NationStates | Kattera Sector Board (2024)

Archive I, Tablet I: Audience

“Along the black shoals the dim sun does cast shadows, neverlight on veiled Mykarr. Strange is the place where black spires rise to cast starry silhouettes, neversought on forbidden Mykarr. Songs of the serpents that weave souls to tattered shards, flutter the mistress on hungry Mykarr. Echoes of the soul do all still dread, the queen of marionettes on fearsome Mykarr.”
—The Witch’s Hymn

Together, they stood upon a great disk set into a circular, domed room. Before them, an adjoined gate which stretched toward the ceiling barred their passage, its frame hugged by two giant sphinxes. Seven guards, their shining bronze armor reflecting the low light as they stood statuesque with rifles at the ready. They weren’t the only fearsome soldiers in the vestibule, as before every pillar ribbing the room the tall outline of a robot stood, the tricolor eyes vacant of feeling. To most, the sight of seven landfall praetorians and a detachment of robot troopers would set a fearful tone, but what lay beyond terrified the two women far more.

“Watch your mouth, more than anything,” Amatpaltnasar grunted, her rough hands tugging out folds and straightening tassels. “When I told you I didn’t think we’d make it this far, I really meant it, kid.”

Sherukaa looked up into the eyes of her aunt, at the wavy band of pupil set against brilliant orange. It was one of the most immaculate outfits the middle-aged woman had ever thrown together for the two of them, her tendrils like hair tied-off to shoulder length, save for a long cluster she let trail down her spine. Her dark lapis hands, littered in smothered scars, gently shook as she preened and prodded at the young woman. Sherukaa took her aunt’s hands and gently guided them away, moving to brush her skirt idly.

“I should be telling you that,” she coyly answered. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not the one who gets us into trouble.”

“Enough,” an elderly grunt answered. “This isn’t the same. This isn’t like that. A chieftess was already way over our heads, but this is something altogether more. If there was a chance for Aramat to strike us down, it’d be now.”

“You’re too worried, too stiff. People become disarmed when you’re natural, not when you’re stiff.”

“People also can smell the reek of someone who thinks they know everything,” Amatpaltnasar chided. “I just want to make sure you get where we’re at. Who we’re meeting with.”

Sherukaa let out a relieved sigh, the sparks of excitement flowing through her flesh. In truth, her composure, her confidence, her calm was nothing more than a mask for raw excitement. Her aunt could stress the seriousness, but the mere audience alone was, no matter the outcome, historic. She, the wayward daughter of academy, would be entered into a momentous occasion unlike any other. If she’d not taken up the mantle of ward for her guardian adjudicator, she would’ve come far more prepared. The mind was not enough to capture the details of seeing the grand princess for the first time in fifteen years.

“It’ll be alright. The fact we even came this far is a testament to something. Urasaitha’s petition helped, but I doubt it’s how we ended up here. Something else about all this caught her attention.”

Amatpaltnasar paused, her bright, wrinkled eyes staring with intense concern.

“I know. I think that’s why I’m unnerved by all this. This job’s only gotten bigger and bigger, enough for us to be… here. I should’ve tapped us out the moment it got deeper. Just… whatever the hell she wants, we give it to her. I don’t want to muck up… whatever this is.”

Grinding from within the walls interrupted the stillness of the room, the seven guards before the gate all walking to one side of the passage with their weapons held tightly at their sides. A gentle hum and machine clicks preceded the opening of the doors. Past the guards, past the door, a long corridor veiled in twilight and moving shadows illuminated the walkway. It lured them, much as a morsel lures its prey. From the shadows of that corridor, a figure emerged, her steps echoing mechanical taps.

Hollow was her gaze, a face rendered emotionless within a machine frame. Sherukaa looked the symek up and down, seeing the telltale visage of flesh interlaced with metal from horns to segmented tail. All her life she’d seen these stony cyborgs, understood their purpose and importance, and yet never was truly at peace with them. It seemed ironic that a symek would greet them here, yet again infiltrating her life. Examining the form of the machine mistress, she couldn’t help but notice how unremarkable she was. Urasaitha decorated her palace with symeks like wooden dryads: as musicians and ornaments and gardeners. This machine appeared to be no more than a common servant.

“I address lady Amatpaltnasar and miss Sherukaa.”

“I am she,” her aunt answered, “and this is my ward. We’re humbled to be ah… at your disposal.”

The symek looked between them with a single motion, mechanically fluid, examining them. After a moment of silence, she half turned back toward the corridor, a mechanical hand outstretched to the darkness, and half bowed.
“Please, come with me. Our majesty will now see you.”

