4. The Mecidiye
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The dock is a brisk walk from the office, and a pleasant one. You talk with Faysal about the letters you've received from home. You tell him about your wife's troubles with her patients at the clinic, your daughter's newfound hobby of drawing ships passing along the coast, how your brother is adapting to living with one arm, and your son has recovered from fever. He tells you of his wife's promotion to an overseer at a munition's factory, how his three young sons are doing in school, and how his mother's writing has improved immeasurably since you went off to war. It is a pleasant conversation, reminding you of better times, keeping your mind off the war until you arrive.
The Sokollu Mehmed Pasha Park is a modest thing overlooking the Kianid City docks and much of the southern shore. There's a small monument to the man himself in the center of a neat, well tended garden with plenty of sheltered benches for when it rains and large trees to break the wind. The views of the harbor are beautiful, and there are generally at least a few people relaxing here on any given day. But today, most are crowded upon the harbor themselves, aiming to be as close as possible to the event instead of watching from above. You and Faysal find yourselves largely alone, an elderly couple sit on one bench, watching casually, while a young woman in fashionable, colorful persian clothes with a red hijab stood by another, clearly scanning the path for someone. A camera and tripod lay on the bench behind her. You pass the lot of them, hopping an iron fencel and sitting down with your legs dangling over the cliff, to the annoyance and amusement of Faysal.
He joins you after a moment, hooking one of his arms around the fence as you both enjoy the sea breeze and watch the Rusalka prepare for the operation. There are a few dozen of them, mostly women and rather reminiscent of the seaborne djinn that lived by the shore of your home, distinguished primarily by the incredibly long, red hair most wore. One in particular, a hijabi, reminded you uncannily of your own wife. They sit on the beach, talking and stretching and diving into the water to show off for the growing crowd. Occasionally one leaps from the water, a great cable in hand, and lands on one of the docks or salvage boats floating in the bay, hooking their cable onto a great crane or winch or, in one case, a massive Walker purpose-built for such things.
You hear someone running behind you, and breathing rather heavily. Faysal ignores it, but you turn your head to look and see a young local woman running up to the Persian with the camera. They kiss on the cheeks, and then the Persian begins to set up her camera and only just seems to notice you and Faysal.
"Excuse me brothers," she says, her Turkish fluent but heavily accented, "Might I ask you to move? You are in my shot."
She receives a quizzical look for that, but you pull yourself back over the fence, and after a moment Faysal does as well. "I apologize, Sister," says Faysal, "We hadn't realized. If you don't mind my asking, are you two reporters?"
"I am. Elaheh Khan, reporter for the Memory of Kabir," she says, "My friend isn't affiliated." Aforementioned friend smiles shily and says Salaam, which you return before turning back to Elaheh.
"You're a Persian reporter, then?" you ask, "The Black Sea is rather outside of your normal interests. What brings you to Kianid?"
She smiles winningly. "Nothing nefarious I assure you, Officer," she says, "Kianid's been an interest of the Shahdom since the Marriage. It's a rich history, very dear to my people-" your eyes flash as you look at her in a new light, realizing that she is a djinn. That the bulges in her hijab are inhuman ears, the flash of light against embroidery calculated to hide coruscating Nar rather than merely to impress. "-I've been writing about it for my employers. It's history, the djinn on the island, the exploits of Sokollu Pasha. The mystery of the Mecidiye. Things of interest to the Djinn, and therefore to the Shah."
"Nothing supernatural happened to the Mecidiye," points out Faysal
"Officially, nothing supernatural happened to the Mecidiye," you correct, "And the Shah agrees."
"And my article will say nothing the Sultan disapproves of," replies Elaheh, "But I have heard the rumors, Officer. I would see it for myself."
You and Faysal both know that in the eyes of the navy that wouldn't be a good excuse. But you and Faysal, frankly, don't care. "Of course Sister," you say, "We apologize for bothering you."
And that is that. You take the bench she has vacated, for Elaheh and her local friend are standing nearby, furiously working their camera, and wait for the show to begin.
