Welcome to the Deep Shire
If one were to go rummaging about the bed of Iroh's steam-cart, amongst the heap of cardboard boxes and paper parcels, one might find an old and fraying knapsack. If one were to go rummaging about this knapsack, one might find an old and fraying personal data device. Scuffed black edges and a tiny crack running down the corner of its screen. A basic device – close to a child's toy. Barely seventy-five terabytes of memory.
If one were to go rummaging about this insignificant little computer, one might find a text file. Its creation date reads some sixty years ago. It appears to be slightly corrupted. It reads like this:
--
DATE: 14 IYAR, 1220
TO: OZY; SPIRE
ROUTING: BROTHER-I; NODE 15
FROM: IRO; NODE 2
SUBJECT: DEEP SHIRE PRELIM EVALUATION
Salutations, Brother.
You wished for more constant updates on my activities, so I present here my early observations of the heretofore-ignored "Deep Shire" facility. I apologize for using this Western letter format, as I know that you prefer Riven glyphs for information transfer. Unfortunately, the blasted voice recognition software on this antique only translates into Western text. Every attempt to rewrite the software's prime code only crashes the device's file browser. I have been sorely tempted to melt the accursed thing into slag on more than one occasion. You would be proud of my forbearance.
No matter: I hope this does not unduly inconvenience you.
--
There's an irritating, bass-heavy club song coming over the street speakers when they emerge from Zolo's apartment building. One of the men at the door subtly nods his head in time to the drumbeat pulsing scratchy through the air. He drags on a hand-rolled cigarette and regards them from behind round smoked spectacles. One hand hides beneath his ugly gray coat.
Spider nods and smiles ingratiatingly. Sokka does the same – though his smile looks genuine. Dib averts his eyes, quickens his pace, and all but runs into the avenue.
--
As you are well-aware, the Deep Shire only reappeared to greater Meridian a little under a decade ago. Until this time, the Shire has existed in a state of self-imposed lockdown, cut off from the rest of the world for a period of approximately two-hundred and fifty to three-hundred years. Preliminary research indicates that the region's rulers did not maintain complete quarantine during this period – some records indicate sporadic trade with the coastal enclaves of the Transcendent and with the city of Brii.
This period of relative isolationism seems to be part of a longer cycle of cultural quarantines dating back to the Shire's initial construction during the Days of Fire. This most recent quarantine is the longest in its history, and was likely spurred by news of the Green Plague that spread from the Toxic Forests in 827 3A. Shorter periods of isolation appear to have occurred at intervals – some lasting less than a year, others spanning two or three generations. This last closed period coincides not only with the Green Plague, but also with the rise of a long-lived authoritarian Shire political dynasty that only collapsed fifteen years ago. Its more reactionary views of outside contact are likely to blame for the extended period of quarantine – as well as the severity of the Plague, of course.
--
The ancient posters grin from alleyway walls, all fading eyes and paper-peeling lips. Masters of the old guard hang heavy with grime and niter. Mold stains their skin and chews away their slogans.
Nothing doing: The bag swings from Spider's shoulder. Cracked black leather with brass clasps. A fine old style. Dib asks what's inside it twice and then stops.
Up the length of the concourse, lunch crowds stumble out of their work-holes and blink irritably in the neon light of day. The three plunge in and out of the throngs like divers through shoals of dull-eyed fish.
--
Though I will try not to bore you with basics, Brother, I do wish to establish the Shire's early history. The Deep Shire appears to be the last of the large subterranean bunkers built across the Far West by John Stewart the Engineer. We have long known about the many facilities Stewart planned in the days after he renounced his ring of power. I myself had long thought most of them abandoned or overrun by mutants during the ashen first days of the Third Age.
Indeed, the easternmost portions of the Deep Shire have been abandoned, apparently sealed off for several hundred years. These "Barrow Blocks" comprise about a third of what was initially a hundred-kilometer wide superstructure. Any travel into them is strictly forbidden by Shire law. Initial forays into these old tunnels and concourses indicate that they have long been uninhabitable by Baseline human beings. I myself barely avoided an encounter with a Null Logic Cloud still lingering about the subbasements.
