Turn 135

Meanwhile, on board that same sky-ship, the crew are assembled again, but only briefly as there are several things to be done.
    Emil Murphen is approaching middle age. Not a bad looking man but one who doesn't appear to be taking care of himself, he's on the tall side and skinny, with a bit of a pot belly and dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.
    "Not exactly the rescue I've been dreaming of, but I suppose it will do," he remarks, looking around at his captors. "I don't suppose there's anything to drink on this ship? And by the way, who are you lot?"
    Ibn Fadil, wrapped in a blanket and absorbing a cup of hot tea, grins like a man who's guessed right. "Technically, the competition. Would you like some tea?"
    He gives ibn Fadil an eloquently pained look. "Do you have anything else?"
    "Just kidding. Mihal, you remember where the brandy is? Thank you." While the young man goes to the galley in search of the bottle and a glass, the half-elf continues in his best genial tone, "Welcome aboard the TTS _Distraction_, Master Murphen. Allow me to introduce Captain Yestin, and Nyala. I am known as Yusuf ibn Fadil Marwan - ibn Fadil for short. We've taken it upon ourselves to meddle in the extremely undesirable trends we've encountered here."
    "Emil Murphen, nice to meet you. Three Trees, eh? Always wondered when somebody else was going to stumble over this pit. You can have the place for all of me."
    "If it were up to me, we'd be gone already. How is that you felt in need of rescue?"
    "Since I landed on this godsforsaken rock. Year and a half local time. I wouldn't mind so much if I'd offended anyone to get sent out here, but I think they pick us by lottery. Much obliged, young man," he accepts the drink from Michal, who sets the bottle down near ibn Fadil and receives an approving look.
    "I noticed your sign - is it yours? I thought it was optimistic, seeing as most of the people here aren't taught to read."
    Emil waves a hand. "One of my predecessors. You never know. It has served to impress a certain number of people -- admittedly, only those who are easily impressed. I don't know," he sighs, "I've tried, I really have, but nothing seems to stick. Do have any *idea*," he exclaims with sudden animation, "what it's been like to be stuck in this hole? I was on Stronus. You didn't think four feet of snow was a flurry there!! There was a theater, and this great little pub that served fried syneoi -- they don't have it here -- and the girls were always going out with the satirists and knew the latest jokes. You could have a conversation...." He sighs again and drinks deeply. "Not bad stuff. What was I saying? Oh yes, conversation. About something other than mammoth migrations and how bloody much steel we can ship."
    The man doesn't seem to be putting on any sort of act. "Mmm. Now, while I was poking around the fortress I noticed a few peculiar things. Mechanical spiders, mechanical wolves, mechanical birds, men dressed up like Hextorian priests. You happen to notice any of that when you first got here?"
    "Their little toys, just the past year or so I'd say. Bloody Hextorians," he mutters under his breath, knocking back a good-sized swallow of brandy.
    Ibn Fadil picks up the brandy bottle and offers to re-fill Murphen's glass.
    "Thank you."
    "We've found they've been working to spread their influence across the planet. How long have they been active here, do you know?"
    "Inquisitive lot, aren't you. How long have we been on this miserable planet now? Five years? Must have been then. Way I hear it, we had one on that ship -- you know how hard it is to get crew for these long-distance jaunts," he says to Yestin. "Have to take what you can get. Kid got lost on landing and written off for dead, never did find out what happened to him, but I suppose he found his way somewhere and settled in, 'cause a couple of years later a few of 'em turned up here. Odd lot even for them, and that's saying something. Certainly haven't hurt business, though."
    The man's complete indifference to the implications of what he's saying is a bit shocking, even to the habitually neutral Zakharan. He splashes some brandy into the dregs of his tea and raises the cup in salute. "To business! Though really, we've had no luck figuring out what could possibly be worth the trouble of coming here more than once."
    "I sure wish *we* hadn't."
    Not an unexpected response. Ibn Fadil leans back and turns his cup in his hands. "Well, it couldn't be just to keep the Hextorians happy, could it? I mean, Victor & Sons is in business to make money, not to seed the universe with war and destruction. Although," he adds thoughtfully, "it is starting to *look* like they are. Funny thing, that."
    Emil shrugs. "Company policy is above my level, I'm afraid. Most of our specialties don't benefit much from -- what was it you said? war and destruction."
    "Yes, that makes it all the more puzzling. Who exactly is in charge of your operations out here, by the way?"
    "Could have changed since the last ship, but it *was* Niall Kennit on Rinnever. Can I ask where you're planning on taking me, by the way?" He doesn't seem too concerned about it.
    Yestin cocks an eye at ibn Fadil, as if to ask if he is done with his questioning. "We can set you down not too far away, I think."
    * * *
    Meanwhile, Pham has checked over the other prisoner and made sure that he's in no immediate danger of either expiring or of being a threat. After a moment's thought, Emmett suggests that the priest might want to leave the room; he's not sure the young priest is up to playing the role of "good captor." With misgivings, Pham returns to piloting, leaving the two alone. Fifteen very unpleasant minutes later Emmett emerges.
    In the course of his indelicate questioning, he has learned the other half of the story ibn Fadil got from Emil. about how the priest aboard the original Victor ship got lost and left for dead, and eventually found a village in the mountains around this valley, where he settled. That original priest did die after a couple of years, but by then he had a handful of converts, two of whom were members of the guild of artificers, which provided a pre-built network for the new religion to take advantage of. It's a simple enough model; once a significant number of guild members in a given locale have been converted, they kill the rest of them -- quietly if possible. Some of the magical components of the mechanisms require blood.
    As for those mechanisms, the prisoner is a bit fuzzy on this, but it seems that every once in a while the senior priests receive visions -- new weapons, new creatures, and the heart of their efforts, the many-limbed icon of which the crew have already seen one model, and which this priest at least believes will make the army it accompanies invincible. Durrell of course had been planning war since the first ship touched down in his isolated valley; he was happy enough to accept the Hextorians' help, and they were happy to have a patron and the prospect of war.
    * * *
    Up on the weapon deck, Alais is already elbow-deep in the mechanical wolf, exclaiming to himself every few moments. Having done what he could for the prisoner and turned the interrogation over to those with experience in these matters, Lynden finds himself strangely drawn to the pseudo-creature, with an echo of that same electrical tingling. Without meaning to, the priest reaches out and puts a hand on the cold black metal, and if Alais had been paying any attention the wizard would have noticed a look of shock before Lynden faints.
    Regaining consciousness to find himself on the floor feeling very woozy and sick Lynden makes no attempt to move for several minutes.
    A couple of minutes into that, the wizard notices. "Are you all right?"
    Lynden opens and closes his eyes several times as if checking that what he sees is real before shrugging. "I'm not sure. That's never happened before."
    "Oh. This device is absolutely fascinating. Some very intricate work. It will take weeks to do a proper job of dissection."
    
    

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