The raising is wonderful to watch. The Rusalka all dive into the water, occasionally resurfacing to bellow orders to the cranes. Machines pull and pull and pull, calm water rippling as cable races into it. The tugboats throw anchor after anchor into the sea to keep themselves in place, then begin to belch smoke into the sky as their engines strain to keep them from being pulled towards the wreck instead of pulling the wreck up. The salvage mech writhes, bracing itself against the sand, shoulders twisting and turning as it tries to pull the warship up and in. Elaheh's camera flashes once, twice, thrice, and the Mecidiye's bow breaches the surface. Rusted steel plating slicing through the water as it rises, supported by webs of netting and bracings and ligaments. A cheer erupts from the crowd, followed by awed gasps as Rusalka begin to emerge in earnest from the surf, followed by jets of water that buoy the rising warship towards the dock.
More and more breaks the surface, resplendent even where the Rusalka's bracing has been obvious, and more and more you see the worst-kept-secret of the Ottoman Navy. The rotted roots running along its flanks. The chitinous spines in its sides. The burst turret and ragged holes where the ammo stores blew. The proof that Italy was not a one-off event, that vile men and vile deeds exist the world over, and that an Ottoman ship died stopping them. The proof that the government only now allows to be pulled from the ocean's floor, and that you imagine will still be censored for years to come.
It is heartening, despite it. For in your heart you know that the Mecidiye won, and that though she died she died victorious.
That night you dream of a carpet of wailing corpses on a Russian field. Rivers of blood and monsters pinning civilians to the wall of an italian church. Fire, and the droning thunder of artillery. A too-familiar vision of hell on earth.
You wake for Fajr rested and work goes smoothly. Muhammad is lashed well before noon. Ali and an aggravatingly large crowd watch. As Muhammad is escorted to medical, bleeding profusely and barely able to support his own weight you see Hawa' among them and have to stop yourself from offering comfort. The paperwork does not take too long after that, you organize an exercise for the platoon tomorrow. A simple march along the coast, to the next town over, and handle a few sundry matters, and then you are finished.
You head to the dock for Dhuhr. You pray in a small, cramped masjid filled to bursting with sailors and dockworkers and logisticians, and track down Mirko in the aftermath. He's a small Serb logistician, friendly but corrupt in that genial, amiable way of a man who wouldn't dream of taking a bribe but would be thrilled to do a favor for a friend. You offer to help him with the paperwork around the second battalion shipment, and after hearing of its fate he is more than happy to accept.
You make off like a bandit. For the platoon, yes, but also for the company and the regiment as a whole. Near a hundred steel helmets. New barrels for the Regiment's artillery. Rifle grenades for the second squad. A shiny shotgun, one of the new Tophane semi-automatics, makes its way into your hands. But more important than weapons and armor are the luxuries. New signal lamps, boots, uniforms, and backpacks. Gas masks and, after years of waiting, can openers. Oil and mess kits and all the little things that help make life on the front bearable.
You have the helmets carried over immediately, and your new gun stays by your side, but the rest is simply signed over. To be delivered and distributed over the coming days and weeks.
That night you dream of twisted, screaming men in a horrific mass. Faces you knew and faces you killed, fused into one, begging, pleading, crying, and praying. You ask for it to stop. Ask for it to die. Ask for it to leave you alone. And eventually, when you think you will go mad, you put the gun to Fuat Sakir's head and you shoot him until he stops talking.
And you awake. Fajr, and then the mustering of the platoon for a march in full kit.
Muhammad is still in medical, and Murtaza, a man in second squad, stumbles in smelling of drink and has difficulty standing. Both, however, do better than Osman in third squad, who is missing entirely when you first muster, and when you find him, desperately trying to get dressed in the barracks, has not merely lost his sidearm and forgotten his ammunition, but smells horrendously of perfume and women.
He is horrified when he realizes that you and Cavus Atun have caught him. After a short bout of yelling, and a discussion with Cavus Atun, you order him to perform the day's march in fetters and assign a rather nasty set of punishment duties.