As ever, Brother, I find myself rambling – almost to the verge of incoherence. Apologies.
The Deep Shire appears to have been the last of Stewart's projects before his death. The foundations of the facility were sunk approximately 2300 2A and construction proceeded throughout and after the Days of Fire. The last levels were finished about 45 or 50 3A, but I believe that further construction and expansion continued for at least two or three centuries. Since then, the Shire inhabitants have done little to grow their home, preferring fastidious maintenance to any kind of new building.
So, I can imagine you asking, what about the facility today? Why should we, the Watchers who monitor humanity, care about a closed little society of bunker-folk?
For one, the Shire does have a comparatively large population. With the West as empty as it is in these latter days, the Shire represents one of the greater centers of potential commerce and industry. As I indicated in my previous report on Brii's recent stagnation, a possible shift in power may occur if the any other city-state stands up in the Far West. After my recent tours of the Deep Shire, I believe that it may in fact be that city-state.
Yes, the centuries of relative isolation have made the place feel almost hopelessly quaint by the standards of other Western cities. This is no City of the Winds; this is no Ba Sing Se. But really, what passes for normal and modern in the Third Age is but a sliver in the eye of the wonders that came before the Days of Fire. And before even that . . .
My point is that the Deep Shire represents a fairly stable local area in a region that has seen little but upheaval for the past thousand years. Its inhabitants enjoy a decent standard of living. Its industry, while rather basic, is constant and uninterrupted by outside influence. And more than any of that, I like the Deep Shire.
--
After grabbing packs of cigarettes in an incense-soaked little bodega, the three stop to eat at a crowded baker's café. Spider peels bills from a banded wad and slides the money to the cashier with a smirk like a fakir.
They sit outside, Spider and Dib smoking while Sokka digs into fried bread with roasted garlic and olive oil. Each of them devours chunks of spiced goat and tunnel pica, folded in the hot bread like gyros. Spider pulls fitfully at a bottle of beer and belches happily.
--
Brother, do not give me that look. I know what look it will be, and it has never become anything but frustrating. Remember the mountainous rage that Brother Custer would fly into when you regarded him with that paternal, slightly pitying gaze? Hear me out.
. . . Or read, as it were.
--
There are whispers among the apartment blocks. The towers flutter with them like birds. The power cables and overhead conduits reverberate to hushed voices.
The air flows hot with the wing beats of gossip and rumor. Housewives lean from windows and half-yell, half-murmur their little stories to neighbors. Schoolchildren slouch among the stairwells and chatter excitedly. They scribble words on walls and in secret corners like portents.
Down-levels, up-levels, across-levels: Words spread. Some important; some unimportant. Jammed tight and breathless, words spread.
--
The Shire is the first place I have traveled in a long while that has not felt as if it were staring over a precipice. Among the Geneborn of the East, among the Delvers, and even among the Transcendent, I feel as if even the most carefree individuals constantly prepare themselves for disaster.
And why not? For the greater part of the Third Age, humanity has watched catastrophe after catastrophe beat against its doors. If it was not the spread of the Sea of Corruption, it was the reign of the mutant kings of Coludor. If it was not the War of the Wind, it was the Green Plague. If it was not Rain of Ice and Fire, it was the drought and famine that followed.
But in the Shire, one gets the sense that none of this ever occurred. The people do not go about their lives in dread as in other cities.
Certainly, the Shire-folk do not treat things blithely – despite their relative ease and hospitality, men and women of the Deep Shire carry with them a practiced suspicion about all things. This is a society of skeptics, distrustful of both gods and men. Even as the owners of cafes and shops welcome me, I can feel them sizing me up. There is no fear in this – only a kind of low-level paranoia that quickly gives way to open and honest welcome. These are not fearful people, and I find this most refreshing.
They also brew some very, very fine teas.
--
It comes again: The club beat, oontz-oontz-oontz'ing its way over the intercoms and rolling them on their way. At least two of their number find their footsteps guided by it. Even as they dodge about the spilled intestines of a dead dog left in the middle of the street, the music makes time. There is a rhythm in the air – a heartbeat.
