The port of Gravewake did not sleep; it kept watch, an entity that ceaselessly digested. The fog was not a guest, but a byproduct of its process—a mix of hot steam from wooden ship boilers, thick smoke from coal-burning steamers, and the heavy sea mist in the cold air. The result was an industrial, oily, yellowish-gray fog that descended systematically, clinging to every surface with a slick, damp layer. It shrouded the cargo stacks, the towering wooden frames of cranes, and the unusually calm North Boreal sea beyond. The sky vanished, replaced by a blanket of vapor that reflected the dim light from swinging fish-oil lanterns, creating blurred, swaying halos of light.
At the end of Pier Seven, a structure of ironwood darkened to pitch black by tar and time, a man named Vason Sascur took notes. The wood beneath his sturdy boots creaked in a particular way—not a dry crack, but like a moist bone. Its fracture pattern formed channels and nodules that reminded him of flow diagrams from ancient machine manuscripts, or maps of vascular systems from preserved biological specimens. The smell here was complex sensory data: sea salt modified by acid from fish canneries, soot from steam engines, ship lubricant oil, and beneath it all, a deep, decaying organic aroma from the biomass perpetually processed by the port—fish, seaweed, and other things discarded from berthed ships.
He pulled a journal from inside his worn leather coat. Its cover was clad in dull black-dyed cowhide, devoid of inscription or marker. Inside, the pages were filled with sketches, cross-referenced tables, and notes in a private code. He opened it to the back, where a sheet of thin parchment was pasted. On it, drawn in steady iron-gall ink, was a symbol: a concentric circle intersected by three parallel lines radiating from its center, with a series of small, unevenly spaced dots along its circumference. Beneath it, in Vason's tight, angular handwriting, was written: "Marker for Vessel-class. Observed on hull of whaling ship 'Keldra's Mourn,' logged in Third Registry. Correlation: ship reported missing with all hands fourteen days after docking at Gravewake. If this symbol is observed on an active vessel's hull, do not inquire about its purpose. Do not interact with the crew. Report sighting to Section Head via secure channel. Assume cognitive contamination."
He closed the journal and observed the ship moored before him.
The ship was technically a bark of about eight hundred tons. Its hull was made of dark, possibly ironwood logs, held together by large copper nails. What was wrong, directly and verifiably, was the absence of identifying information. No painted name, no carved figurehead, no port of registry displayed. The spaces for these were empty, but not because they had been removed—the wood surface in those areas was smooth and flush with the rest of the hull, suggesting no inscription or carving had ever been applied since its construction. This was not an oversight; it was a feature.
Around the waterline, and along all reachable parts of the hull from the deck, were carvings. These were not sailor's decorations or graffiti. They were deep, made with a sharp chisel, forming interconnected geometric patterns. The patterns resembled technical diagrams for an unknown device—interlocking parts, channels, and nodes. Some areas showed lighter wood color at the base of the grooves, indicating recent cutting or ongoing maintenance. The carvings did not follow the flow of the ship's hull; they were cut against the wood grain, creating a disquieting visual effect that disrupted the perception of the ship's depth and shape.
An old man stood by a bollard post, holding a thick hempen mooring line. He wore a slicker that had once been part of a Royal Navy uniform, now patched with fish skin and stained by oil and tar. Its edges were adorned with badges and medals that had lost their luster, leaving only dull metal. He did not turn as Vason approached.
"You're the translator from the Archive," the old man said, a statement, not a question. His voice was hoarse, roughened by years of engine smoke and sea air.
"Yes," Vason replied. "Vason Sascur, from the Glossary Division."
"Glossary," the old man uttered, repeating the word as if tasting it. "You give names to things that shouldn't be spoken. You chart currents that shouldn't be sailed." He finally turned. His eyes were a pale blue, the membranes red and inflamed. "So you know what those symbols mean. You know this ship wasn't built to return."
Vason put his journal away. He observed a corner of the deck where a crew member stood motionless, shouldering something long and thin that might be a naval musket or a harpoon spear. "Every ship is documented in a registry. Every voyage leaves a paper trail—cargo permits, crew lists, logbooks. Even if the ship is lost, its trace remains. The Archive isn't concerned about return; the Archive is concerned with the record."
The old man laughed, his voice like a rusted door hinge. "You still think this is about paper. Your archives are a warehouse for dead men's dreams. This ship has no permit because it needs none. Its crew isn't logged because they aren't entities that can be registered. Its voyage has no logbook because its destination isn't a place, it's a condition." He spat into the stagnant water between the dock and the hull. His spittle was black. "This is a processor boat, Lad. Not a transporter."
