The Fugitive Worlds

by Bob Shaw

  The smile returned to Toller's face as he saw that the crucial moment had come while his ship was well to the west of the island, so that a single natural maneuver would bring it into position for an upwind landing. It very much looked as though the aerial wheel of chance had declared against Vantara. He glanced again at the Countess's ship and was appalled to see that it was already breaking out of the flight pattern and beginning a steep descent to the island, obviously intent on making an illegal downwind landing.

  "The bitch," Toller whispered. "The stupid bitch!"

  He watched helplessly as the other vessel, its speed enhanced by the following breeze, speared down through the lowest levels of the air and drove towards the center of the island. Too fast, he thought. The anchors will never take the strain! Puffs of smoke appeared on each side of the gondola as its keel touched the grass and the anchor cannon fired their barbs into the ground. The ship slowed abruptly, its gasbag distorting. For a moment it looked as though Toller's prediction would be proved wrong, then both ropes on the left side of the gondola snapped. The ship rolled and turned, hauling its rear anchor out of the soil, and would have broken free had not the crew member on the solitary remaining anchor begun paying out line at maximum possible speed, thus easing the strain on the rope. Against the odds the single line took up the load without breaking, and all at once it was impossible for Toller to bring off his intended landing maneuver—Vantara's ship, dipping and wallowing, lay across his line of descent.

  "Abort the landing!" he shouted. "Up! Go up!"

  The main jets sounded immediately and, following the emergency drill, the crewmen who were not otherwise engaged ran aft to transfer their weight and help tilt the nose of the vessel upwards. Prompt though the corrective actions had been, the inertia of the tons of gas in the envelope which strained overhead slowed down the ship's response. For nightmarishly protracted seconds it continued on its course, with the obstructing vessel expanding to fill the view directly ahead, then the horizon began to sink with nerve-abrading slowness.

  From his position at the side of the bridge Toller glimpsed the long-haired figure of Countess Vantara, a momentary vision which was replaced by the swift-sliding curvatures of the other gasbag, so close that he could make out the individual stitches of the panels and load tapes. He held his breath, willing himself and his ship to rise vertically, and was beginning to hope that a collision had been averted when there came a vast groaning sound from below. The sound— low-pitched, quavering, reproachful—told him that his keel was ploughing its way across the upper surface of the other ship's gasbag.

  He looked aft and saw Vantara's ship emerging from beneath his own. At least two seams had given way in the varnished linen envelope, allowing the supportive gas to spew into the atmosphere. The rents, although serious, were not bad enough to cause a catastrophe—the elliptical gasbag was slowly becoming misshapen and wrinkled, allowing the gondola beneath it to sink to the ground.

  Toller gave the orders for his ship to resume normal flying and to make another circuit in preparation for landing. The maneuver gave him and his crew an excellent opportunity to watch the countess's ship sink down at the end of its tether, and—the final ignominy—be blotted out of sight by the collapsing gasbag. As soon as it had become apparent that nobody was going to be killed or even injured, the release of tension caused Toller to laugh. Taking their cue from him, Feer and the rest of the crew joined in and the merriment became almost hysterical when the parachutist—whose existence had virtually been forgotten—descended into the scene of action, made a comically awkward landing and ended up sitting on his backside in a patch of swamp.

  "There's no hurry now, so I want a flawless showpiece landing," Toller said. "Take her in slowly."

  In accordance with his instructions the ship settled down against the breeze with a stately motion and grounded with a barely perceptible shudder. As soon as the anchor cannon had secured the craft, Toller swung himself over the rail and dropped to the grass. The first of Vantara's crew were beginning to struggle out from beneath the folds of their gasbag, but Toller ignored them and walked towards the parachutist, who had risen to his feet and was gathering the sprawled canopy. He raised his head and saluted as he saw Toller approaching. He was a lean, fair-skinned youngster who looked barely old enough to have left his family home, but—and Toller was impressed by the realization—he had completed a double crossing of the void that lay between the sister worlds.

  "Good foreday, sir," he said. "Corporal Steenameert, sir. I bear urgent dispatches for her Majesty."

  "I thought as much," Toller smiled. "I am under orders to transport you to Prad without delay, but I think we can take a moment to let you get out of that skysuit. It can't be very comfortable walking around with a wet arse."

  Steenameert returned the smile, appreciating the way in which Toller had put the relationship on an informal footing. "It wasn't one of my best landings."

  "Bad landings seem to be the order of the day," Toller said, glancing past Steenameert. Countess Vantara was striding towards him, a tall black-haired woman whose high-breasted figure was made even more impressive by the fact that she was holding herself angrily erect. Close behind her was a smaller woman, much rounder in build, wearing a lieutenant's uniform, who was laboring to keep pace with her superior. Toller returned his attention to Steenameert, his sense of wonder stirring as he thought of the magnitude of the journey the boy had completed. In spite of his youthfulness, Steenameert had seen sights and had been granted experiences Toller could scarcely imagine. Toller envied him and also was deeply curious about what had been discovered on the voyage to Land—the first since the colonization of Overland had begun fifty years earlier.

  "Tell me, corporal," he said. "What was it like on the Old World?"

  Steenameert looked hesitant. "Sir, the dispatches are privy to her Majesty."

  "Never mind the dispatches. Man-to-man, what did you see? What was it like?

  A gratified expression appeared on Steenameert's face as he struggled out of his one-piece skysult, making it apparent that he had a compulsion to talk about his adventures. "Empty cities! Great cities, cities which make Prad look like a village—and all of them empty!"

