by Ben Darrow
These sentiments were echoed by angry murmurs among the onlookers, and Tench’s temper began to fray. “Don’t be absurd,” he snapped. “I only wish to climb to the antenna’s spire, so that I can enter the Verch and restore the Entity to Tenbor.”
“If you are so keen to lure the Entity back, why did you drive it away in the first place?”
“I did nothing to drive it away.”
“Then how do you propose to bring it back? Your thoughts on the subject are clearly confused. It is best, I think, that you return below, lest you make matters even worse.”
“Oteric, stop spouting nonsense,” Sthenna said. “Your memory may have grown dim, but it was not Tench, nor the Entity, who bade us leave our warrens. It was Lasmol who decided that we would depart, to join our lot with that of Tench’s people. It was Lasmol, along with all of you, who gave the Entity permission to lead us up out of the hull. And though we live apart from the soil-grubs, who are, after all, regrettably mundane, I still honor Lasmol’s decision, and his faith in Tench. I will provide Tench with whatever assistance is in my power.”
Oteric sneered at her. “Very well, then. Cozy up to your heroic grub. Perhaps he will provide you with good companionship.”
This remark obviously contained a barb, for Sthenna’s eyes went wide with fury and she went so far as to raise her hand as if to strike, her cable uncoiling like a vengeful serpent. The crowd gasped at this display, but Sthenna mastered her anger, storming away from Oteric as her cable-tip beat a rapid tattoo upon the platform. Oteric smiled and walked off in the opposite direction, finding a circle of sympathizers, to whom he spoke intently.
Tench found himself bewildered: Lasmol, as he well remembered, had been the tribe’s unofficial but universally admired leader when Tench had found them; but he could not remember anything in particular about Oteric, and of course Sthenna could hardly have been more than six or seven in those days. He turned quizzically to Adimar.
“What was that all about?” he asked. “Is Lasmol dead?”
“Not dead, but not long for this world,” replied Adimar. “He fell ill last year, and nowadays he often sleeps, or lives in a waking dream.”
“Who is Sthenna?”
“She is Lasmol’s wife.”
“His wife?”
Adimar looked at Tench somewhat sternly. “She is quite old enough to be his wife. As a matter of fact, they were married two years ago.”
“I see,” Tench replied, trying not to look scandalized.
“Sthenna is wise beyond her years,” Adimar continued, “and she has shown much good sense in the days since Lasmol’s illness. Still, she has been the victim of spiteful tongue-flapping from many fools.”
“Such as Oteric?”
Adimar scowled. “Oteric is more scoundrel than fool. He sees himself as Lasmol’s obvious successor, although he has never explained this to my satisfaction. So the politics of the Iron Goats, such as they are, are in a state of flux.”
“They seem to have been a bit vague from the start.”
“Yes,” agreed Adimar. “I personally would be happy to see the institution of a democracy along the lines of ancient Athens -- with gender parity, of course -- but I fear that as a culture we tend too much towards anarchy to adopt such a structured system.”
Tench took a moment to re-appraise Adimar. “You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought.”
Adimar smiled. “Do you think that just because we do not choose to dress like scribes, we lack all knowledge? I received high marks from the Preceptory Conclave of Mecantrion -- through the Verch, of course.”
Tench was sobered by this revelation. “These must be difficult days for the Iron Goats, living in such a remote place without access to the Verch.”
Adimar shrugged. “Not so much as you might imagine. We do not often enter it for entertainment, for it pales compared to the thrill of hurtling from spar to spar. No, we could live very well without the Verch. Our main concern in the present situation is food, for crops grow poorly on windswept metal. Unless supplies resume, we will have nothing to eat within three days.”
“What will you do?”
Adimar shrugged again. “That is an excellent question.”
At this point Sthenna returned to them, her composure regained. “You must not be put off by Oteric’s childish posturing,” she told Tench. “We will take you to the antenna spire directly. Will you enter the Verch right away?”