This swiftly becomes an issue when the sleep-deprived, bound, and rather clumsy Nefer Osman promptly trips and twists an ankle badly three kilometers into your march. Cavus Atun suggests having him finish the march supported by his fellows, but you are unsure if the injury is serious and are loathe to cripple a man for being a colossal idiot. You end up staying with him for a time alongside two members of the third squad, performing first aid and setting up a rudimentary splint. After some time he is well enough to limp along and you set off once more, hoping that the natural laziness of soldiers will have convinced your men to slow their march enough for the four of you to catch up.
A bright light flashes from the horizon, dulled by daylight. It's the fourth squadron's signal lamp, calling for you to approach. You raise a brow, then kick into a jog, trying to figure out what your options are if yet another man has injured himself.
The squad's waiting for you two kilometers away. On the lip of a cliff overlooking a secluded cove. They're all there, worry on their faces, and Ali Ahmed and a short Armenian man are looking over the cliff, rifles raised at something below. You join them, cautiously peering over the side to see what has them so spooked.
It's a submarine. Russian flag on its flank, great rents across the hull, a pair of bodies in the sand nearby. It has run up onto the beach, well and truly impaled upon a rock, and judging by the state of the bodies it has not been there overlong. Overnight, perhaps, or even washed up in the hours before fajr.
You order Elazar to signal Faysal, and begin to draw up a plan.
Battle Plans!
Important information: Djinn, nonhumans, and djinn-blooded can sense the presence of living things nearby and whether or not they're earthly. Skill at this varies, but almost all can attempt it.
Which squads are entering the wreck? How?
[ ] Write in: Pick one or two squads to enter the wreck. For each:
-> [ ] Go through the top
-> [ ] Go through the rents in the hull
-> [ ] Write-in
Which squads are securing the perimeter
[ ] Write in: Pick one or two squads to secure the perimeter. For each:
-> [ ] Stay on the beach, keep an eye on the wreck.
-> [ ] Stay near the treeline, keep this news from leaking out if some fisherman or a swimmer walks by..
Who's telling HQ?
[ ] A runner. If there are russians here you need every gun on the scene. Running's risky, but it'll have to do.
[ ] Fourth Squad. You need this sent quick and that means a signal lamp, not waiting for one of the kids to sprint five kilometers.
Are you having squads search the area for survivors?
[ ] Yes (Pick up to one squad)
[ ] No
Finally:
[ ] Which squad do you accompany
The Sokollu Mehmed Pasha Park is a modest thing overlooking the Kianid City docks and much of the southern shore. There's a small monument to the man himself in the center of a neat, well tended garden with plenty of sheltered benches for when it rains and large trees to break the wind. The views of the harbor are beautiful, and there are generally at least a few people relaxing here on any given day. But today, most are crowded upon the harbor themselves, aiming to be as close as possible to the event instead of watching from above. You and Faysal find yourselves largely alone, an elderly couple sit on one bench, watching casually, while a young woman in fashionable, colorful persian clothes with a red hijab stood by another, clearly scanning the path for someone. A camera and tripod lay on the bench behind her. You pass the lot of them, hopping an iron fencel and sitting down with your legs dangling over the cliff, to the annoyance and amusement of Faysal.
He joins you after a moment, hooking one of his arms around the fence as you both enjoy the sea breeze and watch the Rusalka prepare for the operation. There are a few dozen of them, mostly women and rather reminiscent of the seaborne djinn that lived by the shore of your home, distinguished primarily by the incredibly long, red hair most wore. One in particular, a hijabi, reminded you uncannily of your own wife. They sit on the beach, talking and stretching and diving into the water to show off for the growing crowd. Occasionally one leaps from the water, a great cable in hand, and lands on one of the docks or salvage boats floating in the bay, hooking their cable onto a great crane or winch or, in one case, a massive Walker purpose-built for such things.
You hear someone running behind you, and breathing rather heavily. Faysal ignores it, but you turn your head to look and see a young local woman running up to the Persian with the camera. They kiss on the cheeks, and then the Persian begins to set up her camera and only just seems to notice you and Faysal.
"Excuse me brothers," she says, her Turkish fluent but heavily accented, "Might I ask you to move? You are in my shot."