— 𒐕 —

Breathtaking was the scale of the room, its immensity consuming every thought. The senatorial chambers of every city combined could not reach the breadth of the cavern, with a fan of stands forming all around them to face a second fan of daises. Along the walls, giant reliefs embodying the tale of the zyreen circled the room with decorations made of metals and stones so precious, that to tear even a single jewel would fund hundreds of soldiers, or crew any frigate.

A great hanging dome, far above, lined with blinking rounded pillars loomed over them. Pipes, exposed wire, and all manner of winking bulbs and circuitry danced between and upon the sloped surface, congregating around a single, lumpy spire which sat at the center of the dome. Reaching down, mounds of metal and ceramic and pipes fastened themselves with decorative clamps around a giant glass sphere, from which faint shadows danced.

The corridor had spilled out onto a walkway, beautifully decorated with patterns of gold woven into lapis shells; forming an ocean relief more lively than the true unknown depths. The walkway led to a central circle, out of which a large plateau of polished floor stood between the lapis ring and thirteen thrones, all empty but one. Upon the thirteenth throne, apex to the whole fan of regal seats, its entirety twice the size and luxury of any other, its foundation formed from coral and golden reeds, sat no one. Empty was the Merrani throne, the famed landfall throne. Instead, seated in the regal yet humble throne of the Batiyaan tribe was the frame of a maiden lost to time.

Instantly, moving in a surge of instinct, Sherukaa collapsed into a kneel, following her aunt. Both of them bowed their heads, holding their tails still, and keeping their horns at a precise angle so as to not offend. Heart pounding and breath quietly ragged, she could hardly contain her excitement. Their eyes hadn’t met, not yet, but she knew instantly who sat upon that throne. She who had ignored every petition and every plea, who even Urasaitha had failed to reach—the heiress of all the League—was before them. Their princess, their queen, lived.

Mechanical heels tapped against the stony floor, the symek escort leaving the two of them to stand beside the Batiyaanid throne. As quickly as her steps ended, heavy machine thuds clattered behind them. Glancing back, Sherukaa could see two robots clad in heavy armor standing on either side of their exit. Triple pupils of pulsing color looked forward with apathy, holding close heavy laser rifles in a resting cradle. Vaykiya, her eyes glazed with an apathy which almost matched those of the machines, stared down at the two supplicants. Satisfied by some hidden threshold, she reached out her hand, motioned for them to stand, and watched impassively as the guardian and ward shakily faced her.

“Majesty,” began the older woman, “I am Amatpaltnasar, honored servant of tribe Batiyaan. With me is Sherukaa, my ward and field assistant.”

Quietly, the princess shifted her glance to Sherukaa, their eyes at last meeting. Vaykiya was a beautiful enigma: her hair was worn at a mid-length down her back, rather than the shorter martial cropping or tendril-bun of usual queens. Veiling her lapis skin was a royal outfit, but while cut as though according to the warlord standard, she wore no weapons, no pins or warrior markers, and wore her vest in the open-breast subordinate fashion. Contradiction followed contradiction, something not unlike youthful rebellion, but their princess lacked the demeanor. Her gaze, cool blue bands set into darkness, sucked Sherukaa in like a black hole. History’s greatest tragedy since the Mule, and she was unreadable to even the most subtle examination.

“Normally,” her demure voice drifted, “my subjects greet me by title.”

Eyes wide, Amatpaltnasar went rigid. “I meant no offense, your majesty.”

Tilting her head, small golden chains and bells tied around her coralic horns chimed.

“I am not offended. Why do you think I am?”

“Err… a misunderstanding, majesty. I believed you pointed out such an absence to… reprimand me.”

Silence carried on, the lapis spheres examining and reexamining.

“Your look,” she whispered, “your manners, your accent. You’re from the frontiers of my heartland?”

“I was raised in Lyet, as was my ward,” Amatpaltnasar answered, sparing a glance to Sherukaa. “I left it long ago, but I still carry the melody with pride. Lyet might be gone, but the old tongue is still alive across the Lakarayatic hinterlands.”

Vaykiya nodded, settling further into her throne with closed eyes and a furrowed brow. She did not carry on the conversation, leaving the answer on an awkward note.

Amatpaltnasar glanced at Sherukaa with an anxious grimace, the older woman looking totally off balance in the void. Returning the look with a faint shrug, the two looked at their princess together. Still, no answer.

“Forgive me for asking, majesty,” Sherukaa spoke up, causing an electrified glare from Amatpaltnasar, “did we fail to submit these details in our petition through the courtier assembly?”

