DATALOG 215
THE CITY OF MEDHA

"In the sprawling streets and bazaars of Medha scavengers trade relics pulled from the bellies of dead cities for water pure enough to drink. Wares are bought and sold in the port and blood is spilled in the fighting pits. The shadow of the Queen's spire falls across us all, her rule absolute yet fleeting. Some whisper that true power in Medha flows not from her gilded throne, but through the hands that control the water pumps and the mouths that sell salvation by the flask. Others say that Lord Samin is the true power behind the throne. But they are wrong. Where does the new Queen come from every twelve years? Where does the orange sand go, after it has been clawed from the ground at the cost of countless lives? There is your answer to who the true master of Medha is."

• Sand Caravan Master Khalil, addressing traders in the Medha Grand Bazaar

Pearl of the Mid-Sea

Rising from the scorching dunes like a mirage made manifest, Medha sprawls across the coastline where the shrunken Mediterranean kisses the endless Sand. The pearl of the mid-sea and gateway to the wasteland beyond, this city pulses with the desperate vitality of commerce and survival. Ancient stones weathered by countless sandstorms form the foundation for a metropolis where water flows like liquid gold and human life is measured in its utility to the mining quotas.

The air shimmers with heat and possibility, thick with the mingled scents of spice caravans, salt spray, and the metallic tang of fresh blood from the combat arenas. Dust devils spiral through narrow streets where robed figures shuffle between market stalls, their faces hidden behind breathing masks that filter the omnipresent grit. Above it all, the merciless sun beats down on a city that refuses to yield to the wasteland's hunger.

The Palace

Dominating Medha's skyline stands the imposing palace complex, its geometric spires reaching toward the burning sky like the fingers of forgotten gods. Within these climate-controlled halls, Queen Nubia the 7th holds court, her reign measured not in decades but in the steady countdown toward her inevitable replacement. The palace operates on a cruel mathematics of succession - every twelve years, a new queen arrives to claim the throne, while her predecessor retreats to the advisory annex, her time of absolute power forever ended.

The Khamadi move through these halls like emerald phantoms, hundreds of clone handmaidens whose identical faces mask individual souls struggling for survival. Clad in flowing robes of jade silk, they tend to their queen's every whim with perfect precision, knowing that a single stumble might earn them a blade between the ribs or a slow death in the palace dungeons. Their lives of unimaginable luxury hang by threads as thin as spider silk - golden cages where paradise and terror dance together in the shadows of power.

When the time comes for succession, the ritual unfolds with clockwork inevitability. Prime's Emissary arrives in a sleek black shuttle, her neural collar already counting down the moments until her death. She delivers the new queen - a perfect clone bred and trained for rulership - and watches as power transfers with ceremonial precision. The old queen's final act of authority is to witness the Emissary's collar self-destruct, the explosion echoing through the palace like thunder, a reminder that even Prime's servants are ultimately expendable.

The Dha-Habi, the palace's elite guard, witness this transition with stone faces. These warriors in golden armor serve as the Pharaoh's sword and shield, ready to die at her command. Unlike the pampered Khamadi, the Dha-Habi earn their privileges through blood and battle, conducting dangerous missions both within the city's criminal underbelly and in the monster-haunted dunes beyond.

The Port of Medha

Along the Sand's coastline, the port of Medha thrums with chaotic energy as ships from across the shrunken mid-sea discharge their precious cargoes. Massive pre-Collapse cargo vessels, their hulls patched with scavenged metal and prayer, list at reinforced moorings designed to withstand the fury of Kraken attacks. Most of the freighters come loaded with food from the agridomes of the mud lands or weapons and machinery manufactured in Praga. On the way back, they take precious spices from the regions around Medha, mysterious exotic items from Eden or fish caught off the coast of the Sand. The docks bustle with activity as clone workers race to load and unload vessels before more ships arrive with the next tide.

The threat of the great sea monsters hangs over every maritime venture like a storm cloud that never breaks. These bioluminescent leviathans have learned the cruel lessons of human desperation - that sinking a ship forces its crew into the water where they become easy prey. Sailors speak in whispers of tentacles thick as tree trunks plucking screaming victims from listing decks, of hypnotic light patterns that mesmerize crews into walking willingly into the beast's embrace.

When the Kraken hunt, there is no escape. The sea runs red with torn flesh among the scattered flotsam, while survivors cling to wreckage and pray that the creature's appetite will be sated before it notices them. Those lucky enough to wash ashore often arrive broken in body and mind, babbling about pitch black eyes the size of a human head and the screams and wet crunching noise of fellow crew members being eaten alive.

The Criminal Heart

In the district the locals call the Throat, Crime Lord Rajul Samin holds court over Medha's shadow economy. Here, in abandoned maintenance tunnels and repurposed cargo containers, the city's dark side of business unfolds away from the palace's watchful eyes. Underground fighting pits draw crowds hungry for bloodsport, where gladiators tear each other apart for the entertainment of wealthy spectators whose bets determine life and death with casual cruelty.

