Silent Key

It was only when Marko's mutilated corpse washed up on the mudflats of Linsey's east coast that I understood the whole truth. Even then, I might have missed it, had it not been for the woman's body beside him. All the pieces of the puzzle fell into place almost before I was aware that there had even been a puzzle begging to be solved. I'd had my head in the clouds, that was the problem.

Marko Henders had been the First Operator at the Linsey Field Station for more than five years before I was posted there as his Second. Like every Second Operator in every field station, I was assigned to the night watch.

The evening radio watch was never exciting. The top and bottom of every hour were our regular sked times, and if there's traffic for us that's about as exciting as it gets. I would usually while away the rest of the evening scanning through the white noise and earwigging on other stations' traffic on our receiver. The First Operator was always badgering me to use the time keying on the practice oscillator to improve my fist, but I'll admit I tended to quit that as soon as he left the shack. And that's how I came to be tuning around when the strange signal struggled through the noise.

The voice that crackled in the back of the speaker took some deciphering. It was speaking English, after a fashion. I'm not sure if it was the heavy accent, or just the distortion caused by the fading and the static crashes of a distant thunderstorm, but I had to concentrate hard to make any sense of it.

I couldn't catch everything the voice was saying, it wasn't what you'd call readability five, but once my ears had picked out the first couple of clear words, they soon pricked up, like those of a startled fox hearing the hounds. 'Presden' was the first word that set the clangers ringing, then something that sounded like 'Cincinatti'. That sent a shiver down my spine, because there was no way I should be able to hear what I thought I was hearing, at least not if it was coming from where I thought it did.

The signal surged and faded for a few minutes, and I strained my ears and tried to tweak the tuning on the receiver. I jotted down what I was hearing, though it was really patchy and I had to piece it together the best I could.

“...yan cavalry offensive … repulsed but evacuation of ….. all non-guildsmen of military age are invited to volunt..... the Hiyo Army under Jen.... rebel forces have been pushed...”

That was all I got, with a few more words I didn't recognise, before it faded away back into the noise and lightning crashes. I sat back in my chair and stared at what I'd scribbled down and was still puzzling it over when I glanced at the clock and swore. It was five past the hour and I wasn't listening on our traffic frequency. Sure enough, as I hurriedly cranked the dial there was a string of Vs and our station call being hammered out in a familiar fist. It's funny the way Morse code can sound every bit as individual as a voice, and the rapid-fire dots and pounded dashes I was hearing sounded impatient to me, and for good reason, because the distant station had spent five minutes trying to raise a reply.

I grabbed the key and sent the all clear to let them know I'd heard and was ready to take traffic. As the message came in the furious tone of the sending returned to a more professional cadence and I transcribed it as I listened, though I could as easily read it in my head and jot it down later. However, that isn't good procedure, and our First Operator always insisted on live transcription.

GLNSI DE GZETL PSE CPI ES QSP FR JAMES BHEP. FR JAMES BHEP.

CFM RCPT SHIPMENT REF 10057 RPT 10057.

PSE ADVISE COLLECT OR FWD?

DE ZET TRANS CO. ZET TRANS CO.

GZETL BK

I keyed my confirmation back to the Zetland station, followed by a quick query for any further traffic, but there was nothing else to come yet, so I signed off and switched the transmitter to standby to conserve the batteries.

I imagine the message looks a bit gibberish if you're not a radioman, but is perfectly clear if you are. The best way I could put it in English is this: “Linsey Station this is Zetland Station, we need you to get this message to Brother James at the Eastport Brother House. The Zetland Trans-shipment Company has taken delivery of his consignment, reference number 10057, and they want to know whether he wants it sending on or will he arrange his own collection?” 

 

Not as thrilling as reports of wars overseas, maybe, but it is our bread and butter. It was a bit late to send one of the apprentices over to Eastport seeing as the sun had not long set, so I slapped it on to the spike ready for the morning. The apprentices are taught all the abbreviations and procedurals long before we let them anywhere near Morse code. That way they can understand the message slips when we send them out to the recipients, and they're primed for what to listen for once they start on the code for real. The rest of the night was pretty quiet, and come sunrise there were still only three slips on the spike. Apart from Brother James's shipment we also had news from Umbra for one of the matrons of Sanjun Parish, who would be delighted to know that her daughter who was travelling with the trade mission was in good health and pleased to announce the arrival of the matron's first grandchild. Don't ask what the third slip contained because it was a series of five-digit blocks of numbers destined for the Portioners' Hall, and it would be one of the clerks there who had to crack out the code tables and extract the meaning.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

The Old Man, that's the First Operator, didn't believe a word of what I told him the next morning. “I don't care what you think you heard,” he grumbled, “it didn't come from America. The ionosphere is shot to pieces, and you'd know that if you paid more attention to your studies.” 

 

I could have pressed my case, but it would just come across as petulance. Anyway, I was up to date with my studies, I knew what the score was supposed to be and that's exactly why I wanted him to know. No-one has been able to explain it yet, but there's plenty of ideas being discussed throughout the Radio Service. Some blame the climate, others go for sunspots. Some put it down to nukes that might have been used a couple of centuries ago, even though that's just a rumour. Then there are those who blame the effects of 'geo-engineering', whatever that's supposed to be. 

 

The Old Man didn't particularly care why, he said, just accept it and live with it. Perhaps in the old times we could span the world with shortwave communications, but today nothing gets much beyond a few hundred kilometres. Either signals are not bouncing off the higher layers like they used to, or get absorbed lower down for some reason. Or then the ionised clouds just could be lower, so signals simply don't go so far. As I said, no-one knows for sure, everyone has their own speculations, and a few, like Marko, just don't care.

Despite the Old Man's lack of interest, I still had a mystery on my hands. Sure, there's no mystery about the fighting; there's been plenty of that any which way you might look. However, getting that weak burst from the American broadcaster was still sending a thrill through me. How could it be possible? Was this what it was like for the old-timers when they listened to their radios pulling in signals from all over the world? The Old Man might have been bit of a curmudgeon, but I couldn't deny that I was excited by my discovery, and was annoyed he didn't think it worth reporting to the Tower.

“Go get some breakfast, Denny,” the curmudgeon growled as he dismissed me from the shack and settled down for his own watch period. “Then get these sent out,” he added, passing the message slips back to me. I lent over towards the scratch pad and lifted the sheet with my scribbled war report before the Old Man could rip it out and throw it away, as I just knew he would.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

I was still in my first year at Linsey, barely a quarter of the way through the posting before I could head back to the Tower to take the exams for my full ticket, and it was taking some getting used to. Fish for breakfast, I ask you! Back home on the mainland I'd be tucking into bread and honey, or a plateful of eggs, that's a proper start to the day, but us radiomen don't get to pick and choose, especially a lowly Second Op like me. We're expected to follow the local habits wherever we're posted. And in Linsey Island, that means fish for breakfast. At least taking the night watch I could pretend it was supper, because I kipped down once the slips were sent out.