Tench glanced at the sun, well on its way towards evening, and took stock of his own exhausted state. The whispers had been blotted out of his mind by the novelty and terror of the high reaches, but now they were creeping back, more insistent than ever. “I’ll sleep first,” he decided aloud. “But tell me, does the spire have railings?”
“It does.”
“Then please take me there now.”
* * *
Adimar escorted Tench to the spire, taking care not to engage in any spectacular feats of acrobatics. The Verch node was set into the antenna at such a height that its tapering girth was no more than fifteen feet across. As Sthenna promised, it was surrounded by a wide circular platform with good solid railings all around. As they stood upon it, Tench looked up and saw the very top of the antenna perhaps seventy feet above him, its cluster of sensors patiently listening for messages that would never come.
The platform commanded an extraordinary view of the Dish and its surroundings, putting Tench’s spar to shame. Looking foreward, Tench could clearly make out the gargantuan hangars that housed the settlement of Zaltta. Astern lay the Eleventh Transverse Crevasse. Tench remembered crossing it on his journey to Mecantrion: he and Y’Phroum had traversed a bridge that was over half a mile long. From the antenna spire, the Crevasse was little more than a line on the horizon.
The node itself was set behind a panel, which Tench reluctantly opened, revealing an innocuous socket. A compartment held a crown with a singular feature: a cable dangling from its apex. Tench took the crown and gingerly plugged it into the socket. Tiny indicator lights flared on throughout its skeletal framework, and a readout next to the socket glowed a soothing green. The connection worked.
Tench quickly yanked the cable out of the socket and replaced the crown, closing the panel with trembling hands.
“Is there anything I can bring you?” Adimar asked.
“Yes,” Tench said. “Some dinner. Mushroom soup would be best.”
Adimar nodded and leapt casually over the rail. Tench sat down and watched the sun sink towards the horizon. At this altitude, he was well above the rim of the Dish, and therefore able to watch the sun all the way to the end of its journey, witnessing the rich scarlet hues of sunset that he had not seen since his time in Mecantrion.
While Tench was watching the swollen evening sun, trying to mute the whispers, the snap of a cable around the rail announced the arrival of a visitor. Tench expected to see Adimar, but it was Sthenna who vaulted over the rail, landing a few feet away from him. She presented him with a plastic globe, roughly the size of his head.
“Thank you,” he said, trying to determine what it was.
“This is Rhen’s personal recipe. She claims it is ideal for preparing the body for the Verch, although I confess I have never enjoyed it much.”
Tench realized that he was holding a spherical pot, the top of which came away to serve as a bowl. With some difficulty, he managed to make it come apart. The broth within smelled bitter and astringent.
“It will do nicely. Thank you.”
“Rhen is our most talented caster of glyphs. But she speaks of your talents with awe.”
Tench shrugged. “I had good teachers.”
“Yes, the sages of Mecantrion. Tell me, how did you find life among the Crew?”
Tench took a sip of soup as he considered his response, wincing a bit at the taste, and at his memories. “They have the best of intentions, no question. But many of them are too impressed b
y their legacy. There is something about a uniform that fosters arrogance.”
“You were not treated with respect?”
Tench shook his head. “At first, they considered me an unsophisticated rube. When I turned out to be good in the Verch, they resented me.”
Sthenna nodded. “This confirms my preconceptions. My time in Mecantrion will not be easy.”
Tench regarded her in surprise. “Why do you wish to go to Mecantrion?”
“To join the Crew,” she replied. “I cannot pretend to look forward to it, but I must have the Crew’s support when I lead the Iron Goats out of Tenbor.”
“Sthenna, I really am going to bring back the Entity,” Tench said, with as much confidence as he could muster.
Sthenna smiled at him, revealing a small dimple just below the scars of her right cheek. “I have perfect faith in your abilities, Tench. But the Iron Goats must leave all the same.”
“Why?”