“No,” Vaykiya answered flatly. “I know who you are, where you are from, and your profession. You are lukishdi, aren’t you? Hinterland bounty hunters and investigators?”

Sherukaa played the word back in her mind. It was archaic, a traditional word loaned down from the ark dialect. More notable to her, it carried the marker and accent of the angel-tongue. Most would call them enungalti: hinterland wardens and private investigators. Whatever she had been doing all these years in isolation, she had certainly been well educated. No doubt she spoke the courtesan-tongue as well.

“I prefer to call us private investigators. Contract officers.”

This earned a quizzical look. Something was out of turn.

“Bounty hunters have a more prestigious title, do they not? More glory to be reaped in spilling blood.” She spoke her last words with a careful, but spiteful, whisper. It was the closest Sherukaa had heard to emotion from the lonely mistress.

“There’s more glory in sparing lives than in taking them,” Sherukaa answered quickly and confidently. “What good is private law and adjudication if conflict is solved with death? Accusations can be baseless, crimes can be falsified—it's far more important to investigate than to execute.”

For a moment, the princess’s lips seemed to hint at a smile. Eyes widening with sudden awe, Sherukaa drank in this subtle approval, but she still didn’t understand why Vaykiya was behaving so coldly toward them.

“May I call you wardens, then?”

Sherukaa froze, baffled by the question. She felt her face fall into a slight gasp, but caught her jaw and cleared her throat. Looking to her aunt, she saw the older woman standing at perfect attention, her gaze unwaveringly on Vaykiya. Looking at the stony posture made knots tie themselves in her gut. Was something wrong? Had she transgressed? Was this a trap? A shiver ran from her tail to her horns, the thought of those robot soldiers fueling the demons of her mind. Nevertheless, realizing once more she was entertaining the inquiry of a princess, Sherukaa answered.

“I… Well, yes, your majesty. Warden, enungalti, lukishdi—our name is at your disposal.”

“Wardens, then,” answered the princess. “Then as wardens of my kettza, I want to welcome you to the assembly of lords. I am Vaykiya, queen of Batiyaan, princess of Merraan and grand princess of Zyrkkad.”

At the mention of her titles, sparing as they were, the two supplicants fell once again to a single knee. A whisper of a prayer began to escape Amatpaltnasar’s lips, and Sherukaa felt her heart skip a beat. Before they could bow their hands, Vaykiya raised her hand, and motioned for them to stand once more. Unamused, the princess rested her cheek against a hand and chewed idly on her lip.

“Before you tell me the nature of your petition, I’d like to stress something,” Vaykiya spoke softly. “For fifteen years I’ve not seen my chieftesses, my advisors, my overseers, my diplomats, my generals, my courtiers or my subjects. I’ve kept to myself, and if I had it in my power, I would remain doing so.”
At that, she glanced upwards, briefly, at the hanging machinery and the glassy orb. The two women, standing at attention, did not dare to follow her gaze.

“Things… have changed,” she sighed with closed eyes. “Within the last twelve days alone, I have received…” Trailing off, she turned to the symek beside her with a pleading look. Staring back at her, the symek reached for her side and pulled a small, thick tablet and tapped at the mechanical keys.”

“Six-hundred-and-eleven and counting your majesty.”

“Thank you,” she said with a slight smile. A strange warmth radiated from that smile, but when her eyes returned to her supplicants, the brightness withered like the endless sky.

Confused, Sherukaa glanced once more at her aunt, only to find the same brief look returned. Vaykiya seemed more affectionate to the symek than to them—she thanked it even. Together, in a gust of wisdom, they broke the mutual gaze to attentively listen to their majesty. Nevertheless, the oddity lingered.

“Many petitions, from Zyrkkad to Halhalmul, pleading for an audience. Of all those requests, yours alone was… so stressed. You submitted your documentation with a seal from Urasaitha, the regency council of my kettza—and the recommendations of thirty-seven nobles from the great sink to the sphinx cliffs. I’ll admit, Urasaitha’s seal is… compelling. Even if it's been so long. She wouldn’t send me people with ill intent. But that isn’t what tipped the scales.”

Steepling her fingers, she pressed her lips against her hands and let out a long sigh.

“Tell me about this investigation, and tell me why you need me.”

As though by instinct, Amatpaltnasar stepped forward and bowed, reaching into her belt and pulling from it a dangling bronze cylinder. Understanding, the symek stepped forward, took from the wardeness the cylinder, and pressed the device against her neck. With a hiss, a small port opened, sucking half of the cylinder in as the symek stood idle for a few passing moments.

