Aubervijr
Registered
Chapter One / Between Shores
Maresdoep Strait
21st of November, 1971
Sunday, 11:02
The morning ferry was hurtling towards the port of Lachlijn at twenty one knots. It was the tail end of a brutally cold November; fog lay so thick over the water that the Faursian shoreline was barely visible, save for the bright lights of the port cutting weakly through it. Among the passengers were Faursians returning from holiday, football fans, ordinary civilians, perhaps even soldiers coming back from leave. The third class compartments were the most crowded, packed with people from all walks of life, many wearing tired faces and heavy eyes, chilled to the bone.
On the upper, open deck of the ferry stood a lone man, leaning over an ice cold, rusting metal railing, travelling light. The railing was worn from years of back and forth journeys, eaten by salt water and weather, yet to him it was simply somewhere to stand and look from.
The wind was ice cold, constantly pounding against his face; throwing his curly, medium length light brown hair in all directions. He was plainly dressed, wearing casual suit trousers, with brown, leather shoes. He wore a thick, black overcoat, with the lapels folded upwards, shielding his neck. He wore a pair of half rimmed glasses, reminiscent of aviator sunglasses, except these seemed to be prescription, rather than fashion. His eyes, behind the transparent lenses, were a dark brown, with noticeable dark bags hung below them. It gave the man a piercing gaze. He had a thick, yet well kept moustache, which seemed to accentuate his facial features. His nose was broad and had been broken before and he had prominent cheek bones. His lips, thin, were sat in a permanent, insolent frown. His forehead was high and well formed, however, most noteworthy, was a prominent scar that streaked down the left side of his face, cutting through his eyebrow, down his cheek and settling on his jawline. In general, the man was stocky and well built, of average height, around thirty-five.
The man raised a black gloved hand to his lips and took a long draw from his cigarette, holding the smoke in for a moment as he gazed out towards the clouded shoreline. Glancing at his left wrist, he checked his watch; 11:03.
Against the howling wind, he heard footsteps behind him. He had assumed he was the only one stupid enough to be out on deck in this weather, but perhaps he was wrong.
“Chilly, huh?” The man behind him said as he approached. He was older, considerably less intimidating than the man he was approaching. He spoke with a thick southern Faursian accent, prompting a glance of the head from the man with the cigarette.
This man was mid-forties, perhaps early fifties, taller, lanky. His short, thinning hair, once black, was now greying, was obscured by a woollen hat. His face was clean shaven and he wore a trench coat, with casual trousers and bulky black boots. His face was gaunt and uneven, his cheekbones sunken, his small, blue eyes were dull and unimaginative. His hands were deep in his coat pockets, his shoulders raised, as if he had tucked his neck downwards. His complexion was sickly and pale, only exacerbated by his weak jawline and a chin that seemed to recede inwards. The man turned away once more, raising the cigarette to his mouth.
“‘Tis, yeah.” He said, before taking a draw. The lanky man wandered and perched himself next to him on the railing. His accent was strange. It was Faursian, perhaps southern, yet had a strange, unintelligible sound to it, almost making it sound uneven, uncertain.
“That’s a strange accent you have. Where are you from?”
“Marningen.” He replied bluntly, his face turned away from the man.
“Ah, a Highlands man, are you? You don’t sound like it.”
“Well, I am. And you? You sound southern.”
“I am, sir, I am. My name’s Hauke.”
“Nice.” The man replied with an irritated sigh, as he took another prolonged draw from his cigarette, which was by now, nearing the filter.
“Well… what’s yours?”
“Lourens.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Lourens.” Hauke smiled, offering his outstretched hand. Lourens eyed him, first his hand, then his eyes. He flicked the cigarette into the wind and removed a glove from his right hand and shook Hauke’s hand firmly, before replacing his glove. "Kinne jo Faurzjeske prate?"*
"Sûnt ik prate koe."* Lourens replied.
There was a brief silence.
“What’re you doing here, anyway? You’re far from home.” Hauke asked, switching back to Aubervijan, a slight hint of something in his voice that Lourens couldn’t pick apart.
“Travel.” Lourens replied, with utmost impatience.
“Touring, eh? Where’d you go?” Hauke instinctively asked once more, mere moments after the reply.
