In the Captain’s cabin, an iron wall safe guards his most precious cargo: an ornate golden sphere, the astrolabe of the Sultan Razia, symbol of both her authority and her piety.

Its craftsmanship is immaculate, all intricate arcs and whisper-smooth bearings, and its heavenly calculations long to reconcile any schism between science and God. Even for the believer, faith is no substitute for precision when measuring the divine.

It is perhaps notable that Razia’s reign survived its loss; her wisdom did not depend solely on tools of calculation nor religion.

But brine and iron are old adversaries; the rusted safe hangs open, and the star-taker is orbited by little fishes and scudding crustaceans, tracing its arcs and shadowing its inscriptions.

One day its system may reach critical mass, and it may burst into life, a miniature sun driving all shadows from the deep.