Rachel, one of the local apprentices, had my breakfast waiting for me in the living quarters, and I let her look over the slips whilst I ate.

“Ooh, can I take this one, Denny?” she asked.

“Which one's that?”

“The one for Goodwife Kirsten at Sanjun. I know her daughter, I'd love to give her the news. She'll be thrilled. The whole Parish will.”

I couldn't resist her enthusiasm. It was quite a journey, but Rachel was doing well with her apprenticeship. I thought she could afford the time it would take, and it's always nice for the recipient of good news to hear it from a familiar face.

“Okay, but take the pony, though, I want you back in time for Morse class,” I conceded, trying to hold a grave expression despite her infectious enthusiasm. “And you know the rules. No gossip on the way, the messages are private. Confidentiality is the core ethic of the Radio Service.”

“I know, I know,” she replied, still bubbling over with eagerness. “Mum's the word,” she giggled.

I groaned at the pun, slowly shaking my head as she rushed off clutching the precious slip of paper, and she was out of the door before I realised she hadn't hung around to clean up the breakfast things. I washed up myself, still wondering about the strange voice I'd heard the previous evening, then went in search for another apprentice. I found Robyn in the workshop, stripping down some old equipment that had been salvaged from the ruined city at the head of the Serpent's Back. Neat piles of screws and nuts were lined up on the bench before him, and a few of the more recognisable electronic components were separated out, too, but the mysterious little black insect-like blocks that no longer had any use were pushed to one side for disposal. I was pleased to spot a little pile of the delicate ancient diodes that we could build up into crystal sets to sell.

Robyn was engrossed in his work, and he had the chassis pretty much cleared out. He glanced up when I dropped the message slip into the empty case.

“Morning, Denny. Did you have a good watch?”

“So-so,” I replied, wondering whether to share my exciting discovery with the youngster. Maybe later, I decided. First a test. “Can you tackle this one?”

He scanned the note and I smiled as his lips moved whilst he read.

“Okay, it's for Brother James at Eastport. There's a package for him at Zetland, and does he want it sent on?”

“That's good enough. Can you run it over there now? This chassis can wait.”

“Sure, Denny. One thing, though. Why is 'Brother' abbreviated to 'FR'? It doesn't make sense.”

He had me there, of course. “No idea,” I admitted. “Just a tradition, I guess.” 

 

“You'd have thought it would be short for 'father'. That would make more sense, except it wouldn't, of course,” Robyn joked. That was true. The Brothers and Sisters would never be fathers or mothers, and that's Linsey's answer to the nepotism that plagued the early years of their Portioning Council. As a visiting radioman, it wasn't my place to question my hosts' system of government, so I guided the conversation back to the business at hand.

“When you've delivered this, wait for Brother James's reply, and don't forget that there's no fee to collect. It will go on to the Brother House's account,” I reminded him.

The final message, the encrypted one for the Portioners' Hall, I decided to take myself. I could use the walk after sitting in front of the receiver all night, and I was too fired up by the strange signal to get to sleep any time soon anyway. I had a lot to think about before turning in for sleep, so a gentle stroll through Westport and a blast of fresh air seemed ideal.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

Once a week I had to give the apprentices their Morse practice. Needless to say, it was the First Operator's duty, but his sending was as ropey as his handwriting, and he didn't want them learning his bad habits, or so he claimed. We had four apprentices in all, and they all gathered in the workshop with their pencils and paper, and I hammered out the practice texts. Now, there are ways and ways to teach the Code, some like to start real slow, and speed up over time but that has a problem – often as not the students hit a wall and can't get past it. So I prefer the Farnuth Method, as it's called. Each character is sent fast, but with long spaces between. Over time, the gaps can be shortened until you're going full whack, and all being well, there's no brick wall.

Our four apprentices were a mixed bag. Robyn, I felt really sorry for. He was a technical wizard, great with the gear, but had a tin ear. I couldn't see him ever making a good field operator. I might get him up to fives – that's five words a minute, basic proficiency – but he'll never make fifteens. When he goes to the Tower, they might be able to sort him out, but more likely they'll steer him towards the technician programme and he'll wind up with a posting to a broadcaster somewhere.

My star pupil was Rachel, and I guess it was her musical family that made the difference. She got it straight away. A lot of students struggle by counting dots and dashes and trying to remember the letters like they have to look it up every time, but Rachel just got the rhythm. She's going to be faster than me one day, but then I tend to melt down round about the twenties myself.

The other two apprentices, Matt and Freja, were competent. Neither as brilliant as Rachel nor as slow as Robyn. They were twins, and had started their apprenticeship quite young. In Linsey, large families are not favoured, and their parents had really struggled with the tithes they had to pay. It struck me as harsh because it's not the parents' fault if they drop twins, but that's the Portioners' affair and radiomen aren't supposed to get into that sort of thing. The eldest son stayed at home on their Holding and the twins were sent to us, and the family was better off without the extra tithes to pay.

We ran through a few pangrams, like the 'Quick brown fox...' and the 'Jackdaws love my sphinx...', then a random selection from the 'Lorem ipsum'. Then it was time to get them started on numbers, so I ran through zero to nine for them a few times, followed by a good chunk of digits of pi. As I expected, Rachel picked it up straight away, the twins struggled for a while, but soon caught up. After half an hour Robyn was still mixing up his seven with his eight, and his two with his three, and was visibly frustrated. By the time he started confusing his five and zero, too, I decided he'd had enough, and I called it a day.

“I'm never going to get this, Denny,” Robyn confided after the others had left, “I'll never be a proper radioman.”

“I know it's hard for you, Robyn, but you're not doing badly. You're about up to fives on letters, this was your first session with numbers. You'll get there. Just think what you have done. You've learnt to read and write. How many people in Linsey can say that? Just the Brothers and Sisters, and a few merchants who can afford private lessons.”

“I suppose,” he admitted, grudgingly.

“There's no 'suppose' about it. You're a smart young man. You might not be the best telegraphist in the Service, but your technical abilities will shame some back at the Tower. Once you get there, you'll see. Trust me, you're going to be a great radioman one day, so no more moping, okay?”

He nodded at this, but I could tell his confidence had taken a knock, nonetheless. I needed to restore it somehow.

“What have you been working on recently?” I asked.

“I'm still going through that last batch of salvage, seeing what we can use.”