Sthenna glanced out over the Dish. “In the ship’s belly, life was difficult. Survival itself, as a goal, was worthy and sufficient. But here in the heights, all is given to us. We revel in the freedom of our cables, but we do not do anything, if you take my meaning. We have no goal. We have schooled ourselves better than our parents, but our learning sits indolently in our skulls, never called upon to affect the world around us. We are the Iron Goats; we have an identity, but we lack a reason for our identity.” She shook her head. “When I think it, it is clear as daylight, but when I say it, it becomes snarled,” she said, kinking her cable-tip into an extraordinary knot, by way of demonstration. “But I am not the only one who feels this way. We Iron Goats know that our story is destined to be writ large in the annals of history, and it is becoming clear that this is not the site of our eventual glory.”
“But where will you go?”
Sthenna shrugged, sending a graceful ripple through her cable. “I have heard of a massive open space within the interior, crisscrossed by unbreakable wires. Or perhaps we could carve out a life for ourselves upon the walls of a Transverse Crevasse. I am sure there are many environments well-suited to our way of life which will need to be inhabited if the great ship is to fly.”
Surprise mounted on surprise for Tench. “Do you really believe the ship will ever fly?”
Sthenna shrugged again. “It is not likely to happen unless the Iron Goats put their minds to it; of that I am sure.”
Tench looked at her for a long moment before speaking. “There is a Wuldra named Y’Phroum visiting the Dish,” he told her. “He is a Lieutenant, from Mecantrion. He will not judge you by your origins.”
“The Wuldra Y’Phroum,” Sthenna repeated. “I shall seek him out. Thank you, Tench.”
“Not at all,” Tench replied. With a final nod of farewell, Sthenna somersaulted into the void. Tench did not listen for the snap of her cable from below. He had a feeling that if she fell all the way to the hull, she would walk away unbruised. He looked again at the Verch node and envied her.
* * *
Tench slept as soundly as could be expected under the circumstances, using calming chants to keep himself from contemplating the dizzying height of his resting place, or the perilous depths he would brave in the morning. The whispers lurked just below the threshold of intelligibility, causing him to half-wake periodically, but he was greeted only by the sound of the wind, or the distant snap and rasp of some midnight wanderer’s cable.
One such snap was so close that it opened his eyes completely. It was followed in short order by two more, and he sat up, feeling the first traces of fear stir within his belly. Banda-sarg nimbly leapt over him, standing between him and the source of the sound.
The star-crowded sky provided enough light for Tench to make out three cable-tips lashed around the platform’s railing. As he watched, two of them convulsed, sending dark shapes vaulting over the rail.
Banda-sarg had her jaws sunk deeply into the forearm of the first intruder before the man’s feet had touched the ground, and her victim crumpled senselessly with a soft grunt. The second assailant lashed out at the insectoid with his cable, but although he fetched Tench several nasty blows during his efforts, Banda-sarg somersaulted across the platform madly, always just avoiding the cable’s swings, until finally she leapt straight onto her attacker’s face and gashed his cheek. The man inhaled as if to scream, but lost consciousness before he could vocalize.
The owner of the third cable caused twenty feet of its length to slither forth from its grasp on the rail. The free end of the cable probed carefully about the platform, seeking Banda-sarg. It found Tench right away, huddling in a terrified ball and shivering at its obscenely warm touch, but it ignored him, continuing its quest for his protector. Banda-sarg sprung nimbly into the air whenever it got too close, and in the meantime, waved her antennae intently as she gauged exactly where the lurking Iron Goat hung. After a moment, Banda-sarg launched herself over the rail, flapping her useless wing-cases furiously in an attempt to arc her trajectory towards her suspended target. However, as soon as the rattle of her wing-cases betrayed her position, the cable-tip flicked out at her, sending her soaring away from the platform with an angry trill.
With Banda-sarg removed, the third assailant finally propelled himself onto the platform to face Tench. It was Oteric.
Tench, still huddled on the floor, was very close to weeping with terror. However, rather than plucking Tench off the ground and hurling him to his death, Oteric seated himself, cross-legged, with a thoughtful expression.
