Respectfully pinned to the carcass of a dead sparrow marinated in mulled wine was a small blue envelope. It was then packaged in a small box and then wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. At this point it had attached to it a small label affixed with a stamp from 2234 bearing an image of the great towers of Sarajevo as they had been back in 21st century.
This small parcel was then placed in the Sarajevan postal service - arguably the most efficient postal service in the world employing of an eighth of the population of the upper 12 Tiers of Sarajevo. From here it was taken by train to some unassuming port in Croatia where it was loaded onto a small fishing boat. The boat - under the command of another of Sarajevo's madmen - then set sail to Algeria, stopping by at Jerusalem, Venice, Port-Au-Prince and Reykjavik on the way.
Upon reaching its destination half of the crew were dead but the captain declared to the port authorities that he had taken the most exact route ever devised to get there. Upon further questioning he was detained for a while for drunkenness before being released into the custody of Algerian mental health experts.
The Parcel - addressed ambiguously to "The Caliph who likes Birds" was then delivered promptly to the secretary of state. Inside the brown paper, the string and the box, pinned to the bird and enclosed in the blue envelope was a sheet of similar blue paper covered in a purple script all to familiar to Sarajevans.
Let me tell you a story Caliph, its a story about a little bird I once knew. I'm going to tell you he was called Srećko. He was a nice little bird, he liked to sing, he liked to fly. But one day he flew a bit to far and I ate him. In a pie. Mixed him in with some of the pickled fish that we get here. I wonder if you in your high castle of Algiers know how nice our pickled fish is. I would recommend it, though you probably think yourself above it. I know you like birds though, Algerian Birds, Sicilian Birds... Even Manx Birds or so I hear.
You're a bird just like Srećko, well... I say just like but you are a bit different. You chose to bite back against the net that was cast out for you, you chose to destroy the oven, burn the cooks and stamp on the crust. You didn't end up like Srećko, you didn't get eaten. But you're still a little bird, you still like to sing, you still like to fly. I love that in you - your happiness and joy, your care free flight and path of freedom.
We all love birds Caliph... You're a bird, Srećko was a bird. And there is another bird...
He's sitting now on a boat, he's floating across the seas, little does he know that the boat he sits on will soon be toppling over. Fish start thrashing when they feel threatened Caliph, and a little bird like Srećko can't hold onto the boat when the fish start thrashing.
I said there was another bird, well, there isn't anymore. In the time since you've read this little anecdote one of the fishes has started thrashing and that little bird couldn't hold on. "Goodbye little bird!" I say to him... He thought he was better that the pie, but he didn't know he was in the pie all along. We are all in the pie Caliph and the fish might start thrashing.
Will you share this pie with me?
In the Mid-Atlantic a Ship Captain looked up from his crossword, he mulled over the last of the pie he'd been eating. It had been tasty, a fitting final meal. He had cut down all the lifeboats, he had killed the radio signal, he had thrown about half the staff overboard. Yet still the dignitaries and nobles and clergymen knew nothing that was amiss. They partied and held balls and talked about politics or religion or some such matter that was too simple for the old Captain to think about - his mind was on higher things, higher purpose; he was a fish.
He got up from his maple desk and stepped onto the bridge. The blood of the dead still stained the beautiful wood of the floor, it was maple too. These Manx seemed to like maple. Gavrilovich would have liked to know that, he would have found some symbolism in it. Gavrilovich liked symbolism. That's why the captain was a fish and that man down below attending some party or political address - he was a bird; someone who had flown a bit too high.
The captain took to the wheel. And turned it slowly, eyeing the white mass he could clearly see on the horizon. It would take them about forty minutes to get there. Enough time to contemplate how he go there, remember his childhood on Tier 28, his hopes and dreams, his dreams especially.
35 minutes later he was still standing there, doing the only thing he had left - remembering. Then he smiled to himself, his reflection over, and pulled down the lever that pushed the engines up to their highest speed. Flinging the boat at full speeds forwards.
Forwards to the great cold mass of an Iceberg.
Forwards to his death.
Forwards to his dreams...
). Also I don't comprehend Christos' support for the embargo, but I presume he's just using the (hopefully temporary) excommunication as an excuse to let out his other grievances.