She receives a quizzical look for that, but you pull yourself back over the fence, and after a moment Faysal does as well. "I apologize, Sister," says Faysal, "We hadn't realized. If you don't mind my asking, are you two reporters?"
"I am. Elaheh Khan, reporter for the Memory of Kabir," she says, "My friend isn't affiliated." Aforementioned friend smiles shily and says Salaam, which you return before turning back to Elaheh.
"You're a Persian reporter, then?" you ask, "The Black Sea is rather outside of your normal interests. What brings you to Kianid?"
She smiles winningly. "Nothing nefarious I assure you, Officer," she says, "Kianid's been an interest of the Shahdom since the Marriage. It's a rich history, very dear to my people-" your eyes flash as you look at her in a new light, realizing that she is a djinn. That the bulges in her hijab are inhuman ears, the flash of light against embroidery calculated to hide coruscating Nar rather than merely to impress. "-I've been writing about it for my employers. It's history, the djinn on the island, the exploits of Sokollu Pasha. The mystery of the Mecidiye. Things of interest to the Djinn, and therefore to the Shah."
"Nothing supernatural happened to the Mecidiye," points out Faysal
"Officially, nothing supernatural happened to the Mecidiye," you correct, "And the Shah agrees."
"And my article will say nothing the Sultan disapproves of," replies Elaheh, "But I have heard the rumors, Officer. I would see it for myself."
You and Faysal both know that in the eyes of the navy that wouldn't be a good excuse. But you and Faysal, frankly, don't care. "Of course Sister," you say, "We apologize for bothering you."
And that is that. You take the bench she has vacated, for Elaheh and her local friend are standing nearby, furiously working their camera, and wait for the show to begin.
The raising is wonderful to watch. The Rusalka all dive into the water, occasionally resurfacing to bellow orders to the cranes. Machines pull and pull and pull, calm water rippling as cable races into it. The tugboats throw anchor after anchor into the sea to keep themselves in place, then begin to belch smoke into the sky as their engines strain to keep them from being pulled towards the wreck instead of pulling the wreck up. The salvage mech writhes, bracing itself against the sand, shoulders twisting and turning as it tries to pull the warship up and in. Elaheh's camera flashes once, twice, thrice, and the Mecidiye's bow breaches the surface. Rusted steel plating slicing through the water as it rises, supported by webs of netting and bracings and ligaments. A cheer erupts from the crowd, followed by awed gasps as Rusalka begin to emerge in earnest from the surf, followed by jets of water that buoy the rising warship towards the dock.
More and more breaks the surface, resplendent even where the Rusalka's bracing has been obvious, and more and more you see the worst-kept-secret of the Ottoman Navy. The rotted roots running along its flanks. The chitinous spines in its sides. The burst turret and ragged holes where the ammo stores blew. The proof that Italy was not a one-off event, that vile men and vile deeds exist the world over, and that an Ottoman ship died stopping them. The proof that the government only now allows to be pulled from the ocean's floor, and that you imagine will still be censored for years to come.
It is heartening, despite it. For in your heart you know that the Mecidiye won, and that though she died she died victorious.
That night you dream of a carpet of wailing corpses on a Russian field. Rivers of blood and monsters pinning civilians to the wall of an italian church. Fire, and the droning thunder of artillery. A too-familiar vision of hell on earth.
You wake for Fajr rested and work goes smoothly. Muhammad is lashed well before noon. Ali and an aggravatingly large crowd watch. As Muhammad is escorted to medical, bleeding profusely and barely able to support his own weight you see Hawa' among them and have to stop yourself from offering comfort. The paperwork does not take too long after that, you organize an exercise for the platoon tomorrow. A simple march along the coast, to the next town over, and handle a few sundry matters, and then you are finished.
You head to the dock for Dhuhr. You pray in a small, cramped masjid filled to bursting with sailors and dockworkers and logisticians, and track down Mirko in the aftermath. He's a small Serb logistician, friendly but corrupt in that genial, amiable way of a man who wouldn't dream of taking a bribe but would be thrilled to do a favor for a friend. You offer to help him with the paperwork around the second battalion shipment, and after hearing of its fate he is more than happy to accept.
