In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
...
Station 29-b, Perkunas Virgae, Xanadu Continent, Titan
With a slow ostinato tap, the prayer room's antiquated heating system whirred away in the half-life, struggling against the heavy damp of the station. In the mid-distance, muffled supplications and chants, some in Arabic, some in Spanish, most somewhere in between, filtered inwards from the private dormitories beyond, adding to the aberrant percussion of the machinery and amplifying it to a wholly irritating drone.
But amongst the dampened cacophony, Ceferino Al-Nabati found peace.
A deep, tiny thrum pulsed through the rusted floorboards, finding equally-tiny components in the whirring ethane pipelines below to rattle with each movement. It was generated three stories below him, in the claudia generator that powered the factory platform's myriad systems and processes; an ancient, inefficient old monster, but still reliable, and, if the charming Scottish merchant that sold him it was to be believed, with 'a real heart of gold'. He focused on the pulse, allowing it to fill his mind, acting as a metronome to clear his thoughts and allow him to be absolved of the past and the future; to become a part of the now, to allow his mind to wander.
...
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
...
After a long moment, he found himself adrift in memory; the smell of orange blossoms and untreated refuse filled the room, tinged with the tingle of home cooking, of jasmine and paprika and cinnamon.
He was home. For a moment, the cold, rational part of him conjured a vision of home's blue-green orb drifting amongst the stars, billions of kilometres away, but he dismissed it in order to enjoy his febrile imaginations. He could almost hear his long-dead mother's voice, lilting with the influence of a half-dozen languages and dialects of the Madrid favela where he had been born. The screeching of children at play could be heard now too, the unwanted children of families from El Aiun to Turpan who had come to Al-Andalus seeking a better life, only to have their dreams stymied by a swamped, xenophobic and war-torn Iberia.
He felt the anger seething through the slum, even now, billions of kilometres away. There had been ethnic clashes before, of course; young Spaniard inhabitants of the occupied territories with nothing to do and riled up by agitators on the other side of the Tagus, coming into the shantytowns looking for a fight. Most times, they got it, and then some; bloodied and broken bodies were dragged out of the smoggy streets under a hail of stones and bottles, their compatriots retreating back behind ethnic lines. It had been that way as long as he could remember, in fact; it was the dream of every slumdog and Mozarab like him to dream of escaping the soiled Earth and departing for the stars, leaving the street wars and drug abuse and muttered insults behind in the Andalusian dust.
Much to his dismay, however, the metallic chime of the station's alarm interrupted his thoughts, grinding into his vision of the Andalusian heartland like a icy blade. With a sigh, he stood up and moved towards the grated rust-coloured door, and, with one contiguous motion, pressed the door's activation button. He was just about to step out of the room's hatch when a crowd of men in formerly-grey jumpsuits ran past, loudly chattering back-and-forth in a fast-paced mixture of Spanish and Arabic. Ceferino quickly fell in behind them as they worked their way through the dilapidated corridors towards the station's tiny CIC. Before he had even entered the dim and oft-smoky chamber, he could hear the nervous chattering of the crew echoing through the station's thin aluminum interior walls. The men ahead of him swung open the heavy steel hermetically-sealed (But long since broken) door to reveal almost the entirety of the ship's crew huddled around the CIC's lone central console, listening to a long-winded and grainy-sounding speech in accented Spanish over the radio. A man operating the terminal, garbed in what was evidently the only clean military-style uniform on the entire moon, sat up in attention upon seeing the group entering, and gestured towards the console.
"Captain Al-Nabati, you're going to want to hear this..."
...
But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !
...
Nuevo Palacio de la Alhambra, Old Quarter, Córdoba
"Guards, with me. Tight square formation, if you please."
The percussive clump of well-polished military boots clicking together in attention and rapidly falling in behind the Mirza echoed through the cavernous hall of the palace. Anger coursed through his veins as it never had before, almost completely crumpling the missive in his hand. Finally, he reached his destination, and, with a single motion of his hand, ordered the guards to wait outside of the ornate doors to the chamber beyond. Drawing up whatever courage he could muster, he threw open the orifice and stormed inside, and, with a flourish brandished the now-crushed document in the air.
"What is the meaning of this, Mother?"
In the centre of the room, which flowed out into the orange grove in the courtyard beyond, a small woman, bedecked in a silken-white hijab sat in shock. She had evidently been in deep conversation with a pair of two elderly, bearded men, who were seated with her on a trio of generous pillows sprawled between the room's constellations of Persian carpets, and who now shared the Sharifa's shock at the intrusion.