“Data cleared, imperial highness,” the symek impassively spoke. “Log data rendered three weeks, two days, seven hours and thirteen minutes ago. Log event rendered across three hours. Log location set to Kurradayki, kett-Hurraan. Log data corresponds with twenty-two reports made to the imperial assembly of planetary security. No action taken. Shall I submit data for viewing?”

“Please,” Vaykiya answered.

On the wall behind the throne, the symek reached over and pressed her hand against a keypad hidden in the ever endless reliefs of the room. With an affirmative chime, a squat disk of metal rose from the ground between the throne and the central circle. Three feet of cylinder with adjoined controls and ports glistened. Acting on automation, the top foot of the platform lifted away from the device, a hovering plate over the resting dias, suspended with perfect stillness. Casually, the symek strode over to the device, inserted the cylinder once again, and let the machine work its magic.

Within the suspension field, a pinprick of white light appeared. In a burst, the prick turned to a sphere, then a void within which light formed three-dimensional shapes. Sherukaa looked on with awe, never having seen a holographic projector in action. Most simply used terminals and monitors, even Urasaitha’s court employing a mounted monitor for conference comms. Nevertheless, the machine read the cylinder, and rendered the events within as perfectly as a screen and with many times the detail.

Kurradayki appeared like any ordinary city. Towering structures of phallic tapers and columns touched the heavens, meeting the earth with squat bases and flowing ceramo-metal hulls. As if flitting through camera feeds, the scene changed several times. Streets lined with suspension lanterns and bloom-lights, with couples and commoners and robots walking within the lighted heat carefully from building to building in their heavy winter furs. The twilight which marked the day, with Ahhiwashka high overhead, dimly lit the city of lights.

Suddenly, with a burst of fluctuating charts hovering off to the side, chaos erupted. Robots, symeks and automated devices burst into a torrent of erratic action. Machines toppled over, tearing their circuitry out, smashing suspensor carriages, motor sleds and carts, and collapsing into unsuspecting civilians. Symeks stood statuesque, as though hypnotized, before some promptly began to attack nearby zyreen with hands, tools, and simple weapons. From street to street, silent images of running civilians were interspersed with Nykkeshi troopers decapitating and las-lancing rioting automatons. As suddenly as it happened, the hovering charts suddenly diminished, and with them the chaos halted. The afflicted machines, robots and cyborgs alike, froze up, crashed and twitched within death’s clutches. The images froze on one final scene: two troopers inspecting a dead symek, with the open sky visible through background buildings.

Vaykiya looked disturbed, her eyes wide and body compressed as she minimized her space. Anxiously tugging at a strand of tendril, she bit her lip and stared deeply into the image. Sherukaa marveled at the emotion, the concern and the attentiveness. Stony for so long, it seemed that finally something would drag her out.

“How many died?”

“Thankfully none,” Amatpaltnasar answered with a sigh. “Some critical injuries, but when I spoke with the lady of the city, she said that no one had died. Apparently only machines outside were afflicted. If domestic robots and symeks had gone berserk, who knows what could’ve happened.”

A mild glare greeted the older woman, catching the two subjects by surprise.

“How many symeks? How many robots? How many died?”

Sputtering, Amatpaltnasar flapped her lips several times before finding her words. “I’m not sure, majesty. Robots probably in the thousands if you count labor units, troopers, autoroids, maint-bots, the whole six-cubit list of jobs. Couldn’t have been more than a couple hundred symeks. Kurradayki has… I don’t think more than sixty-thousand. There can’t be that many symeks in all.”

Sneering and nervously chewing on her thumb, Vaykiya replied with a grunt.

“What caused this? Why did they go berserk?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Amatpaltnasar answered. “Lady Nyrebella contacted me while I was collecting on our last contract, in Adaban territory. After payment, our investigation found that an imperceptible transmission hijacked the machines outside. Something about the material of the structures interfered with this signal, probably since it wasn’t very strong. Those bars that were moving on the hologram were following the rise and fall of that silent signal.”

“Why didn’t we pick it up on military radio? Forget that, what about imperial broadcasters, civilian stations, relay stations—anything.”

“It’s not like anything we’ve ever seen,” Sherukaa stepped in. “I went and checked with the local garrison and the transmitter assembly of the city. Whatever that signal is, it was specifically targeted at symeks and robots, anything using a computer brain or resonance spike. I tried to get a recording of the actual transmission, but lady Nyrebella made the… executive decision on that. She had the transmission itself destroyed, but the logs and data behind it intact.”

Looking between them, Vaykiya crossed her arms and anxiously slapped the tip of her tail against the throne. “You told me why they went berserk. Not what caused this.”