“What’s with all the fucking questions?” Lourens snapped, pushing himself off the railing and turning to face Hauke. “You don’t know me.”
“That’s the point.” Hauke smiled wryly.
“Well, fuck off, will you?”
“And there’s that Highland hospitality I’ve heard so, so much about.” Hauke prodded, sarcastic as ever.
Lourens licked his lips, tasting salt. He considered launching the man overboard, if only briefly, before he turned away, walking towards a doorway which would lead back into the ship itself; his steps deliberate, not scared, but certain.
“Enjoy Lachlijn, Lourens. Not many Highlanders pass through there anymore. You’re lucky, you.” Hauke called out, cocky, confident. Lourens grit his teeth, as he proceeded into the ship stairwell, descending level after level before proceeding into the third class compartments, where he made his way through the crowd.
He weaved his way through the dense masses of people; men, women, children, rowdy teenagers, football hooligans, elderly. There was a horrible, collective racket that filled the tightly packed space; constant voices, shouting, drinking, children and babies crying and coughing. Shops littered the sides of the accommodation, selling beauty and health products, souvenirs, food, duty free alcohol and tobacco products, among other things. Lourens instinctively weaved his way into a shop, breezing past the entrance and cutting across the shopfloor, exiting through an entrance on the opposite side of the shop, before making his way to an alternate stairwell, descending to the lowest deck, which was jam packed with even more people. There were no shops here, no bright lights or advertisements; no false comforts of any kind. This was the lowest of the low, in both sense and spirit.
Lourens noticed the sound first; worse than the deck above. Next, the humidity, hitting him like a wave that could only be described as thick, close and foul. The stench of sweat, tobacco smoke, alcohol, damp clothing and cheap aftershaves hung heavily in the air. The interior wasn’t even worse; in fact, it was nearly identical to the deck above. Still, pausing on the stairwell, he could see, as far as the accommodation stretched, rows and rows of people, almost shoulder to shoulder. You were lucky to get a seat against a wall at this level, nevermind a wooden chair with a cushion. He made his way down, nevertheless, immediately bumping into a careless drunk, who turned the corner to ascend the stairs. The drunk mumbled something, slurring; Lourens didn’t slow, barely even glanced at him. He paused, looking around. Satisfied, he began to survey people close to him. Faces, hands, tattoos, scars; details. His eyes moved quickly, but not conspicuously. He spotted a man standing near the bulkhead, deep, in rowdy conversation with a group of others. He caught the glint of a signet ring. Lourens drifted closer, subtly. As the man raised his hand again, taking a draw from a cigarette, the engraving became visible: sharp and unmistakable; a stylised emblem, scratched into the no doubt fake gold.
The symbol of the Radikale Lânbesetting.
Anarcho-leftist. A paramilitary organisation, one of dozens in Faursia. This particular group was composed of rural insurgents turned underground extremists. Perhaps this man was a true believer, or just a hanger on. Perhaps, even, just a pretender, boasting to the company he kept about false operations and romanticised killings. Either way, Lourens took a mental note of him, his face, his friends. Carefully.
This was the sort of company he was now among.
The ferry’s engines began to churn more slowly, their rhythmic hum descending into a dull groan as the vessel neared port. The tannoy crackled once, then again, before a distorted voice announced their arrival in both Aubervijan and Faursian. The words were flat, automated. Lourens didn’t hear them. He felt the shift in momentum instead, a subtle forward lurch, the soft metal shudder beneath his feet. A moment of stillness passed before the noise of movement overtook the ship: boots, bags, murmurs, children crying again, raised voices calling for luggage.
He moved quickly, blending with the throng pushing toward the exits. The lowest deck was the last to disembark. No ceremony, no queueing, only pressure, human current, like blood through a vein. He kept his head down, his breath shallow. At one point, someone bumped into him; no apology. Another stepped on the heel of his shoe. Still no reaction. He let himself be swept forward with the tide, blinking as the overhead lights gave way to the dirty morning fog spilling through the open hatch.
The smell hit him first. Not sea air, but oil, salt, piss, fish and diesel fumes, or in other words, Lachlijn.