The shock on the woman's face rapidly dissolved, however, and instead congealed into what could only be described as cold irritation. She turned to the two men and feigned a well-crafted diplomatic smile. "Sirs, please excuse me for a moment; my son evidently has something very important to speak to me about." She motioned politely towards the door, and, barely hesitating, the old men defied their age and practically scurried out the door, avoiding the fiery gaze of the Mirza, who, on the mens' departure closed the doors to the chamber with little ceremony.
The woman gestured towards the Mirza to have a seat, irritation boiling over on her features. "Now, why was it that you felt was so absolutely vital to interrupt my meeting with the most powerful imams of the entire realm? The last thing our family needs right now is those imams going back to their bloodthirsty congregations with tales of chaos in the palace."
The Mirza snorted, but took a seat regardless. "You know exactly what I'm talking about." He handed the Sharifa the well-worn missive, whereupon she began carefully uncreasing the paper. The Mirza continued; "Your viziers announced a series of restrictions on the Spaniards throughout the entire empire, colonies and all." He threw up his hands in protest. "For God's sake, you've even imposed a curfew over the whole realm! The last thing we need right now is the Catholics rising up against us and providing the Castilians with an ample opportunity to take advantage of us."
The Sharifa sighed, revealing her age in one fell swoop; though her mannerisms belied it, she was even older than the wizened imams, and particularly during these tense periods, her well-crafted veneer of calm and strength began to crack. "Atuf, as I'm sure you know, we are losing control in the former Castilian territories. Our Hispanic vassals are getting bold; they're starting to interpret our authority, picking and choosing which laws to enforce. Some of them have even starting flying Catholic flags." She sat back slightly. "Not to mention the ethnic rioting ongoing in the outlying boroughs of Madrid and Valencia. It is absolutely imperative that we maintain control of the outlying territories, and since we can't be sending a regiment of musketmen into Madrid every time the Catholic zealots across the border decide to stir up trouble, we need to maintain control domestically."
Atuf jumped in quickly. "That's not the only option and you know it. We've been repressing the Catholic Spaniards almost since the rise of the Caliphate, first with the jizya and then with the progressively more restrictive laws against non-Muslims; if we repeal some of the more regressive laws and co-operate with the local authorities more, they may be more willing to accept our rule. Reactionary politics will only get us so far, Mother, particularly when you listen to and pander to powerful imams that only want to repress and "
"Listen here, my child." The colour faded out of the Sharifa's face and her voice became cold and hard; Atuf had hit a nerve, and it was the final straw of a burden that had weighed upon the old woman ever since the Mirza had returned from his schooling. "You are a naive schoolboy, steeped in useless liberal politics from the useless European intellectuals in Madrid." She spat out the word, as if it was a bitter mote from a meal she would rather forget. "Never forget how we came to be here, how God Almighty himself delivered us to this throne, this palace. Those imams that I am 'pandering' to are some of the closest to God and His Prophet on this green Earth, and, more importantly, hold the key to the placation of half our territories. The balancing act I perform keeps this nation from imploding in on itself altogether, and you from being the next target of one of those Castilian throngs."
She gazed into the eyes of her son, brown eyes drilling ever-inward. "Now, go. And next time, when you bring in the royal guards in an attempt to force your point, have the guts to go through with it."
"Because, I assure, you, there will be no second chances."
...
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
...
Silence filled the control room.
The official broadcast from the colonial authorities in Utopia, recorded in several dialects of Spanish, Sephardic, Catalonian and Arabic, had played over the CIC's speakers several times now; the gravity of its message had sunk in deep and fast, even among the station's poor workers.
It meant the end of their industry.
The dictat had placed the control of all hydrogen and hydrocarbon-refining factories, companies and assets under the control of a single, centralized and Muslim-controlled organization, run from some palace on Earth. Independent operations, such as the Captain's, would cease to operate within a week, when Sharifate naval vessels came to take stock of their new possessions.
Ceferino simply stared into space, the worried expressions of his crew washing over him, searching for some sign of what to do, what to think. Finally, after an eternity of waiting, one of the workers asked sheepishly; "So what do we do now, Capitán? Do we....do we just give up?"
Something awoke in Al-Nabati at that moment, something primal and passionate.
Something that was truly revolutionary.
"No, my friend." He said, voice eerily calm and collected. "I have a much better idea..."
...
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