“And? Anything nice?” I asked, knowing full well what had been brought in.

“I was going to start on all that wire next, strip it down to single strands.”

“That's a good idea. I could find a use for that,” I said, and then I told him what it was I needed, and he cheered up almost instantly with a new project to work on. “And whilst you're working on that, why don't you fire up the spare receiver there? Strap a dummy load across it, you'll be able to hear our outgoing traffic, and I can bring the scripts in later to see how much you've copied.”

Strange as it sounds, some people find it easier to read Morse off-air, with all the noise and static, than they do from a practice oscillator in a quiet room, and I was willing to try anything that might help to clear Robyn's tin ear.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

When I awoke later that afternoon I was eager to get back to the shack to see what else might come crawling out of the noise, bouncing off the high, thin clouds that shouldn't be there. The Old Man was tidying up at the end of his own shift, and we always had a short handover period to sort out any unfinished business and that's usually when we went over my studies and his 'teaching'. Let's just say he was not an inspired educator, and leave it at that.

Even though the Old Man had been sending out apprentices around town and further afield during the day, there was still quite the stack of slips on the spike, including a couple more encrypted ones for the Portioners' Hall. That adds up to a lot of diplomatic chatter, I thought, seeing as how we often went months without a single one. Three in a single day was unprecedented.

Although I could tell something was going on, it's hard to work out what it might be from the traffic, as encrypted messages are always sent with a generic callsign, and only the receiving station's call is sent in the open. I suppose it keeps nosey second ops from guessing too much if earwiggers can't tell who is speaking to who.

“Evening, Marko,” I greeted the First Operator. “Good shift?”

“Busy,” he grumbled.

I indicated the two encrypts. “Any idea what's going on? There's a lot of chatter today.”

“Nope. I don't know, I don't need to know, and it's none of our business anyway. Confidentiality is the core ethic of the Radio Service, Denny.” He glared at me reprovingly, as though I needed to be reminded of the little lecture I had given Rachel earlier.

Before leaving the shack, Marko pulled the stack of slips off the spike, and handed nearly half of the sheaf to me. “This is a verbatim. Do the fair copy, you know what my handwriting is like.”

I looked at the papers. “That's a proper Warren piece,” I grumbled. No-one remembers who this Warren was, but he must have been a famous windbag back in the old days to have got himself turned into a proverb.

A verbatim message has to be re-written for final delivery to the recipient, no abbreviations or procedurals left in, so they can read it themselves just as if it were a letter. It's an expensive service, so we don't get many, and they're usually for the well-to-do or folks in trade. Of course, the Old Man should have written it up himself, but I reckoned he wanted to keep me busy, another way of saying 'no earwigging'. 

 

Resigned to the task, I started to turn Marko's ungainly print into the best cursive I could manage. As soon as I heard the shack door shut behind me, I retuned the receiver to the spot where I'd heard the strange broadcast the night before, and kept one ear on the white noise and one eye on the clock as I scratched away at the fair copy. The core ethic might well be confidentiality, but another ethic is continual self-training, and whether or not the Old Man liked it, I convinced myself that hunting down more exotic signals counted as self-training.

The verbatim was long, a good five pages by the time I finished. It must have cost the sender a fortune, but clearly they could afford it, and it was going to cost the recipient another fortune on delivery the following morning. I hoped it was worth it, but the odd mix of family gossip and what looked like commodity prices suggested it was a report from one branch of a merchant family to another, so I guessed they must be getting their money's worth.

By the time my first traffic sked came round, I hadn't heard anything from the mysterious broadcaster, and I tuned to our traffic frequency with more disappointment than I wanted to admit. There was nothing for us, but as I had a reply from Brother James to send back to Zetland, I checked the Station Schedule Chart to see when I needed to call them. Due to all the trans-polar ships that dock there, Zetland handles a lot of traffic, and they listen for calls every ten minutes, so I wouldn't have long to wait, or so I thought. They were having a busy night, and it took me three attempts to raise them because stronger signals squashed my first two calls into the noise.

By the time I'd tapped out Brother James's message and had Zetland's confirmation, my bladder was making its presence known, so I nipped out to the yard for a quick leak. Scanning the skyline as the relief coursed through my abdomen, I caught sight of the beacon flaring in its brazier on top of the hill overlooking the town and harbour. I couldn't help but wonder if that had something to do with all the encrypted messages that had been arriving in the past few hours – Linsey was mustering the fleet.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

Westport was buzzing in the morning. Farmers and fishermen from the surrounding Parishes were streaming in through the gates, and any apprentices that could be spared joined them in the square outside the Portioners' Hall. Although our own apprentices are drawn from the locality, under the Radio Service covenants they are exempted from community obligations, including military or naval service and taxes, or tithing in the case of Linsey. 

 

The gathering men coalesced into groups around the coxswains, who led them away down the hill towards the harbour once they were satisfied with their numbers. It all looked somewhat chaotic, but I could see there was an underlying order, despite the milling around. Evidently the crews were well drilled, and it wasn't long before most of the men had moved out.

I caught sight of one of the grey-robed Councillors standing outside the Portioners' Hall and decided to fish for some news.

“Good morning, Sister,” I called.

“Ah, good morning. You're the new radioman, aren't you?” she replied. Of course, one glance at the small, black diamond-shaped badge pinned to my tunic would have told her that, but I thought she did actually recognise me from my various visits to the Hall delivering message slips.

“Yes, been here seven months now,” I replied, “But I'm still learning my way round. Just wondering why the fleet's been mustered?”

“I would have thought you'd know about that. After all, the news passed through your hands,” she raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“If it was encrypted we'd have no idea what it contained,” I explained.

“Well, it's no secret now, I suppose. A big fleet has been spotted off the west coast, and it looks like trouble. We're not sure who they are yet, but they seem to have come up from the south. All the coastal polities are mobilising, just in case.”

It was an impressive sight when all the ships filed out of the harbour mouth, oars flashing in unison along each of the sleek hulls. There must have been thirty or more, though I didn't count them out. The lead vessels bided their time in the straits between Linsey Island and the Serpent's Back, the long spit of land that was once part of Linsey before the last Surge flooded the low land in between. The fleet formed up in a wedge formation behind the flagship, and hoisted sails once the ships from the northern Parishes arrived. Only a handful of ships remained in the harbour, including a few a Zetlander and Norse merchantmen. For a small island, Linsey can put out a lot of boats, but what with the Arabs and the floods, trade and fishing, the sea is life and death itself.