“You seem like a good fellow,” said Oteric after a moment, “and I am sure you are unaware of the significant threat you pose to my people’s future. Therefore, I feel you deserve an explanation as to why I am about to fling you far out across the Dish.”
“Please don’t kill me,” gibbered Tench.
Oteric frowned. “Who mentioned killing? Have you no bubble?”
Tench shook his head uncomprehendingly.
Oteric glared at him. “You are doubly foolish to have made the ascent with no bubble,” he admonished. “But I should not be surprised. You may have mine.” Oteric withdrew a soft transparent sphere on a loop, and tossed it onto the ground before Tench’s feet. “As you fall, it will expand into a great cluster of domes, which will slow your descent.”
Tench collected the device, trying to come to grips with the situation. “Why throw me over, then?”
“The Iron Goats stand at a turning point in their history,” Oteric replied. “For the first time, the stultifying comforts provided by the Entity have been denied to us, quickening us to realize that we were meant for more than idle acrobatics. With each passing day, more ears open up to my message. Soon the moment of truth will come, and I will lead us down from the antenna and out across the ship.”
“What has that to do with me?”
“You propose to restore the Entity, and you may well succeed. I realize that the Entity’s presence is important, and appropriate, to your soil-grub lifestyle. But if you were to restore it now, the smothering blanket of its protection would douse the flames of ambition stirring in our breasts. I need another day, perhaps two, before I can effect our departure. Once we start our march to destiny, you will be free to return to this spire. In fact, I will see to it that one of my aides delivers you here personally.”
“Sthenna spoke to me of destiny,” Tench said cautiously. “She wants much the same thing as you.”
“Sthenna is a child; she does not know what she wants,” replied Oteric with a sneer. “And I do not propose to wait until she matures. The Iron Goats will be gone in two days’ time, with myself at the vanguard. On that topic, you may wish to tell your fellow soil-grubs to prepare stores of food for us -- we will need them for our journey.” Without another word, Oteric stood and enveloped Tench carefully with his coil, lifting the terrified man effortlessly off the ground and getting a feel for his heft.
At this point an oblo
ng shape went hurtling overhead with a rattle and a shriek, trailing a cable behind it. Oteric dumped Tench unceremoniously and made a futile snatch for the missile, which was already out of reach. However, just when it seemed that it would follow its trajectory without event, the very tip of its trailing cable snapped down around the platform’s railing, causing the projectile to stop with a shudder and swing down beneath the platform. Oteric dashed to the rail where the cable clung and peered over the edge, screening himself with a writhing length of his own cable. As he stood there, the cable came up again over the opposite edge of the platform, releasing its bizarre payload, which flew upwards in a high arc. Oteric spun around, catching the cable in his own. He was still trying to find its master when Banda-sarg landed on his shoulder, giving him a generous bite.
Tench, after taking a moment to collect his scattered wits, dragged the unconscious men to one side of the platform and piled their quiescent cables on the other. Then, reassuring himself that Banda-sarg stood vigilantly between, he recited a chant designed to accelerate exhaustion, and quickly fell asleep.
* * *
When Tench awoke, his assailants had left or been removed, and Adimar was watching him like a hawk.
“Are you well?” Adimar asked. “We tried to wake you last night, but could not. Have you been hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Tench reassured him. He tried to gauge the hour by looking at the sun, but the unnaturally low horizon baffled him. “What time is it?”
“Twenty minutes past nine,” replied Adimar. “Do you want food?”
Tench shook his head, reaching into his pocket for a square of nectar. “This will do,” he explained, unwrapping the waxy tablet and wolfing it down. “I should get started.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Adimar asked anxiously.
Tench shrugged. “I don’t think so, but you can stay if you like.” He went to the port and took up the crown, debating whether or not to spend some time in meditation before entering. He decided to plunge in before the whispers had time to rouse themselves. He jammed the crown down over his temples and hit the connect button.