A loud clang rang through the steel underbelly of the ferry, followed by the piercing screech of brakes and the hiss of compressed air. A lorry was reversing down the cargo ramp, its flashing amber lights barely cutting through the thick November fog that clung to everything like smoke. A long queue of vehicles waited behind it in silence, their engines ticking and grumbling low. The entire ferry creaked and groaned as it adjusted to the weight and movement, steel frames flexing with tired familiarity.
Overhead, metal gantries loomed through the haze, dimly lit by flickering sodium bulbs. Occasionally, a gust of wind would push aside just enough fog to reveal the looming structure of Lachlijn Port, sprawled before them like a rusting carcass. Concrete watchtowers, blocky and featureless, sat along the perimeter fencing. Floodlights panned lazily across the dock, carving out shapes in the mist half illuminated cranes, idle containers, soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders.
Lourens stood in the shadows beside a refrigerated transport van, his posture relaxed but alert. The smell of brine and diesel drifted up from the water below. He adjusted his lapel, pulling it higher over the scar that slashed down his face. Behind his glasses, his eyes scanned the checkpoint just ahead; a makeshift customs station, cobbled together with prefab booths, canvas shelters and a portable metal detector. The line of foot passengers was sluggish, burdened by suitcases, paper bags and noise.
Just ahead of the checkpoint, a sniffer dog was being walked in slow, deliberate circles by an Aubervijan soldier, its handler silent and sharp eyed. The dog, black coated, low to the ground, sniffed luggage, boots, pockets. Occasionally, it paused, tail stiffening. No one spoke. Nearby, a teenager, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, was pulled from the line without a word, his shoulder seized by a customs officer. His bag was taken and carried toward a canvas tent at the side of the checkpoint. Inside, a folding table and two plastic chairs sat under dim lamplight. The tent flap closed behind them with a low snap.
Lourens flicked his cigarette into a gutter puddle and fell into line.
As he stepped forward, he could hear snippets of interrogation ahead; curt questions, mumbled answers, the occasional cough. The Faursian officers didn’t raise their voices. They barely even looked at the travellers. But they had military issued forms, clearance stamps and orders and that was enough to make the air tight with pressure.
The customs officers were Faursian and unmistakably so. Their uniforms bore the blue and grey insignia of the Civil Security Service, but each man wore an expression as if shackled by invisible chains. They were pale, tired looking, with visibly damp collars and eyes that didn’t meet anyone else’s for long. Just behind them, within a raised platform cabin, sat two Aubervijan soldiers, motionless, arms folded, rifles clipped to their chests. They weren’t checking documents; they were checking faces.
One officer, early thirties, thinning hair, hollow cheeks, glanced up as Lourens approached. He gave a weak gesture toward the booth. “Name and purpose of travel?”
“Lourens Fisser,” he replied smoothly, handing over a small, creased ID booklet. “Returning home.”
The officer’s eyes twitched briefly to the scar. He then gestured at his own cheek with two fingers. “Some cut you got there.”
“Cats.” Lourens said, his eyes never leaving the officer’s face.
The officer hesitated for the slightest of moments, then blinked, as if tucking the thought away. “Where have you come from?”
“Hasselt.” Lourens replied bluntly.
“Why were you there?” The officer asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Visiting family.”
“Okay.” The officer said, adjusting his stance. “Do you have anything on your person that could harm me or any other individual?”
“No.”
As if to a beat, the officer flipped through the pages, glancing once at Lourens, once again at the forms. Then, without lifting his eyes, he leaned slightly back. Behind him, one of the soldiers had stepped from his perch, now watching the line from behind tinted goggles. The customs officer stiffened slightly, then returned the booklet with a dull stamp. “Next.”
Lourens nodded once, tucked the booklet inside his coat and moved on.
As he walked past the checkpoint and into the port proper, the concrete underfoot was slick with sea mist and the wind carried a distant hum of engines, shouting and radios. A shipping container was being dragged across a loading bay, chains clattering against the ground. Floodlights cut thin beams through the fog like weapons searching for their target. Soldiers watched from a gantry overhead, unmoving.
Across the yard, a waiting minibus idled beneath a flickering light, marked only with an old transport permit laminated in plastic and stuck to the windshield.
He headed for it without looking back.
* "Do you speak Faursian?"