Somewhere under those waves lies the ancient town where the first Knut was crowned, and I know the Linsey folk say it's been Knuts ever since, but that's not what the mainland historians say. There's been goodness knows how many Royal Houses since the Great Knut, back when all the islands were still one country, before it was eaten up and drowned by the Surges. But it's never a good idea to tell your hosts that their founding myths are bunk, and radiomen aren't supposed to get into that sort of thing anyway. We're just the messengers. We don't have opinions, we don't take sides. That's why we can go anywhere in the isles safely, even when the polities are at war with each other, which I'm glad to say they haven't done in my lifetime. That's a good part of the reason why they could all set sail together to meet this unknown fleet.

It was late in the morning by the time the fleet was properly under way, well past my bedtime, so I hurried back towards the radio station and my bed. As I passed the workshop, I was surprised to hear Rachel and Robyn bickering at each other, so I stuck my head around the door to see what was up.

“What's the matter with you two?” I asked, and they both went quiet as soon as they realised I was there. Rachel looked away, a slight colour washing over her face, and Robyn leapt into the silence.

“She's spoiling my practice!” he complained. “Saying the letters out loud before I can write them down.”

“Well, he's so slow,” she quipped. “He's not getting half of it.”

I usually gave Rachel a lot of leeway, but I was annoyed at this, star pupil or not.

“Rachel, you're really not helping,” I snapped. “I asked Robyn to take extra practice, not you. If you can't offer any practical help, you don't need to be in here.”

At least she had the good grace to apologise, and not just to me but to Robyn, too. I picked up Robyn's notes and had a look through at what he had copied down. Despite what Rachel had said, he had been getting more than half of it, though not much more. Except for the final section.

“What happened here, Robyn? Looks like you totally lost it. Even what you did get looks like gibberish.”

Robyn shrugged, but Rachel, in a suddenly conciliatory tone, added “That's because it was. There were characters in it I didn't even recognise. That's not Robyn's fault.”

“What characters? Were they procedurals?” I asked.

Rachel screwed up her face in concentration, her eyes gazing into the distance over my shoulder as she recalled the unfamiliar rhythms she had picked out.

“Umm. There was dah-dah-dah-dah. Like it was halfway between 'O' and zero. Also dah-dah-dah-dit, like 'J' but backwards. And di-di-dah-di-dit. I mean, what's that supposed to be? EL, FE, UI, ID? They're not procedurals are they?”

She was right; they weren't procedural shorthand like BK for 'break' or SK for 'end of transmission', and they weren't regular characters, either. To be honest, I had no more idea than the apprentices had, so I jotted them down and went to the shack to ask the Old Man if he knew.

Barely glancing at the paper, Marko simply stated “Cyrillic. That Rosh ship in the harbour must have a Marconi on board.”

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

Whilst I was asleep disaster struck. One of the tubes, a pentode, in the station receiver had popped. When I arrived in the shack to begin my watch, I found Marko and Robyn had hefted the spare regenerative receiver on to the bench. The lidless superheterodyne stood to one side, and I could see the empty socket where the burnt-out valve had been removed.

“Not a good watch, then?” I asked, and Marko just grunted, as though he didn't trust his vocabulary with anything more expressive.

“Just as well we have separates,” I added. “If that had been a transceiver we'd be silent key.”

“That's right, so you better treat that re-gen right or Lindsey will be signing off for the duration,” he growled, saying, without saying, that he didn't approve of me listening around of an evening. Needless to say, it's not good for a field station like ours to be forced to go silent key. Even as second operator, it still wouldn't reflect well on me or my prospects with the Service, although it would be the Old Man who'd really be in the firing line, of course. Like he'd care, he had his feet well under the bench and would be happy to serve out his time here just running the Linsey field station. He'd managed to get this posting back to his home patch, and seemed to have given up any idea of going for his Master's certificate. Me, well, I might not have settled on my speciality yet, and won't until I get back to the Tower to sit for the full ticket, but I didn't want to remain stuck in a remote outpost for my whole life.

“I'll get a new tube ordered tomorrow,” Marko stated.

“I can call up the Tower tonight,” I offered, but he waved it away.

“No need. I've got my regular report to send tomorrow, I'll do it all together. We can manage on the re-gen for a few days.”

The regenerative receiver was a little harder to tune than the super-het, but with a little tweaking it could be every bit as sensitive. It wasn't quite so easy to mesh with the transmitter, but with care it would be fine. What bothered me most was that Robyn wouldn't be able to get in his extra practice, but another thought crossed my mind, too. 

 

It took some wheedling, but I finally convinced the Old Man to let Robyn sit in on my night watch. Strictly, it was a bit early in his apprenticeship to be sitting in, but I reminded Marko that Robyn needed some extra help with his Morse, which was true enough, though not the true reason I wanted him there. 

 

The Old Man headed off to the living quarters and I pulled up an extra chair for Robyn. I couldn't be entirely sure of the frequency calibration between the two receivers, but I found the carrier from our transmitter where I expected so it all seemed good. Then I dialled up the frequency of the American broadcaster, willing the white noise to burst into something more exciting. I could have sworn there was something weak, so weak, deep down in the static. It can get you like that sometimes. Listen hard enough you can always hear voices in the noise, as if the wishing makes it true. More likely something in your head just fires off and turns the random sounds into an illusion just beyond perception. Or maybe there really are voices of long-dead radiomen echoing eternally through the ether, whispering secrets the living can never grasp.

I tapped my finger on the dial, and Robyn took the hint. He scribbled down a few numbers and started working his slide rule. Before long he had filled half the scratch pad with calculations. Conscientiously, he returned to the beginning, reworked the numbers and came out with the same answer, and only then did he nod to himself in satisfaction.

“I think we have enough to do it,” he offered. 

 

“Can you get started tomorrow? When the OM is busy?” I asked.

He flashed me an impish, conspiratorial grin. “Better than that. I can get it finished tomorrow, too.”

I doubt my grin was quite so impish, but it was every bit as wide as Robyn's had been, nonetheless.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

We had, of course, been over-optimistic. Without interruptions, all would have gone well, but a flurry of encrypts poured in the following morning, and the Old Man roused all the apprentices and had them running urgent messages back and forth to the the Portioners' Hall. Seeing as all the commotion had already woken me, I headed down to the shack myself.

It was a grey autumnal day, and the wind was beginning to bluster menacingly as ragged clouds chased away the remains of the fine weather of the preceding weeks. As I headed across the yard towards the shack, I nearly collided with a deputation from the Portioners' Hall. Their grey robes flapping in the squally breeze and their faces drawn, the Councillors squeezed into the cramped space of the shack, and I soon heard Marko grumbling at the intrusion. 

