Conversation · Joyce Messier

She reaches for the photo; takes it, then holds it in her hand...

...for about half a minute -- in silence.

She wears fingerless gloves, her fingernails are cut short and fractured. Like those of a working woman.

"It was taken with a Trigat, not long ago. This is the man's upper body. There were no more markings on his hands or legs."

Stay quiet. Observe the woman's expression.

Her mouth is relaxed, the accordion lines near her mouth vanish. The pearls of her eyes move slowly on the photo's surface.

She has no excess of emotions for this cadaver. Has she seen dead bodies before? It's likely.

"What do you think?"

"Sorry," she breaks her concentration. "I was trying to see if I can read the web of interdependencies between these points -- the stars." She points to one on the photo paper.

"I can't. But that's how you read this story. The points themselves don't have letters, numbers, anything. Their size, location on the body and distance from each other tells you what they represent."

"Places? Like stars in the sky?"

"Close," she nods. "Port cities. This is an Oranjese Map of the Waterways -- a sailor's tattoo worn by wayfarers of the Dolorian century, over 300 years ago. The sailors would mark their bodies to map their travels."

"What travels did the dead man make?

"Quite a few. Vredefort -- the Oranjese capital -- traditionally stands on the right shoulder." She points to it on the photo. "He started somewhere near here, I think."

"What next?"

"Then he made his way to the Preto Grande, through what I think must be Staadskanaal -- an artificial channel through the Occident. From the Preto he sailed to the Insulindic ocean. First the Semenese islands, then this..." She points to his heart.

"What is that?"

"Revachol," she says. "Those are the two constants: Vredefort on the shoulder and Revachol in the heart. They started the tradition of these maps right after the discovery of Insulinde, at the dawn of the Interisolary Age."

The Old Old World passing by and the New New World already here.

"You said you can't read it."

"I can't. This man was no sailor -- and these are no ports. I can understand geographic fragments, but not their meaning."

Somewhere in an office lit by a single green desk lamp captain Ptolemaios Pryce -- 58, bald and bespectacled -- is writing in a ledger on his desk. Rows and rows of days and weeks, laconic remarks in a single column: patrol, case, vacation, injured...

IN MARTINAISE, LOOKING INTO KRENEL, he writes in one. Then the man puts down his pen and rubs his temples with both hands. Outside there is a siren, distant gunshots on the streets of the Jamrock Quarter.

Vredefort? Vredefort has a military academy. The Semenese islands saw a recent conflict. In Revachol he was executed.

"This man is no brother of mine, but this is his service history."

"That makes sense to me. We have no more use for a Map of the Waterways. Just like we don't need sailors the way we used to. This is what the custom would morph into on the Occident -- mercenary tattoos."

For all the boys looking for adventure -- a blood spatter on the seas.

Leave it be.

"Is that all?" She puts down the photo.

"Maybe it's a record of his military career?"

"I can't. This man was no sailor -- and these are no ports. I can understand geographic fragments, but not their meaning."

"You said you can't read it -- seems like you can."

"Then what?"

"That's all for the tattoos. Thank you for your help."

She hands you back the photo. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Who could tell me more?"

"His platoon members? The other contractors -- though I do not suggest you go and show them that picture. This man was their friend and comrade."

It could go this or the other way. Maybe if you're tactful, it could be beneficial?

Challenge accepted! I say we do it.

"You're right. Not a good idea." (Leave it off the schedule.)

"I am relieved you think so. I don't think deciphering that tattoo should come before public security."

"I need the information." (Mark it down: ask mercs about tattoos.)

"Do what you have to do, detective. I don't think deciphering that tattoo should come before public security. But if you should wade into the mob to find out -- I couldn't stop you."

"We will be careful, ma'am."

Surely there are other people to ask about the tattoo. This is not necessary to complete the task, officer -- it's a dangerous side-task. Search elsewhere.

You wouldn't even know where to start.

"What is the use of this map?"

"The sailor's soul would use it to fly back home if they should die abroad. This is a sort of... contraption. To be reeled back in by. The silver cord, they would call it."

Where is he now?

Nowhere. There is no soul.

An empire without an emperor.

"This one has flown quite far by now."

"I would say he's near the Arcade Islands by now, ready to exit the Insulindian and enter the pale. If I've read his home address correctly." She smiles.

"This one is going nowhere but the morgue."

"The times have changed."

"I've spoken to him. For now the soul is fastened inside his corpse."

She remains unfazed. "That is precisely what the sailors feared when they drew these maps. A fear of drowning -- within one's own corpse."

Say nothing.

"Port cities. On the oceans. This is an Oranjese Map of the Waterways -- a sailor's tattoo worn by wayfarers of the Dolorian century -- as early as 300 years ago. The sailors would mark their bodies to map their travels."

"Places? Like blooms in a pattern?"