* "Since I could speak."
Maresdoep Strait
21st of November, 1971
Sunday, 11:02
The morning ferry was hurtling towards the port of Lachlijn at twenty one knots. It was the tail end of a brutally cold November; fog lay so thick over the water that the Faursian shoreline was barely visible, save for the bright lights of the port cutting weakly through it. Among the passengers were Faursians returning from holiday, football fans, ordinary civilians, perhaps even soldiers coming back from leave. The third class compartments were the most crowded, packed with people from all walks of life, many wearing tired faces and heavy eyes, chilled to the bone.
On the upper, open deck of the ferry stood a lone man, leaning over an ice cold, rusting metal railing, travelling light. The railing was worn from years of back and forth journeys, eaten by salt water and weather, yet to him it was simply somewhere to stand and look from.
The wind was ice cold, constantly pounding against his face; throwing his curly, medium length light brown hair in all directions. He was plainly dressed, wearing casual suit trousers, with brown, leather shoes. He wore a thick, black overcoat, with the lapels folded upwards, shielding his neck. He wore a pair of half rimmed glasses, reminiscent of aviator sunglasses, except these seemed to be prescription, rather than fashion. His eyes, behind the transparent lenses, were a dark brown, with noticeable dark bags hung below them. It gave the man a piercing gaze. He had a thick, yet well kept moustache, which seemed to accentuate his facial features. His nose was broad and had been broken before and he had prominent cheek bones. His lips, thin, were sat in a permanent, insolent frown. His forehead was high and well formed, however, most noteworthy, was a prominent scar that streaked down the left side of his face, cutting through his eyebrow, down his cheek and settling on his jawline. In general, the man was stocky and well built, of average height, around thirty-five.
The man raised a black gloved hand to his lips and took a long draw from his cigarette, holding the smoke in for a moment as he gazed out towards the clouded shoreline. Glancing at his left wrist, he checked his watch; 11:03.
Against the howling wind, he heard footsteps behind him. He had assumed he was the only one stupid enough to be out on deck in this weather, but perhaps he was wrong.
“Chilly, huh?” The man behind him said as he approached. He was older, considerably less intimidating than the man he was approaching. He spoke with a thick southern Faursian accent, prompting a glance of the head from the man with the cigarette.
This man was mid-forties, perhaps early fifties, taller, lanky. His short, thinning hair, once black, was now greying, was obscured by a woollen hat. His face was clean shaven and he wore a trench coat, with casual trousers and bulky black boots. His face was gaunt and uneven, his cheekbones sunken, his small, blue eyes were dull and unimaginative. His hands were deep in his coat pockets, his shoulders raised, as if he had tucked his neck downwards. His complexion was sickly and pale, only exacerbated by his weak jawline and a chin that seemed to recede inwards. The man turned away once more, raising the cigarette to his mouth.
“‘Tis, yeah.” He said, before taking a draw. The lanky man wandered and perched himself next to him on the railing. His accent was strange. It was Faursian, perhaps southern, yet had a strange, unintelligible sound to it, almost making it sound uneven, uncertain.
“That’s a strange accent you have. Where are you from?”
“Marningen.” He replied bluntly, his face turned away from the man.
“Ah, a Highlands man, are you? You don’t sound like it.”
“Well, I am. And you? You sound southern.”
“I am, sir, I am. My name’s Hauke.”
“Nice.” The man replied with an irritated sigh, as he took another prolonged draw from his cigarette, which was by now, nearing the filter.
“Well… what’s yours?”
“Lourens.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Lourens.” Hauke smiled, offering his outstretched hand. Lourens eyed him, first his hand, then his eyes. He flicked the cigarette into the wind and removed a glove from his right hand and shook Hauke’s hand firmly, before replacing his glove. "Kinne jo Faurzjeske prate?"*
"Sûnt ik prate koe."* Lourens replied.
There was a brief silence.
“What’re you doing here, anyway? You’re far from home.” Hauke asked, switching back to Aubervijan, a slight hint of something in his voice that Lourens couldn’t pick apart.
“Travel.” Lourens replied, with utmost impatience.
“Touring, eh? Where’d you go?” Hauke instinctively asked once more, mere moments after the reply.