 

“No, you can't work in here! Now shush, I need to concentrate if you don't want your messages garbled,” I heard, and the Councillors started to back out of the doorway once more.

“Can I help you?” I offered. I wasn't sure who was the senior member of the party so I addressed an older Sister who was clutching a large, leather-bound book with pages marked by numerous coloured ribbons.

“Thank you, yes. Is there a room we can use? Your poor apprentices are worn out, and we need to turn the messages round faster. We thought if we could work on the decryption here, it would help all round.”

“Of course. You can use the workshop. There's a workbench there, but I'm afraid we don't have seats for you all.” I set our poor, worn-out apprentices to the task of clearing a space for the books and papers, and Robyn passed me a rueful glance, no doubt disappointed about the interruption to his project.

I was eager to see how the decryption system worked, but was gently but firmly invited to leave the room. All I saw was a table of figures and letters on the first page of the large book, and that wasn't really enough to satisfy my curiosity. Although I could hear muffled voices through the wooden door to the workshop, interspersed with occasional outbursts, I could get no sense of what was causing all the fuss. Message slips were passed in and out of the room, and now they no longer had to run to the Portioners' Hall and back, only one apprentice was required at each room to ferry the messages. All the outgoing messages were being sent all the way down to New Dumnonia, in the far south west, and it didn't take a great leap of imagination to link them to the recently departed fleet. However, the blocks of random-looking digits were as mute to me as they were portentous to the Councillors.

I left the twins running the messages between the two rooms, and sent Rachel and Robyn off to get some rest. Before I returned to my own bunk, I saw Robyn slip out into the yard, a coil of wire nonchalantly draped over his shoulder.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

By the time I returned for the evening watch, the OM had a drained look about him. 

 

“Good shift?” I asked, though not in any expectation of a positive reply.

“Mayhem,” he moaned. “It's calmed down now, though. The grey-robes have gone back to their Hall. I doubt it'll be so busy tonight, but you should keep one of the apprentices with you, just in case. How was Robyn last night, sitting in?”

“Good, we made some progress,” I conceded, careful not to specify what the progress had been.

“Fine. He can sit in again. I'll send him in after I've eaten.”

“You had time to order a new pentode?” I asked.

“Yes, but it will take a while. They've got no stock at the Tower, so we'll have to wait on the next convoy from Nuwinga.”

“But that could take weeks!”

“We'll just have to make do. Now I'm having an early night, my ears are ringing like a brothel's doorbell.”

There were no slips on the spike, so either the Old Man had kept on top of everything, or more likely, there just hadn't been any other traffic during the day besides the encrypts. I settled into the operating seat, and sat quietly listening to white noise whilst I waited for Robyn or the first string of di-di-di-dahs to emerge. The receiver won the race, and I took down the details of the next transshipment for Brother James as the Zetland station's night operator tapped out the details in that familiar Caledonian lilt of his.

I hadn't noticed Robyn slipping into the shack, but once I put my pencil down and spiked Brother James's slip I caught sight of him sitting beside me, sporting a grin as wide as the Umber.

“What?” I asked.

“Don't you want to try it out, then?”

“It's up?” I could barely contain my own excitement as the young apprentice nodded.

“Just hoisted it up the lanyard, and the feeder's ready to pull in through the hatch.”

In two minutes we had unscrewed the feeder from the main aerial and connected the new one, which was tuned to the American broadcaster's frequency. It wouldn't make a huge difference, but it could be just enough. A bit of directivity, a little bit of gain, and the new sloper could just be capable of dragging that elusive signal out of the noise and the static crashes.

We barely breathed for the next few minutes as we listened, willing the voices to appear and whisper their far flung secrets once more. It could have been my imagination, but I was sure the lightning crashes were less intrusive. Outside, the sky turned red as the sun sank below the horizon, then finally, with just a couple of minutes left before our next sked time, the speaker crackled to life. 

 

At first there was a barely detectable change in the noise, then the signal surged. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry as stirring music echoed pompously through the static. Drums and horns marched out of the speaker. It was a signal, but music could come from anywhere and it didn't help me identify the station. The gods of the ionosphere were playing with me, teasing and taunting my hopes, yet somehow I felt sure it was the same station I'd heard before. I just couldn't prove it. The tune seemed to be coming to some sort of a triumphant conclusion but our time was up, it was sked time. I couldn't pull the plug, though, the traffic would have to wait.

“Just one more minute,” I whispered to Robyn, as though there was any danger of us being overheard. The music crescendoed to an abrupt halt, and a heavily accented voice finally announced:

“This is Sisnaddi station...” 

 

What with Robyn's whoop of joy, my own astonishment and the phasing distortion caused by the fading, I didn't take in another word, but that didn't matter. I knew. 

 

But duty called. Robyn quickly switched the aerials back, whilst I retuned the receiver. We were a couple of minutes late, and of course there was traffic waiting for us. I tapped out the all clear, grabbed my pencil, and I can't remember the message I jotted down next. It seemed to drag on forever in my eagerness to tune back to the broadcaster, but eventually the traffic concluded. I signed off, spiked the slip, and sat back in my chair, still stunned.

Robyn leapt into action and swapped the aerials once again, but by the time we had the receiver back to the right spot, the signal had gone, not even a whisper in the background any more. The cloud that shouldn't have been there had gone away again. But it was true. The impossible was possible, even if only for a few minutes.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

The storm brewing out at sea was as nothing compared to the fury that was unleashed in the shack come morning.

“What the blazes is that thing on the mast?” bellowed the Old Man. “And how did it get there without my say-so?”

“It's just a dipole,” I ventured, but that seemed to enrage him even further.

“Do you think I can't see that, Denny?” His face flushed an alarming shade of crimson and his eyes flashed with rage as they bore into me. 

 

Robyn seemed to shrink into himself, trying to make himself invisible. It didn't work, and Marko turned to the apprentice. “Get those slips delivered, I'll deal with you later.”

There was a tense silence as Robyn pulled the slips off the spike and rushed out of the door. The onslaught continued as soon as Marko and I were alone.

“I want an explanation! What do you think you're playing at? Who runs this station, Denny, you or me?”

I was taken aback by the scale of Marko's anger. I had realised he wouldn't be pleased, but hadn't expected this outburst.

“Sorry, Marko, you're the First Operator,” I said quietly.

“Yes, Denny! I am the First Operator, and nothing goes on that mast unless I put it there, do you understand?”

I nodded.

“Tell me you're not still chasing this silly idea about signals from America,” he rumbled, and my silence proved my guilt. “Oh, you stupid fool! Not only have you gone behind my back, and used Radio Service resources without permission, you've also compromised the station's efficiency. That thing of yours will detune the main antenna, who knows what traffic you've missed? Did you think of that?”