The combat arenas operate by simple rules: no yielding, no mercy, only raw survival. Desperate gladiators, whether they’re human, clone or mutant, dance their deadly ballet while the crowd roars in approval, their faces twisted by pain and desperation as they fight for the right to see another dawn. Money changes hands with each spray of blood, each broken bone, each final breath.

Several major syndicates maintain an uneasy balance of power in the undercity, though most bow to the word of Rajul Samin. They operate sophisticated clone-smuggling operations, intercepting Prime's shipments and "repurposing" the captives for sale to customers who prefer their servants new and fresh, rather than already worn down by years of working in the harbour or the mines. Their influence is said to reach into the palace itself, though Queen Nubia maintains careful neutrality, understanding that the criminal element of Medha provides services the legitimate government cannot officially acknowledge.

The Mines of Medha

Beyond Medha's walls stretch the vast open-cast mines, great wounds in the earth where orange sand is torn from the desert's flesh. Here lies the foundation of the city's wealth - one of the vital ingredients for omnimorph production that ensures the Prime AI's continued patronage. The mining operation runs in relentless shifts, the work never stopping even when the sands erupt with death.

Workers toil under the merciless sun, with little to no protection, their breathing apparatus creating mechanical rhythms that counterpoint the roar of massive haul trucks. These vehicles, their wheels taller than buildings, lumber between extraction points and processing facilities in an endless cycle of exploitation. The contracts with Prime's facility demand constant deliveries, and the Pharaoh's displeasure at quota failures is legendary among the overseers.

But the true horror of the mines lies not in their brutal working conditions, but in what lurks beneath the shifting sands. Sand worms and other mutant creatures burst from the earth without warning, their massive forms bristling with razor teeth and armored hides that can deflect most weapons. These creatures have evolved to hunt in the bountiful environment of the mines, gorging themselves on hapless workers that are too slow to get out of the way.

When the creatures appear, warning sirens shriek across the worksite. Workers scatter like insects as the ground splits open and nightmare made flesh erupts into the burning daylight. The guards respond with heavy weapons and flamethrowers, but they can only drive the beasts back temporarily - rarely kill them, never truly win. The creatures feed on the workers and then retreat to the deep places to nurse their wounds and grow hungry again.

No one keeps an accurate count of the daily death toll. In the harsh calculus of the Desolation, individual lives pale before the value of the orange sand that keeps civilization's heart beating. The work continues even as the screams echo across the churned sand.

The Water Wars

In the streets of Medha, a quieter but no less deadly conflict unfolds between the nomad tribes and the Water Guild. The nomads, their faces weathered by desert storms and their eyes hard as flint, follow ancient codes that forbid the sale of water for profit. To them, water is life itself, sacred and freely given to those in need.

The Water Guild operates by different principles. To them too, water is sacred, but their operations and equipment don’t come cheap and the Guild needs to turn a profit, especially in an unforgiving environment such as Medha. Their blue-robed members control the distribution of safe and clean water, keeping Medha alive.

When these philosophies collide, blood flows in the narrow alleyways. Guild members are found floating face-down in their own cisterns, drowned as a message to others who would monetize survival. The city militia meanwhile looks the other way - some conflicts run too deep for official intervention.

Life in the Shadow of the Palace

Despite the violence and exploitation, pockets of humanity persist in Medha's sun-baked streets. In hidden corners of the grand bazaar, Nomads and merchants share tea and stories of the world beyond the dunes. Clone workers gather in crowded cantinas during their brief respites, sharing dreams of freedom and purpose after indenture.

The city's rhythm follows the ancient patterns of survival - the frantic activity of dawn as ships prepare for the dangerous crossing of the mid-sea, the blazing productivity of midday in the mines and markets, the shadow-wrapped intrigues of evening when the underground arenas come alive with bloodsport and betting.

When night falls over Medha, the city transforms. The legitimate businesses close their doors as less savoury establishments open theirs. In the basement fighting pits  gladiators prepare for combat while wealthy patrons place bets on their survival and death. Street vendors hawk water purification tablets and radiation detectors to travellers preparing for desert crossings. Smugglers offload their contraband in warehouses where questions are never asked and memories are wiped clean with coinage.

Above it all, the Queen watches over the city from her palace, the Palace Guard her eyes and ears, their presence and on the spot trials and executions a reminder that power in Medha flows from the top down, that every citizen's fate ultimately rests in the hands of a queen whose own time is carefully measured and finite.

As each dawn breaks over the pearl of the mid-sea, Medha awakens to another day of survival, commerce, and violence. The mines resume their thunderous operation and the harbour bustles with activity as the ships that are brave enough to risk the Kraken-haunted Shrunken Sea are loaded.

In this jewel of the Sand, where luxury and desperation walk hand in hand through streets that remember older glories, the great game of civilisation continues. Water flows, blood spills, queens rise and fall, and the orange sand continues its journey from the wounded earth to the distant cloning facilities where humanity's future is manufactured one perfect body at a time.

Medha endures, as it has since the days of the Great Collapse - a beacon of stubborn human persistence in a world that seems determined to grind all life into dust.