“What’s with all the fucking questions?” Lourens snapped, pushing himself off the railing and turning to face Hauke. “You don’t know me.”
“That’s the point.” Hauke smiled wryly.
“Well, fuck off, will you?”
“And there’s that Highland hospitality I’ve heard so, so much about.” Hauke prodded, sarcastic as ever.
Lourens licked his lips, tasting salt. He considered launching the man overboard, if only briefly, before he turned away, walking towards a doorway which would lead back into the ship itself; his steps deliberate, not scared, but certain.
“Enjoy Lachlijn, Lourens. Not many Highlanders pass through there anymore. You’re lucky, you.” Hauke called out, cocky, confident. Lourens grit his teeth, as he proceeded into the ship stairwell, descending level after level before proceeding into the third class compartments, where he made his way through the crowd.
He weaved his way through the dense masses of people; men, women, children, rowdy teenagers, football hooligans, elderly. There was a horrible, collective racket that filled the tightly packed space; constant voices, shouting, drinking, children and babies crying and coughing. Shops littered the sides of the accommodation, selling beauty and health products, souvenirs, food, duty free alcohol and tobacco products, among other things. Lourens instinctively weaved his way into a shop, breezing past the entrance and cutting across the shopfloor, exiting through an entrance on the opposite side of the shop, before making his way to an alternate stairwell, descending to the lowest deck, which was jam packed with even more people. There were no shops here, no bright lights or advertisements; no false comforts of any kind. This was the lowest of the low, in both sense and spirit.
Lourens noticed the sound first; worse than the deck above. Next, the humidity, hitting him like a wave that could only be described as thick, close and foul. The stench of sweat, tobacco smoke, alcohol, damp clothing and cheap aftershaves hung heavily in the air. The interior wasn’t even worse; in fact, it was nearly identical to the deck above. Still, pausing on the stairwell, he could see, as far as the accommodation stretched, rows and rows of people, almost shoulder to shoulder. You were lucky to get a seat against a wall at this level, nevermind a wooden chair with a cushion. He made his way down, nevertheless, immediately bumping into a careless drunk, who turned the corner to ascend the stairs. The drunk mumbled something, slurring; Lourens didn’t slow, barely even glanced at him. He paused, looking around. Satisfied, he began to survey people close to him. Faces, hands, tattoos, scars; details. His eyes moved quickly, but not conspicuously. He spotted a man standing near the bulkhead, deep, in rowdy conversation with a group of others. He caught the glint of a signet ring. Lourens drifted closer, subtly. As the man raised his hand again, taking a draw from a cigarette, the engraving became visible: sharp and unmistakable; a stylised emblem, scratched into the no doubt fake gold.
The symbol of the Radikale Lânbesetting.
Anarcho-leftist. A paramilitary organisation, one of dozens in Faursia. This particular group was composed of rural insurgents turned underground extremists. Perhaps this man was a true believer, or just a hanger on. Perhaps, even, just a pretender, boasting to the company he kept about false operations and romanticised killings. Either way, Lourens took a mental note of him, his face, his friends. Carefully.
This was the sort of company he was now among.
The ferry’s engines began to churn more slowly, their rhythmic hum descending into a dull groan as the vessel neared port. The tannoy crackled once, then again, before a distorted voice announced their arrival in both Aubervijan and Faursian. The words were flat, automated. Lourens didn’t hear them. He felt the shift in momentum instead, a subtle forward lurch, the soft metal shudder beneath his feet. A moment of stillness passed before the noise of movement overtook the ship: boots, bags, murmurs, children crying again, raised voices calling for luggage.
He moved quickly, blending with the throng pushing toward the exits. The lowest deck was the last to disembark. No ceremony, no queueing, only pressure, human current, like blood through a vein. He kept his head down, his breath shallow. At one point, someone bumped into him; no apology. Another stepped on the heel of his shoe. Still no reaction. He let himself be swept forward with the tide, blinking as the overhead lights gave way to the dirty morning fog spilling through the open hatch.
The smell hit him first. Not sea air, but oil, salt, piss, fish and diesel fumes, or in other words, Lachlijn.