“A ship, your majesty,” Amatpaltnasar answered. “After looking at the footage and checking with local scanners, a shuttle was found to be passing through the area at the time of the event. Ordinary, unassuming, the sort you’d expect from a noble or high-guild. When that shuttle left, the signal ended. We don’t know much more about the signal itself, but we do know more about that shuttle.”

“Continue,” Vaykiya answered.

“The ship has a transmitter ID which aligns with a stolen hauler from the Zakro-Pytak Commerce Guild, three years past. They’re a lower profile transport guild which manages belter accounts and traffic out of a third of Laarsien’s cities. According to the report, the shuttle was stolen by pirates out in the outer belt, beyond Hulhulmul.”
“You’re telling me pirates, from three years ago, came back with a stolen ship all the way from the deep belt to terrorize a city?”

“Well… who can say what they’re looking to do? As far as we know, someone else has the ship now, but either way it remains stolen and it is linked to the Kurradayki event. That left us with a shuttle, potential organized suspects, but little else. That was until Urasaitha took interest in us. It seems lady Nyrebella spoke to the lady Aptalessa while we were in Zakro proper, where the guildhall is. She summoned us to the palace, provided us the resources, and gave us our next breakthrough—a ranger outpost spotted the shuttle moving into the outskirts of Lakarayuk, past the forbidden zone and out of reach. Since then, it hasn’t left.”

Amatpaltnasar paused to gauge the situation, searching Vaykiya just as Sherukaa was. The princess looked thoughtful, her impassive mannerisms intersected by irritation and intrigue. Rather than looking at the two of them, her eyes most often glanced back at her symek, and now and again back at the glassy sphere overhead.
“You’re looking for an imperial cylinder seal. Not just a Merraani one, but one registered under my dual seal.”

“We have to, majesty,” Sharukaa answered. “Ever since the long dusk, the emperor has had Lakarayuk locked down and totally abandoned. I don’t think even vulture guilds try to sneak into there since Laarsien rangers are constantly on patrol, not to mention inactive imperial cells that could be tripped. Urasaitha gave us her blessing, but not even the regency council can give us access to the city. You are the only person who can grant us a seal to enter Lakarayuk, second only to the emperor himself.”

“I… they’re in Lakarayuk…” She trailed off, frozen for a few moments as her deep blue eyes searched the void. “I don’t understand…Even if they escaped the rangers, what about gunship patrols and drones? How did they escape us? How did they escape me?” With a shake, she bit her thumb hard, a canine breaking flesh as a tiny stream of lapis ran down her skin. The two of them froze, their bones chilled over.

“I can’t, I can’t allow it… I… No one can return there. It…”

“Vaykiya!” Sherukaa called out with a pleading tone. Her aunt leapt to stop her, but the younger girl ignored the watchful guardian. “Please, I’m begging you, we have to do this. I don’t care about Urasaitha’s money, but I do care about our people. They could be inside the ruins perfecting whatever weapon they have, and if that shuttle leaves or if they even escape undetected on foot and get to another city, how many more people could they hurt? Kurradayki was short and small—but what if this gets to somewhere bigger? What if it gets to Laarsien, Warka, Vayleth or even Kish? I’m begging you, please help us serve the League. Please help us serve Batiyaan.”

Vaykiya didn’t answer, her face torn between a grimace, protest and panic. Shakily her eyes scanned emptiness, the princess reduced from her cold regality to meek indecision. Sherukaa seized her opportunity.

“I don’t want to see another city go the way of Lyet. I don’t want to see another city go the way of Lakarayuk.”

“Sherukaa!” Her aunt hissed.

Slowly, the shivering and conflicted form of Vaykiya froze up. Her grimace faded into a frown, her frown into impassive chewing of her nail, and finally a furrowed brow set over pained eyes. She looked over Sherukaa, lapis on lapis eyes sweeping up and down. One final time, the princess looked upward at the glassy sphere overhead, but Sherukaa didn’t follow. Releasing her nail, Vaykiya stood from her throne, staring down at the two wardens from her dais.

“I will… commune with the emperor. Stay here, it won’t take me more than two nights. If the emperor approves… I… I’ll grant you the cylinder seal. You’ll have it for as long as this investigation takes.”

Excitedly, Sherukaa turned to her aunt, the wiser woman’s eyes alive with shock and awe. But before celebration could come, Vaykiya continued.

“I have one condition.”

Together, they looked at the princess with wonder and questioning. Conditionals were not abnormal, but what they could provide to the landfall throne was no doubt paltry. All the standard laws and regulations would be upheld, and the taboos of the sunken city would be handled with care.

“I’ll be joining you, along with a detachment of praetorians. This desecration requires more personal attention.”