A rope ladder, consisting of wooden rungs tied to rails, was lowered from the ship's gunwale. It fell with a loud thump, landing on the dock. Each rung swayed, emitting a creaking sound from the rope friction.
Vason climbed. The rope in his hands was coarse and damp. As he reached the top of the gunwale and stepped onto the deck, a sudden change in the environment was palpable. The sounds of the port—the roar of steam engines, shouts, bell clangs—suddenly muted, as if he had entered an acoustic bubble. The deck was unnervingly clean, devoid of piled nets, barrels, or ordinary baggage. Its surface was level, covered in finely planed wood, with hatches sealed shut.
A door to the aft superstructure opened, and a man emerged. He wore a long, practical blue-gray greatcoat, not a traditional captain's uniform. His hat was made of the same material, with a wide brim that shadowed his eyes. The man—the Captain—stood stiffly, hands behind his back.
"Vason Sascur of the Glossary," the Captain said. His voice was flat, hoarse yet clear. "You have been submitted for verification."
"Verification of what?" Vason asked. He kept his hands visible, away from his belt where his clasp knife was tucked.
"Verification of your capability. The Glossary claims to possess individuals who can process these patterns. Not just translate, but understand their logic flow, decipher their grammar." The Captain took a step forward. Light from a fish-oil lantern hanging on the mainmast caught the lower part of his face, revealing a clean-shaven chin and a pale scar extending from the corner of his mouth down his jawline. "Are you capable?"
"I am capable of analyzing symbolic patterns and matching them to existing catalogs," Vason answered. "I can identify probable origins and intents based on historical context and reports."
"That is reading," said the Captain. "That is the activity of a scholar observing a system. My question is: can you become part of the system? Can you accept input and produce output conforming to its parameters without requiring conscious translation?" He turned. "Follow."
He led the way through the door, down a steep wooden staircase into the ship's belly. The lighting changed from the yellow glow of lanterns to the dim light of oil lamps placed in wall niches. The air grew warmer and stuffier, smelling of kerosene, damp wood, and something else—like ozone before a storm. They passed through narrow corridors with wooden walls lined with sea charts drawn on animal hides, some showing unorthodox current lines, others displaying symbols similar to those on the hull. The constant creak of the ship's timbers sounded, as if it were alive.
They entered a room. This room lay deep below the waterline, at the center of the hull. There were no portholes. The only light source came from a large oil lamp hanging above a table, casting an unnatural, smokeless yellow-green light. In the center of the room, resting on a heavy wooden table bolted to the floor, was a configuration of objects.
To the left: the skull of a sea creature. Its bone was chalky white, but its structure did not match any known vertebrate anatomy. A ring of five eye sockets surrounded a single nasal hole in the center. Its jaw consisted of several overlapping bone plates, toothless, but with surfaces like smooth grindstones. On the forehead, just above the central eye socket, the same symbol from Vason's journal was deeply carved and filled with tar or a dense black substance.
To the right: an hourglass, about thirty centimeters tall. Its frame was intricately carved from dark wood, possibly ebony. Its bulbs contained pitch-black sand. However, the sand flowed from the lower bulb to the upper bulb, against gravity, at a constant, measured pace. No visible mechanism facilitated this movement.
In the center: a large volume, bound in a leather that looked rubbery and dark, like tanned sharkskin. Its cover was blank. As Vason observed, he saw that the leather seemed to fuse at the edges, with no opening or stitching; the book was a solid block of bound material.
Another man stood behind the table. He was younger than the Captain, with neatly braided hair, wearing a simple linen shirt. He held a clipboard with a sheet of parchment, noting something with a pen. He did not look up.
"This is the interface," the Captain said, referring to the configuration on the table. "The skull is the sensor. The hourglass is the process timer. The book is the data accumulator. The patterns you saw on the ship's hull are the external circuitry. The patterns in the engine room are the internal circuitry. This ship is a device, Sascur. It performs a function. That function requires input from someone who can interact with this interface at an instinctive level. Someone whose thought patterns have been... shaped... by deep exposure to Archive material. A true Translator."
Vason approached the table. He felt a tightening in his chest, not from fear, but from recognition. He had seen sketches of such bones in classified Arkival expedition journals, in sections labeled "Oddities, Category: Deep-Sea Forms, Possibly Non-Living or Dead." He had read alchemical theories about reversed time flow in confined spaces. The unopenable book reminded him of reports on "bound artifacts" found in certain wrecks—objects that resisted examination but were known to emit extreme "cold auras."
"This isn't about reciting an incantation," Vason said, more to himself than to the Captain. "It's about being a component. You want the sensory input from these artifacts to be processed by my mind and produce a physical or verbal response that can then be used as control data for the ship."