A loud clang rang through the steel underbelly of the ferry, followed by the piercing screech of brakes and the hiss of compressed air. A lorry was reversing down the cargo ramp, its flashing amber lights barely cutting through the thick November fog that clung to everything like smoke. A long queue of vehicles waited behind it in silence, their engines ticking and grumbling low. The entire ferry creaked and groaned as it adjusted to the weight and movement, steel frames flexing with tired familiarity.
Overhead, metal gantries loomed through the haze, dimly lit by flickering sodium bulbs. Occasionally, a gust of wind would push aside just enough fog to reveal the looming structure of Lachlijn Port, sprawled before them like a rusting carcass. Concrete watchtowers, blocky and featureless, sat along the perimeter fencing. Floodlights panned lazily across the dock, carving out shapes in the mist half illuminated cranes, idle containers, soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders.
Lourens stood in the shadows beside a refrigerated transport van, his posture relaxed but alert. The smell of brine and diesel drifted up from the water below. He adjusted his lapel, pulling it higher over the scar that slashed down his face. Behind his glasses, his eyes scanned the checkpoint just ahead; a makeshift customs station, cobbled together with prefab booths, canvas shelters and a portable metal detector. The line of foot passengers was sluggish, burdened by suitcases, paper bags and noise.
Just ahead of the checkpoint, a sniffer dog was being walked in slow, deliberate circles by an Aubervijan soldier, its handler silent and sharp eyed. The dog, black coated, low to the ground, sniffed luggage, boots, pockets. Occasionally, it paused, tail stiffening. No one spoke. Nearby, a teenager, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, was pulled from the line without a word, his shoulder seized by a customs officer. His bag was taken and carried toward a canvas tent at the side of the checkpoint. Inside, a folding table and two plastic chairs sat under dim lamplight. The tent flap closed behind them with a low snap.
Lourens flicked his cigarette into a gutter puddle and fell into line.
As he stepped forward, he could hear snippets of interrogation ahead; curt questions, mumbled answers, the occasional cough. The Faursian officers didn’t raise their voices. They barely even looked at the travellers. But they had military issued forms, clearance stamps and orders and that was enough to make the air tight with pressure.
The customs officers were Faursian and unmistakably so. Their uniforms bore the blue and grey insignia of the Civil Security Service, but each man wore an expression as if shackled by invisible chains. They were pale, tired looking, with visibly damp collars and eyes that didn’t meet anyone else’s for long. Just behind them, within a raised platform cabin, sat two Aubervijan soldiers, motionless, arms folded, rifles clipped to their chests. They weren’t checking documents; they were checking faces.
One officer, early thirties, thinning hair, hollow cheeks, glanced up as Lourens approached. He gave a weak gesture toward the booth. “Name and purpose of travel?”
“Lourens Fisser,” he replied smoothly, handing over a small, creased ID booklet. “Returning home.”
The officer’s eyes twitched briefly to the scar. He then gestured at his own cheek with two fingers. “Some cut you got there.”
“Cats.” Lourens said, his eyes never leaving the officer’s face.
The officer hesitated for the slightest of moments, then blinked, as if tucking the thought away. “Where have you come from?”
“Hasselt.” Lourens replied bluntly.
“Why were you there?” The officer asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Visiting family.”
“Okay.” The officer said, adjusting his stance. “Do you have anything on your person that could harm me or any other individual?”
“No.”
As if to a beat, the officer flipped through the pages, glancing once at Lourens, once again at the forms. Then, without lifting his eyes, he leaned slightly back. Behind him, one of the soldiers had stepped from his perch, now watching the line from behind tinted goggles. The customs officer stiffened slightly, then returned the booklet with a dull stamp. “Next.”
Lourens nodded once, tucked the booklet inside his coat and moved on.
As he walked past the checkpoint and into the port proper, the concrete underfoot was slick with sea mist and the wind carried a distant hum of engines, shouting and radios. A shipping container was being dragged across a loading bay, chains clattering against the ground. Floodlights cut thin beams through the fog like weapons searching for their target. Soldiers watched from a gantry overhead, unmoving.
Across the yard, a waiting minibus idled beneath a flickering light, marked only with an old transport permit laminated in plastic and stuck to the windshield.
He headed for it without looking back.
* "Do you speak Faursian?"
* "Since I could speak."
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