“The doublet still loads up fine,” I explained.

“Not good enough, Denny. It might still match, but that's no guarantee it still radiates so well. You should know this by now. Get out of my sight! Take it down now, and consider yourself confined to quarters until I decide what to do with you.”

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

It didn't take the Old Man very long to decide what to do with me. It was like a whirlwind, and I had barely enough time to think or say my goodbyes before he hustled me down to the harbour and boarded onto a hastily arranged transit back to the mainland, destined for the Tower. Robyn was distraught as he helped lug my bags down to the waterfront.

“I can't believe he's doing this, Denny,” he whispered, for what seemed like the hundredth time since we'd left the station. “What am I going to do?”

“Just keep your head down and your nose clean. He's already got another Second coming over, he told me. I just wish I could meet her beforehand, let her know how good you are.”

“What's going to happen to you, though?” he asked.

“I really don't know. There'll be a disciplinary hearing. He's filed his report, and I won't know what he's told them until I get there and have to answer his charges. For now, I want you to keep practising your Morse, get Rachel to help you if you can. It won't be long before both of you are eligible to come to the Tower for your Second's exam, and hopefully I'll see you both there.”

Robyn stood disconsolately on the quay watching my ship ease out into the channel, the careful strokes of the oarsmen steering the small, clinker-built ship into the waves. The crossing was rough, and by the time we'd reached the Serpent's Head Gap I was truly thankful that my breakfast had been light. The ship's navigator joined me at the stern when he saw me clutching the rail.

“You'll be right as rain once we're through the gap,” he said.

“Good to know,” I replied, my throat dry despite my mouth watering unpleasantly.

“That won't be long, we have the tide with us.” He gestured with one hand towards the water streaming through the Gap. The stumpy ruins emerging from the water here formed the Serpent's horns, as seen from Lindsey island. I could just make out the lookout post perched atop one of the crumbled stone towers that had once belonged to an ancient temple, long stripped of its valuable metals.

The navigator's prognosis was correct, and once we entered the Trent Straits and the familiar coastline of home loomed on the southern horizon, my stomach was settled. I returned to the bench, determined to enjoy the rest of the journey, but I couldn't stop my mind churning over the ordeal that was bound to be waiting for me at the Tower.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

When I had left the Tower all those months before, with my freshly-signed Second Operator's Certificate tucked into my pocket, I had had to walk the few miles to the port to take ship to Linsey. On my return, I was shocked to find my old instructor waiting for me on the quay, a pony and trap beside her.

“Emily! I wasn't expecting anyone to meet me,” I said.

“The Council didn't want you to take all day getting up the hill,” she explained as I boosted my bags into the waiting vehicle. “Welcome back, though I wish the circumstances might have been different.”

My heart sank at this recognition of my shameful return. “Same here. I suppose I'm in bit of a spot, huh?”

“I'm not supposed to discuss that with you, Denny, not until you've been before the Panel.”

That didn't sound good. I had some idea, but still wasn't sure exactly what Marko had reported when he'd sent me away.

“How did you like Linsey?” Emily asked, saving me the trouble of changing the subject.

“It's a strange place,” I admitted, “and I won't miss all the fish.”

“And Marko?”

“I got the impression he just wants a quiet life, hiding away in the backwaters.”

“It's hardly surprising.”

“How do you mean?”

“After his previous posting. He was with the Paris delegation.”

I hadn't heard all the details, but the stories I had heard sent a shiver down my spine. The negotiations had gone well enough, the promise of trade and mutual aid between the islands and the Emirate had capitalised on the rifts between the continental powers. Paris wanted more influence over its neighbours, the islands wanted the Arab pirates cleared from their southern shores. Common cause forged an uneasy friendship between these enemies of mutual enemies. The deal was done, the delegation set off to return home, but the pirates hadn't been cleared from the Channel in time to save them.

“So Marko was one of the survivors?”

Emily nodded. “Yes. But his wife wasn't.”

“He never told me any of this. Not that I blame him for that.” I could even understand his lack of enthusiasm, his going through the motions. Letting me carry most of the responsibilities at the station. Until I hoisted a sloper to chase dreams and ionised clouds across the sky.

The conversation faltered after that, because we couldn't talk about those things uppermost in both our minds. I quietly watched the familiar landscape rolling past at a pony's pace. We skirted the farms and woodlots, heaths and scattered villages that stretched out along the gravelled roadway as we headed ever upwards into the hills. Finally the tips of the masts pierced the skyline one by one, but the filigree of wires strung between them remained obscured by distance. Then the Tower itself peeked over the brow of the hill, silhouetted against pink sunset clouds in a darkening sky. Ten storeys of ancient concrete loomed over the landscape, ringed at its base by a cluster of more recent buildings added over the centuries to accommodate the extra workshops and student quarters that became necessary as the Service regrouped and gathered together those driven individuals dedicated to preserving and rediscovering the ancient arts of the radiomen.

Our trap rolled between the buildings and pulled up before the wide doorway at the base of the Tower. We jumped down and were greeted by two burly stewards, who led me away to one of the accommodation blocks, as Emily warned me to be ready for the Disciplinary Panel first thing in the morning.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

In a single day the whole Earth turns about its axis, yet we are often surprised at how much can change in that short time.

When I awoke in the once-familiar surroundings of the Tower's student accommodation, I had my first proper breakfast in months, and I savoured the eggs and coarse, filling bread. I was ready to face almost anything, except a disciplinary hearing.

I was led into the boardroom where the Grandmaster and two other Master Radiomen were waiting for me, sitting behind a long wooden table. An empty, hard-backed chair stood in the centre of the room, and a nod from the Grandmaster indicated that I should seat myself there. The chair was low, and I felt at a disadvantage looking up into the expressionless faces of my superiors.

Emily settled into another chair at one end of the table, pencil and notebook before her, to take minutes, I guessed.

The Grandmaster cleared her throat before speaking. “Denzil Ronson, you have been brought before this Disciplinary Panel to answer charges of … “ She paused to glance down at the papers before her. “Charges of sabotage, insubordination and dereliction of duty at the Linsey Field Station. How do you plead?”

“What!?” I cried, despite myself.

“Guilty or not guilty will suffice, radioman.”

“Not guilty, of course. It's ridiculous.”

The Grandmaster peered seriously over the top of her heavy, half-moon eyeglasses, then slipped her gaze back behind the lenses to scan the papers before her once more.

“Do you deny then that you repeatedly neglected to monitor the traffic frequency according to the prescribed Station Schedule Chart?”

“I was slightly late, but only twice,” I countered.

