waiting patiently at the edge of the room. Gripping his drink in one faintly quivering hand, he returned to the window.
Simplicity. The answer had been staring him in the face the whole time. Simple people, leading uncomplicated lives in the streets of a city dedicated to one simple purpose û to count out the passage of time. Each was a component in the finely-made clockwork of the city. They performed their purpose, but were blind to their significance. In this, he had been both blessed and cursed to be watch owner and watch maker. Able to watch that simplicity of purpose play out day after day for his whole lifetime. He had been able to guide it, but never to join it. His life û one of endless administration and service to the Empire, had never been simple.
And now, suddenly, it was. War was coming. In orbit high above, the factories and shipyards would be swinging into action. In a few short hours, the first frigates and cruisers would be prepared, ready to be shipped off and presented to the Theology Council, along with a carefully-worded letter, humbly submitting that his world should become a fortress-bastion of the coming crusade.
He felt no pity any longer for the scurrying citizenry. No contempt, no condescension. His envy of their simple lifestyles was lifted away like an old carpet, revealing underneath, like some forgotten mosaic, the two deeper emotions that made him the great Holder he was û faith and duty.
He spun from the window, no longer distracted by his thoughts, and summoned the slaves. He waved one of them û the one carrying a writing pad and long quill pen û forward, and set his drink down upon the desk with a hand that did not tremble at all.
ôTake a dictation.ö he ordered.
-
Verin "Stitcher" Tarn-Hakatain. |
Stitcher
Duty.
|
Posted - 2008.05.30 09:15:00 -
[3]
Edited by: Stitcher on 30/05/2008 09:17:48
***
This short story was the result of a bad night's sleep, in a room that was far too hot, with a mouth that's kind of tender because of recent dental surgery. When I woke up (far earlier than I normally do), the last bit of a dream was still kicking around in my head. Not a lot - just the mental image of a city sundial and the sentence "The attempt to fathom his precise emotion towards those distant, busy sparks of intellect had occupied [his] thoughts, intermittently, for some years now. When epiphany came, he had been intrigued to discover that what he felt was a subtle, potent melange of pity, contempt, fatherly condescension, and envy."
More in an attempt to get my brain working properly than for any other reason, I promptly sat down, wrote that sentence out, built the rest of the story around it. It took about half an hour. Then I went back to bed.
I figured I may as well post it to the EVE library. It's a fairly clumsy effort, in my opinion, but still not bad for a converted dream cooked up at five in the morning.
-
Verin "Stitcher" Tarn-Hakatain. |
|
| Pages: [1] :: one page |
| First page | Previous page | Next page | Last page |