From Vacuum Forged -- The Anye Migration: Book 1 -- A manuscript paused in 2018, now cooking on simmer while I decide what to do with it.
See the work in process on Substack, here.
Grahana Archipelago
Wedding day had come and gone. Svami Reva Yudhvan and Stena Zaramalla were on honeymoon in, of all places, Harbor Town, Nivi — where Suban Dhava’s natural parents lived.
Suban’s life, he surmised, was in process of being planned.
Cadre counterinsurgency school was three weeks off. In the meantime, Grahana was bringing in crops. Svami Reva’s friend, a district engineer assigned to farm support, needed skilled workers.
During his first ten days on the job, Suban cut up a derelict harvester in a bean field, reinforced a grain bin, revived a water well, rebuilt three irrigation gates and graded a service road.
He told the supervisor he was worn out. The lady said she was not sending him home to Svami Reva with a debilitating injury.
“Rest up,” she said. “Call me in a couple of days.”
The Meridian neighborhood where he spent the previous summer was only 400 kilometers away — a few seconds in a PMI Explorer, home to a tiny restaurant famous for smoked goat.
There, he spied two men and a boy sitting in a booth, one of whom he recognized from a dossier shared by the Internal Security officer who called herself ‘Lemon’.
Sufi Dagar, of mixed Mahat Limar and Kopin heritage — wolf-eared and portly. Half-brother to Paun Dagar — the latter now languishing in a Cadre lockup.
The Dagar party chattered in the Noble Tongue as if they were the only Low Desert wayfarers on the continent, careless of being overheard.
Suban cocked an ear. They were not, as near as he could tell, planning a murder.
A chill ran up his spine. If this is not God’s hand at work, then excuse me very much.
He walked around a partition. The men stopped talking.
Suban pointed at Sufi Dagar’s companion, a Vyala dandy clad in waistcoat, silk scarf and balloon trousers. “May I sit?”
They looked at him in shock. He tugged at an ear. “Perhaps you think none of these commoners speak our language. I assure you that is not the case.”
The boy stared at him in awe. “Are you Mahat Raja?”
Suban nodded. “How can you tell?”
“You resemble the famous scientist Rivan Saraf. Are you Sadhu like him?”
He scooted into the booth next to Sufi Dagar. “My father is ethnic Mahat Limar, with a touch of Azanta. Matr is Raji Limar, with hint of Iravat.”
“My father was Dri.” The boy stuck out his chin. “But not the bad kind.”
“My brother-in-law was on the diet. Not a crazy person, not at all.” The Vyala dandy put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “We miss him, very much.”
They introduced themselves as Sufi, Pico, and young Tafid.
Sufi crowded into the corner, the better to make conversation. “You are Sadhu. Zirna Zapha, perhaps, influential in this town?”
“Yes, and only slightly influential.” Suban studied the boy’s face, eyes getting wider by the second. “What?”
“How tall are you?”
“Less than two meters.”
“What is your name?”
Suban laughed. “Some call me Musaka.”
“Your name is Mouse?”
“I was small as a boy. Like you.”
Tafid poked Pico in the ribs. “I told you the god of the SagGha would send someone.”
His uncle replied, “What did you ask for?”
The boy sniffed at him. “A Broken Claw enforcer.”
Sufi Dagar covered a smile with one hand. “We have a small problem. It’s on everyone’s mind, including Tafid’s.”
Suban rubbed at his nose. “What kind of problem?”
“My half-brother, recently expelled from the clan, left an employee in our midst, a self-styled gangster from Laghu. We’re having trouble getting rid of him.”
“You are from the Kulan Dagar caravan? Here for the opera at Meridian Arts?”
“Yes.”
“Is this miscreant in town with you?”
“Yes.”
“Show me his picture.” Suban waved at a server. “And I will see what I can do.”
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