“So you don't deny the charge, then. Do you deny interfering with the station configuration without the First Operator's permission and compromising the efficiency of the station antenna system?”

“Yes! Well, no, not exactly. It wasn't like that,” I replied, damning myself with my own words.

One of the other Master Radiomen chimed in to the questioning.

“How was it then? Exactly.”

“I had heard an anomalous signal, a broadcaster that sounded American.” That caught their attention, surprise clear on every face. My three inquisitors huddled together and whispered amongst themselves for a while.

“What made you think it might be American?” asked the Grandmaster.

“The accent. It was really difficult. And this.” I reached into my pocket to retrieve the message slip that I had guarded since the strange voice had emerged from the noise. The Grandmaster took it from me and peered at the words through thick glass then passed it to each of her colleagues in turn.

“It's hardly conclusive,” one of them commented.

“No, it's not,” I conceded. “That's why I had to find out more. I listened as long as I could, waiting for some station identification. By the time I tuned back to the traffic frequency I was late for the sked, I'm afraid.”

The Grandmaster frowned at this. “You were using the main receiver, not the back-up?”

“Yes, originally, but it was the back up after the main receiver went down.”

“I'm sorry. I don't understand. Do you mean you were using your back-up for traffic?”

“Yes, we had to once the tube blew, but the First Operator had requested a new pentode for the super-het.”

There was more muttering between the Masters, and the one to the left of the Grandmaster shook his head vigorously before speaking.

“I can assure you that he has done no such thing.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “But he told me that it was on order, that you couldn't send one on because a shipment hadn't arrived.”

“Why would we need to wait for a shipment when we have ample stocks here?” he replied. “We run a tighter ship than that. If Marko had sent a request he would have had a replacement within days.”

The Grandmaster made a few notes, but there was a look of disquiet on her face now.

“Well, moving on,” she said. “Why did you sabotage the antenna?”

“We didn't!”

“We?”

I cursed myself. I hadn't meant to reveal Robyn's role, but it was too late now.

“I had one of the apprentices run a sloper up the mast, to see if I could improve reception on the broadcaster, but it was entirely on my initiative. Marko saw it in the morning and flew off the handle, said it would detune the main antenna, if that's what he means by sabotage. Anyway, it worked.”

“How so?”

“We heard the broadcaster again, and this time I got a firm identification.”

“You realise this should have been reported to the Propagation Study Group. Why wasn't it?”

“I had told the Old ... the First Operator. But he wasn't interested, wouldn't believe me, so I doubt he'd bother to report it. And he sent me here almost straight away.” 

 

Something in the room changed then. The questions turned from my culpability to the subject of the signals I had heard. Could I remember the date and time? What was the fading like? What was the firm identification? How long were the openings? What was the exact frequency?

The Grandmaster turned to Emily then, saying “Could you find Master Gerard, and ask him to come through?”

I sat in an uncomfortable silence for a short while, feeling my buttocks going numb on the hard seat, but Master Gerard soon appeared and looked over the details the Grandmaster had noted down. Their conversation was muted and I strained to hear what they were saying.

“Well, the times match, Grandmaster,” Gerard said, standing up straight to stretch his cricked back. “And the locations would be consistent. Do we have charts in here? I can sketch it out for you.”

The Grandmaster sent Emily out of the room again and this time she returned with with a sheaf of maps and other papers. The conversation was soon flying high above my head, with talk about soundings and critical frequencies and scatter points. This was obviously something Masters study that I hadn't learnt yet. All I could follow was the sense of excitement flowing between the older radiomen. I sat back and watched whilst they worked. They pored over the tables, pumped slide rules energetically, and began drawing elegant curves over the maps before them. The activity came to an abrupt end, and the Grandmaster spun one of the charts around to face me. 

 

“Denzil,” she said. “I am minded to dismiss the charges that have been brought against you, given the value of your observation which has confirmed some other anomalous data over the past week or two. You, young man, have made the first confirmed observation of transatlantic propagation in over two hundred years.”

“I have?”

“You have. And in my book, that adds up to significant self-training rather than sabotage, insubordination and dereliction of duty. Your instinct was correct in following this up, and you have made a significant contribution to our knowledge.”

So that was the verdict recorded by the Disciplinary Panel and I felt the tension drain from me.

“Now, Denny,” she continued, finally dropping my formal name, “What is the core ethic of the Radio Service?”

“Confidentiality,” I replied without hesitation.

“Exactly. This knowledge doesn't leave this room, understood?”

I nodded.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

We paused for lunch, and I was more than happy to wrap myself around a steaming bowl of stew with some excellent stodgy dumplings. Just the sort of food I had missed so much in Linsey, and just the thing for the shortening autumn days. Even better, it was accompanied by some proper ale instead of the thin acidic wine that was so popular on the island. Everyone from the hearing was seated at one of the long refectory tables, and I was chatting with Emily about my time in Linsey when the Grandmaster's ear picked up on our conversation.

“You were teaching the Morse classes for the apprentices at Linsey?” she asked, incredulously.

I nodded, wondering where this was leading.

“Why was that?”

“Marko said he didn't want to pass on his bad habits.”

“Hmm. You realise he's one of our best Morse operatives?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I'm beginning to think we recalled the wrong operator. What other duties did he pass off on to you?”

I was torn between my lingering loyalty to a man who had mentored me, however reluctantly, for those few months, and my resentment at having been subjected to my first and only taste of disciplinary action. I chewed slowly on my dumpling as I thought, then admitted to writing up verbatims for him, too. The Grandmaster didn't look pleased, but she didn't follow up. 

 

Master Gerard, who I had discovered headed the Propagation Study Group, pointed his spoon in my direction and asked whether there were any other anomalous signals I'd observed that he should know about.

“No, there's nothing else that stands out. The only other thing out of the ordinary was a Rosh ship that was in harbour,” I replied.

Gerard suddenly laughed out loud, and his mirth seemed to affect the other Masters, too.

“Now, I bet Marko let you handle the courtesy visit! Vashe zdorovye!” he cried, and suddenly gulped down his cup of ale for no apparent reason.

My confusion must have been written on my face.

“What? No courtesy call?” he asked. “The Rosh are sticklers for that. They always check in with the local station when they're in port.”

“I don't recall any visit,” I replied, still a bit baffled.

“It's not something you'd forget. You know when a Rosh Marconi turns up at your door with a bottle of vodka and won't leave until it's empty, believe me.”

Before we could delve into the mystery of the shy Marconi, our lunch was interrupted by rapid footsteps which came to a halt in the middle of the refectory. One of the stewards looked around the room before spotting the Grandmaster.