You make off like a bandit. For the platoon, yes, but also for the company and the regiment as a whole. Near a hundred steel helmets. New barrels for the Regiment's artillery. Rifle grenades for the second squad. A shiny shotgun, one of the new Tophane semi-automatics, makes its way into your hands. But more important than weapons and armor are the luxuries. New signal lamps, boots, uniforms, and backpacks. Gas masks and, after years of waiting, can openers. Oil and mess kits and all the little things that help make life on the front bearable.
You have the helmets carried over immediately, and your new gun stays by your side, but the rest is simply signed over. To be delivered and distributed over the coming days and weeks.
That night you dream of twisted, screaming men in a horrific mass. Faces you knew and faces you killed, fused into one, begging, pleading, crying, and praying. You ask for it to stop. Ask for it to die. Ask for it to leave you alone. And eventually, when you think you will go mad, you put the gun to Fuat Sakir's head and you shoot him until he stops talking.
And you awake. Fajr, and then the mustering of the platoon for a march in full kit.
Muhammad is still in medical, and Murtaza, a man in second squad, stumbles in smelling of drink and has difficulty standing. Both, however, do better than Osman in third squad, who is missing entirely when you first muster, and when you find him, desperately trying to get dressed in the barracks, has not merely lost his sidearm and forgotten his ammunition, but smells horrendously of perfume and women.
He is horrified when he realizes that you and Cavus Atun have caught him. After a short bout of yelling, and a discussion with Cavus Atun, you order him to perform the day's march in fetters and assign a rather nasty set of punishment duties.
This swiftly becomes an issue when the sleep-deprived, bound, and rather clumsy Nefer Osman promptly trips and twists an ankle badly three kilometers into your march. Cavus Atun suggests having him finish the march supported by his fellows, but you are unsure if the injury is serious and are loathe to cripple a man for being a colossal idiot. You end up staying with him for a time alongside two members of the third squad, performing first aid and setting up a rudimentary splint. After some time he is well enough to limp along and you set off once more, hoping that the natural laziness of soldiers will have convinced your men to slow their march enough for the four of you to catch up.
A bright light flashes from the horizon, dulled by daylight. It's the fourth squadron's signal lamp, calling for you to approach. You raise a brow, then kick into a jog, trying to figure out what your options are if yet another man has injured himself.
The squad's waiting for you two kilometers away. On the lip of a cliff overlooking a secluded cove. They're all there, worry on their faces, and Ali Ahmed and a short Armenian man are looking over the cliff, rifles raised at something below. You join them, cautiously peering over the side to see what has them so spooked.
It's a submarine. Russian flag on its flank, great rents across the hull, a pair of bodies in the sand nearby. It has run up onto the beach, well and truly impaled upon a rock, and judging by the state of the bodies it has not been there overlong. Overnight, perhaps, or even washed up in the hours before fajr.
You order Elazar to signal Faysal, and begin to draw up a plan.
Battle Plans!
Important information: Djinn, nonhumans, and djinn-blooded can sense the presence of living things nearby and whether or not they're earthly. Skill at this varies, but almost all can attempt it.
Which squads are entering the wreck? How?
[ ] Write in: Pick one or two squads to enter the wreck. For each:
-> [ ] Go through the top
-> [ ] Go through the rents in the hull
-> [ ] Write-in
Which squads are securing the perimeter
[ ] Write in: Pick one or two squads to secure the perimeter. For each:
-> [ ] Stay on the beach, keep an eye on the wreck.
-> [ ] Stay near the treeline, keep this news from leaking out if some fisherman or a swimmer walks by..
Who's telling HQ?
[ ] A runner. If there are russians here you need every gun on the scene. Running's risky, but it'll have to do.
[ ] Fourth Squad. You need this sent quick and that means a signal lamp, not waiting for one of the kids to sprint five kilometers.
Are you having squads search the area for survivors?
[ ] Yes (Pick up to one squad)
[ ] No
Finally:
[ ] Which squad do you accompany
Last edited:
