Diamond
July 26th, 2004, 06:28 AM
This is the start of my Kirghiz story.
_____________________________
It is a little before four in the afternoon in Samarkand, capital of the Khaganate of Kirghiz. In the south, in the Hindiri and Tienshi mountain ranges, steam-powered trolleys pick their way along steel tracks spanning the gaps between peaks, bearing commuters from their day jobs in the vast cities of the plains below to their homes in the mountain suburbs. Beyond the mountains lay the dry deserts of the Border States – tribal dictatorships for the most part. Far too many of them owe allegiance to the fanatical Vijayanagara Empire, whose lands surround the Indian Ocean like a tumor.
In the east are further extensions of the Tienshis, blending into the Sayan, Nagor, and other ranges which line the land like wrinkles in a blanket, all the way to the Pacific Ocean.
To the north, along the shores of Lake Balkhash, the ancient farming plantations, some of which had been working the fertile soil for three centuries and more, begin to slow down from the day’s hectic pace. The evening bells in the temples will begin their gentle tolling soon, and the farmers, those who are religious men, will file in to hear the chants of the Buddhist priests.
Farther north are the endless plains, windswept and raw. Shallow lakes and rivers pepper the steppe, and between are the fields of the Khaganate Air Corps, where stately airships rove like sky-bound whales amid the flitting forms of fighter planes. Spread far and wide across the steppe are hundreds of towns and villages, many of which made a tidy profit catering to the needs of the air bases.
In the west is the salty Aral Sea, laying like a teardrop upon the land. Further on is the mighty Caspian, and beyond that is the province of Caucasia where, every day, millions of gallons of oil flow up from the earth like black blood.
The people of Kirghiz are a handsome folk, with bronze skin, inky black hair, and strong, wide-cheeked features. They can trace their lineage back to many different steppe tribes, from many different places across the continent. But tribal ties do not bear the importance they once did; they haven’t for a very long time. More important by far is pride in one’s nation, in the Khaganate, and in his majesty, Uzmur IV. Long years of plague and warfare have made it so.
In the capital, ancient Samarkand, the Khagan’s government ticks along at its stately pace. Centuries-old marble palaces, tombs, and museums dot the landscape. Near the Imperial Residence is the fifty-foot statue of Uzmur the Great, father of the Kirghiz Khaganate. The world-renowned Grazdhiy Baths occupies a whole city block on Gommor Street. The Botanical Gardens and the National Museum bookend the Baths, and across the street lies the Hall of Government, the beating heart of the city.
In this 250 year-old structure of stone and iron, graceful columns and stained-glass windows, the work of governing the nation goes on. Thousands of men and women work in its drafty halls, but on this day only a few scattered souls shuttle back and forth. It is Peaceday, the seventh and last day of the week, the last of two days of rest. In the morning, the workers will file back to their jobs, but for now the stately Hall is quiet.
All across the Khaganate, things are quiet. Families grill steppe elk steaks for their Peaceday evening barbeques. Netball matches are in progress on athletic fields across the nation, and in the bars and gambling dens, men with sweaty palms and greedy hearts lay their wagers on the outcomes. Children fly kites and chase their dogs through tree-lined streets.
It will all change in minutes.
Thousands of citizens will die, and thousands more will disappear forever, lost in the labyrinth of space and time.
It will all change in seconds.
_____________________________
It is a little before four in the afternoon in Samarkand, capital of the Khaganate of Kirghiz. In the south, in the Hindiri and Tienshi mountain ranges, steam-powered trolleys pick their way along steel tracks spanning the gaps between peaks, bearing commuters from their day jobs in the vast cities of the plains below to their homes in the mountain suburbs. Beyond the mountains lay the dry deserts of the Border States – tribal dictatorships for the most part. Far too many of them owe allegiance to the fanatical Vijayanagara Empire, whose lands surround the Indian Ocean like a tumor.
In the east are further extensions of the Tienshis, blending into the Sayan, Nagor, and other ranges which line the land like wrinkles in a blanket, all the way to the Pacific Ocean.
To the north, along the shores of Lake Balkhash, the ancient farming plantations, some of which had been working the fertile soil for three centuries and more, begin to slow down from the day’s hectic pace. The evening bells in the temples will begin their gentle tolling soon, and the farmers, those who are religious men, will file in to hear the chants of the Buddhist priests.
Farther north are the endless plains, windswept and raw. Shallow lakes and rivers pepper the steppe, and between are the fields of the Khaganate Air Corps, where stately airships rove like sky-bound whales amid the flitting forms of fighter planes. Spread far and wide across the steppe are hundreds of towns and villages, many of which made a tidy profit catering to the needs of the air bases.
In the west is the salty Aral Sea, laying like a teardrop upon the land. Further on is the mighty Caspian, and beyond that is the province of Caucasia where, every day, millions of gallons of oil flow up from the earth like black blood.
The people of Kirghiz are a handsome folk, with bronze skin, inky black hair, and strong, wide-cheeked features. They can trace their lineage back to many different steppe tribes, from many different places across the continent. But tribal ties do not bear the importance they once did; they haven’t for a very long time. More important by far is pride in one’s nation, in the Khaganate, and in his majesty, Uzmur IV. Long years of plague and warfare have made it so.
In the capital, ancient Samarkand, the Khagan’s government ticks along at its stately pace. Centuries-old marble palaces, tombs, and museums dot the landscape. Near the Imperial Residence is the fifty-foot statue of Uzmur the Great, father of the Kirghiz Khaganate. The world-renowned Grazdhiy Baths occupies a whole city block on Gommor Street. The Botanical Gardens and the National Museum bookend the Baths, and across the street lies the Hall of Government, the beating heart of the city.
In this 250 year-old structure of stone and iron, graceful columns and stained-glass windows, the work of governing the nation goes on. Thousands of men and women work in its drafty halls, but on this day only a few scattered souls shuttle back and forth. It is Peaceday, the seventh and last day of the week, the last of two days of rest. In the morning, the workers will file back to their jobs, but for now the stately Hall is quiet.
All across the Khaganate, things are quiet. Families grill steppe elk steaks for their Peaceday evening barbeques. Netball matches are in progress on athletic fields across the nation, and in the bars and gambling dens, men with sweaty palms and greedy hearts lay their wagers on the outcomes. Children fly kites and chase their dogs through tree-lined streets.
It will all change in minutes.
Thousands of citizens will die, and thousands more will disappear forever, lost in the labyrinth of space and time.
It will all change in seconds.