"Precisely," said the Captain, a note of almost emotionless approval in his flat voice. "Reading yields interpretation. Interpretation is noise. We require pure reaction. Language is a system too contaminated by self-awareness. These symbols are machine language. You have been exposed in the Archive long enough that your thought pathways can run some of this code."
"What happens if I agree?"
"You will remain in this room for the voyage's duration. You will be exposed to stimuli from the interface. Your behavior, your speech, your physiological output will be monitored. That data will steer the ship, determine voyage duration, and regulate processing activity."
"Processing of what?"
The Captain paused. "The North Boreal sea contains vast amounts of data," he finally said. "Data in the form of tidal patterns, deep-sea creature songs, compass variations. Ordinary ships ignore it. This ship collects it. It filters, refines, and condenses it. The product is stored in the accumulator." He nodded toward the book. "Your land-bound archives are museums. This archive is a living, breathing organism."
"And if I refuse?"
"You are free to leave," said the Captain. "But you have seen the interface. You have seen the circuitry. These patterns now exist in your memory. They will propagate. Within weeks or months, you will begin to see them in shadows, in patterns of stone or wood. You will speak them in your sleep. You will draw the attention of other things that respond to that frequency. It is safer to remain within the shielded vessel."
Vason looked at the skull. Within its eye sockets, he saw small flashes of light, like brief blue fireflies. It might have been a reflection from the oil lamp, or perhaps something else. He thought of his own note, his own warning: "Assume cognitive contamination." Contamination had occurred. He had been exposed. By protocol, he should sequester himself in a remote Archive tower.
But protocol did not account for a ship functioning as an active processing device.
"This isn't just about one voyage, is it?" Vason asked. "This is an offer to become part of the system permanently. A human component in the machine."
"Every Translator eventually reaches a point where the separation between researcher and subject of research blurs," said the Captain. "You have spent your time unraveling the patterns of beings that possess no consciousness like ours. Eventually, you must decide whether to remain an observer, or if you will adopt a new framework to fully comprehend the data. This is an evolutionary step."
From outside, through the thick wood of the hull, came a single deep boom—not a wave hitting, but more like an echoic impact from something very large and far in the depths. The table vibrated faintly under Vason's fingertips.
He looked at the hourglass. The grains of black sand continued flowing upward, accumulating in the bulb that should be empty. He noted the hourglass bore no markings, no indicators of start or end. It was a gauge, not a timer.
He had become a Translator to understand mysteries. Here stood an operating mystery, offering understanding at the price of assimilation.
"How long is this voyage?" he asked.
"Duration is determined by the processor," the Captain replied. "With your input, perhaps short. A few days. Without you, or with incorrect input, the ship will continue operating until its components wear out. The crew has been... adjusted... for the long term."
Vason nodded slowly. He took out his journal, opened it to the page with the symbol. He tore out the parchment page, crumpled it into a ball, and put it in his pocket. The remainder of the journal—his catalog, his notes, his professional identity—he placed on the table, next to the skull.
"Alright," he said. "I will function as a component."
The Captain did not smile. There was no expression of relief. Only a brief nod, an acceptance from one function to another. "Harbor procedures will be completed before midnight. At that time, initial input will be required. The crew will instruct you on data collection parameters." He turned and left the room, followed by the man with the clipboard.
The door closed. The sound of wood shifting, followed by the clank of an iron lock.
Vason stood alone in the greenish-lit room, surrounded by the three artifacts. The stuffy air felt heavy in his lungs. He looked at the wooden walls, and on the dark surface, he saw faint reflections of the carved patterns—distorted by the wood's curvature, but still recognizable. The patterns seemed to move, pulsing slowly, in rhythm with his own heartbeat.
He took a deep breath, a method to calm his nerves. Yet as he did, he felt the rhythm of his movement and breath begin to synchronize with the pattern of light flashes inside the skull's eye sockets—fast, slow, fast. He deliberately scrambled his rhythm, breaking the synchronization.
This would be exhausting work. He had to provide enough data to maintain his value as a component, without completely surrendering to the system's logic flow. He had to remain human enough to want to escape, and machine enough to be allowed to remain.
Somewhere far below the ship, in depths where light never reached, something vast and ancient registered a new ship on the surface. Not as a threat. Not as prey. As a node in a wide network, lighting up on the map of consciousness of something that had no name, only function. The sea was not angry. The sea was not friendly. The sea was a system, and the nameless ship, with its new human component, had become an active sub-routine in its vast operation.
The work had begun.
For The Sea Only Records
Is Not Angry.