“Grandmaster, the observers have been picking up a lot of distress calls, can you come to the listening post?”

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

The scene in the listening post was chaotic. Banks of super-heterodyne receivers were lined up in cubicles and a team of six operators were jotting down messages and passing them along to the clerks at the far end of the room. The space was warm with the heat of glowing valves, and it was strangely quiet, for all of the listeners were wearing headphones. Master Gerard had obviously taken a shine to me, for he had dragged me along with the party headed for the tenth floor.

The equipment in this room looked far more sophisticated than any I had used or trained on before, and I would have loved to get my hands on it and put it through its paces. Yet it was clear from the rack-mounted chassis and battery stacks that they would be far too bulky and complex for field use. I eyed all the pre-selectors, variable beat oscillators and fine-tuning dials with a rueful covetousness, and knew the basic super-heterodyne and regenerative receivers issued to field stations would forever feel crude and clunky.

It soon became clear that Arab pirates had raided almost the entire length of the east coast, and polities from the Fowker Islands to Umbra and beyond were exchanging heated communiques, accusation and counter-accusation flying back and forth. How could the raiders, normally so wary, have known the fleets were reduced to skeleton strength, their main force deployed to the west coast, too distant to respond? People and livestock had been spirited away, fishing vessels scuttled and farmsteads burnt to the ground. Amidst all the acrimony, it was proving impossible for the polities to mount a combined response and were being picked off one at a time. 

 

As I pieced together the tragedy that was unfolding, I realised that one station was absent from the roster. Nothing had come in from Linsey. I thought of Robyn and Rachel, Matt and Freja, imagined them... no, I couldn't imagine, refused to imagine what might have befallen them if Westport had been overrun. 

 

I turned to Master Gerard. “There's nothing from Linsey. What if...” I couldn't go on.

He shook his head. “Westport's well defended, you know that. The walls, the spit. Pirates couldn't get in past the batteries.” He was right, of course. It didn't depend on the fleet alone. The harbour was well sheltered, at the head of a narrow channel overlooked on either side by brass cannon. It was the east coast that was most vulnerable. Even so, I wasn't comfortable having heard nothing.

The first positive news that arrived was from Zetland, which the pirates had not reached. A Rosh flotilla had set sail, heading southwards to escort a convoy from the entrepôt. It must have been the same convoy that was scheduled to bring the consignment for Brother James. I just hoped he was still alive to receive it, for Eastport was not as secure as Westport. If the pirates were still heading up the coast they would turn tail at the first sight of the heavy Rosh warships, I was sure.

Still there was no news from Linsey, and as the clock approached the top of the hour, I could bear the silence no longer. “Master Gerard, I'm really worried about Linsey. Can we call them?”

“Come with me,” he replied, and led me out of the listening post, and down to another room a couple of floors below.

I was seated with the station key in my hand just as the hour struck, and I had the strange experience of calling the station callsign I had been using for the past few months. There was no reply, and I called once more. As I waited for a signal to come back, I smiled wryly, thinking of the time I had kept the Zetland operator waiting as I was transfixed by the American broadcast. 

 

I called again. This time there was a signal, but the Morse was painfully slow, hesitant almost. The exchange of callsigns dragged on for what seemed an age. It clearly wasn't Marko's fist. I got the all clear, finally, and when I replied I slowed down my own sending to match speed with the unknown operator on the far end. I asked the first question on my mind. 

 

- Who is that?

- Robyn

- This is Denny. Where is Marko?

- Missing

- Where is OP2?

- Not here yet

- What is happening?

- Nothing

- No pirates?

- No

- Warn grey robes pirates coming. Find Marko. OK?

- OK

When I signed off, I could feel cold sweat trickling between my shoulder blades, and my hand was shaking on the key. 

 

“I think we'd better speak to the Grandmaster,” Gerard said behind me. I agreed.

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

“Perhaps he's gone to help his family?” Emily suggested. “He is from Linsey, after all.”

“I don't believe he'd abandon his post,” the Grandmaster insisted once more. “And as Denny told us, there's no sign or news of pirates in Westport.”

“Yet,” I cautioned. “Meanwhile, we have a field station manned entirely by apprentices. I should get back there. Someone should, anyway.”

“Yes, but I don't want to risk another ship right now. Not until we know where Grettir has got to. With pirates on the prowl, anything could have happened. We don't want to lose you, too, Denny. There's far too many operators going missing.”

The group fell silent. We were going round in circles, and still nothing was decided.

“Oh, ye gods!” one of the Masters suddenly exclaimed, as though struck by a sudden insight. “Denny, you remember that Rosh ship we were talking about?”

“Yes? What about it?”

“They never skip the courtesy call. Never. Can you recall the Cyrillic characters your apprentices heard?”

I could, and recited them for him. Dah-dah-dah-dah, di-di-dah-di-dit, dah-dah-dah-dit.

“And it was Marko who told you it was Cyrillic, I suppose? You realise those Morse characters are also used in Arabic?”

“What are you suggesting?” the Grandmaster asked, pulling her glasses off and scrutinising the other Master closely.

“I'm not sure. But I'm wondering why Marko only mentioned Cyrillic to Denny. Remember why he was chosen for the Paris mission?”

Ashen-faced, the Grandmaster whispered, “He was the interpreter.”

─ ∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─

For the second time in as many days, I found myself hastily bundled on to a ship, this time crossing back towards Linsey. Shortly before I departed on my return journey, Grettir had arrived at the field station and reported back to the Tower, having been delayed by a long detour around the Serpent's Back to evade a roving pirate. Marko was still missing, but Robyn had successfully repaired the super-het receiver after finding the perfectly serviceable pentode that Marko had hidden in his own quarters.

I had barely had time to meet Grettir and greet the apprentices once more before the grey robes appeared at the station. I was bone tired from the crossing, but my journey wasn't over.

“We think Marko has been found,” one of the Brothers told me.

“Where is he?”

“A fishing village a couple of kilometres south of Eastport.”

We rode in a cloud of silence, and a small huddle of villagers and militiamen were waiting for us at the water's edge. We dismounted and picked out a route across the mudflat, keeping to the tracks left by the locals. The bodies had both had their throats slit so deeply the heads were nearly severed.

“That's Marko,” I said, and turned to the woman's body beside his. Although she was dressed in a heavily blood-stained Arab shawl, her complexion was the same as Marko's.

“And that's his wife,” the Brother beside me added.

“So she hadn't been dead. That's the hold they had on him. She's the only one he didn't betray.”

Back at the station, I had to report the news to the Tower: MARKO HENDERS OP1 GLNSI SK

Silent key.

End of transmission.

∙ ∙ ∙ ─ ∙ ─