A constabulary wagon rushes down the concourse. Its engine chugs and spits like a cracked kettle. Its siren howls and reverberates up in the unseen steel web of the distant rafters. Dib stops, flinches, and then turns to watch the car disappear around a corner. The sweat on his face catches the light of a nearby shop sign and turns to luminescent blood.
Two bored-looking children emerge from an apartment stoop. One of them holds a broken antenna in a pale hand. The other, dark-skinned and wiry, stares on as her companion pokes the dog's corpse in its exposed guts.
The three young men watch with varying levels of disgust and amusement. After a moment, the group proceeds toward the main lifts. Down-level. Downtown.
--
The Deep Shire itself consists of five subterranean levels, each separated by about fifty meters of shafts, ventilation tunnels, and pure ceramicrete shielding. The topmost level houses the machinery necessary for the continued survival of the Shire – machine shops, power plants, and materials caches enough to last several of the facility's lifetimes. This level boasts the heaviest security, patrolled by volunteer militia and old-model military automata.
The second level of the Shire is largely industrial – factories, forges, and the like. The center of repair and invention, such as it is. The Deep Shire has only one nanoreactor that I could discover, producing the vast majority of the factories' raw materials. The reactor was heavily guarded, and I dared not risk the ire of the entire city to approach it. So far as I can tell, its nanite control system is old but solid, with more than enough shielding and internal firewall security to prevent tampering. I will have to investigate further, but I believe that it should not cause us any worries.
Commercial and residential centers are scattered throughout the third and fourth levels of the Shire. The population lives either in massive apartment blocks (of varying and sometimes ill-maintained condition) or in humorously anachronistic "suburbs" located on the fourth level. These pre-Third Age neighborhoods are truly a sight to behold, Brother – white fences, lawns, and covered porches. The Shire's upper and merchant classes stick to these kinds of dwellings, despite the obvious absurdity of their layout and efficiency.
Lawns, Ozzie! By the VALAR . . .
The fifth and lowest level contains a mélange of industry, environmental treatment facilities, a prison, and even a largely-defunct mining operation that I suspect was made obsolete by the city's nanoreactor. It was through the bottom level that I gained access to the Barrow Blocks.
--
Into the empty, now.
They walk through endless twilight, three stick-figure sketches under the rows of arc sodium lamps. Footsteps and splashes. A reek of engine grease and old promises. Out in the expanse of towering concrete pillars, a power line sparks and sputters.
--
It's impossible to know an exact number, but a combination of out-of-date records and wild guessing places the Shire's population at about two to three million. The current government is an oligarchic council, supposedly elected by neighborhood political committees. One gets a feeling that the people of the Shire extend their innate skepticism to the very idea of government – apparently, those old enough to remember the previous regime are still bitter about its excesses. If I were to guess, local political control centers largely in the hands of business, unions, and some criminal elements. Not exactly a prime candidate for a Far Western political power, but you and I both know that stranger things have happened.
I see that my time grows short, Brother – I have a most interesting appointment to uphold. I apologize for forgetting this: It seems that the guild that runs the Shire nanoreactor is actually headed by an exiled family of Delvers. One of their number has agreed to meet with me, having heard of my reputation from my recent journeys amongst the Steel Islands. I hope to learn even more about the Shire, its politics, and its people in the next few days. As ever, I will keep you informed when I can. If you see him, give my regards to Brother Elijah. Tell him that he would like it here.
Long days and pleasant nights,
-Iroh-
--
As all the phantom colors of strange and terrible dreams splash across his face, Iroh thinks upon that data file. He thinks about the days that followed, and then the adventures that followed that. He thinks about meeting Jiraiya. He thinks, suddenly and rather unexpectedly, about riddles in the dark.
Now, why would he think about a thing like that?
His eyes narrow. A gust of stale, dust-stinking-wind pushes across the platform. Odd.
On scaffolding arranged about the edge of the shaft, four towering war automata scan the cargo elevator with dead red eyes as it passes. Aang jumps from the cab of the steam-cart, all nervous energy and white teeth. He dashes to the edge of the descending platform and stares into the oncoming dark.