  "Empty? But what about the—?"

  "Mister Maraquine!" The Countess Vantara was still a dozen paces away, but her voice was forceful enough to silence Toller in mid-sentence. "Pending your dismissal from the Service for willfully damaging one of her Majesty's airships, I am taking command of your vessel. You will consider yourself under arrest!"

  The arrogance and the sheer unreasonableness of Vantara's words checked Toller's breath, inspiring in him a pang of fury so intense that he knew it was vital for it to be subdued. He put on his most relaxed smile, turned slowly towards the countess, and immediately wished he had met her under different circumstances. She had one of those faces which have the effect of filling men with hopeless admiration and women with hopeless envy. It was oval, grey-eyed and perfect—flawless in a way which set its owner apart from all the other women Toller had ever seen.

  "What are you grinning at?" Vantara demanded. "Did you not hear what I said?"

  Putting his regrets aside, Toller said, "Don't be silly. Do you need any help with repairs to your ship?"

  Vantara glanced in outrage at the lieutenant who had just arrived at her side, then triangulated her gaze on Toller's face. "Mister Maraquine, you don't seem to realize the seriousness of your situation. You are under arrest."

  Toller sighed. "Listen to me, captain. You have behaved very stupidly, but fortunately no real damage has been done and there is no need for either of us to make an official report. Let us just go our separate ways and forget the whole sorry incident."

  "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  "It would be better than prolonging this lunacy of yours."

  Vantara's hand moved to the butt of the pistol in her belt. "I repeat, Mister Maraquine, you are under arrest."

  Scarcely able to bel
ieve what was happening, Toller instinctively gripped the haft of his sword.

  Vantara's smile was icily perfect. "What do you think you could do with that ridiculous museum piece?"

  "Since you ask, I'll tell you," Toller said, lightly and evenly. "Before you could even raise your pistol I could cleave your head from your body, and were your lieutenant foolhardy enough to try menacing me she would suffer the same fate. Furthermore, even if you had two others of your crew with you . . . and even if they managed to fire and put their bullets into me ... I would nevertheless be able to run at them and cut them down.

  "I hope I have made myself clear, Captain Dervonai. I am under direct orders from her Majesty, and if anybody attempts to prevent me executing those orders that attempt will end in terrible bloodshed. Those are the simple facts of the matter." Keeping his expression bland, Toller waited to see what effect his words would have on Vantara. The physique he had inherited from his grandfather was a living reminder of the days when the military had comprised a separate caste in Kolcorron. He towered over the countess and had twice her weight, and yet he was not at all certain that things were going to go his way. She had the look of one who was not accustomed to being thwarted, whatever the circumstances.

  There was a tense moment during which Toller was acutely aware that his entire future was trembling in the balance, and then—unexpectedly—Vantara gave a delighted laugh.

  "Just look at him, Jerene!" she said, nudging her companion. "I do believe he's taking all this seriously." The lieutenant seemed startled for an instant, then she mustered a weak smile.

  "It is a very serious—"

  "Where's your sense of humor, Toller Maraquine?" Vantara cut in. "Of course, now that I think of it, you always did take yourself too seriously."

  Toller was taken aback. "Are you claiming that we have met before?"

  Vantara laughed again. "Don't you remember your father taking you to the Migration Day reception at the palace when you were little? Even then you went around wearing a sword. . . trying to look like your famous grandfather. . . ."

  Toller was certain he was being mocked, but if this was the countess's way of backing down without too much loss of face he was prepared to be compliant. Anything was better than continuing the needless confrontation.

  "I confess to not remembering you," he said, "but I suspect it is because your appearance has changed to a greater degree than mine."

  Vantara shook her head, rejecting the implied compliment. "No. It's simply that you have a poor memory—what about this skyman for whose custody you were, only minutes ago, prepared to risk the safety of two ships?"

  Toller turned to Steenameert, who had been listening to the exchange with interest. "Go aboard my ship and have the cook prepare you a meal. We will continue our conversation in comfort." Steenameert saluted, took hold of his parachute and dragged it away.

  "I presume you asked him why the expedition lasted so much longer than expected," Vantara said casually, as though the clash of wills had never taken place.

  "Yes." Toller was unsure of how to deal with the countess, but he decided to try making their relationship as informal and friendly as possible. "He said that Land was empty. He spoke of empty cities."

  "Empty! But what has become of the so-called New Men?"

  "The explanation, if there is one, should be in the dispatches."

  "In that case I must visit her Majesty, my grandmother, as soon as possible," Vantara said. The reference to her royal family connection had been unnecessary, and Toller took it as an indication that he was expected to keep his distance.

  "I, too, must return to Prad with all possible speed," he said, making his tone brisk. "Are you sure you don't want any help with repairs?"

  "Positive! The seams will be sewn before littlenight, then I'll be on my way."

  "There's just one more thing," Toller said as Vantara was turning away. "Strictly speaking, our ships were in collision and we are supposed to file incident reports. How do you feel about that?"

  She met his gaze directly. "I find all that paperwork rather tiresome, don't you?"

  "Very tiresome." Toller smiled and saluted. "Goodbye, captain."

  He watched the countess and her junior officer walk off in the direction of their ship, then he turned and retraced his steps to his own vessel. The great disk of the sister planet was filling the sky overhead, and the shrinkage of its sunlit crescent told him there was not much more than an hour until the daily eclipse which was known as littlenight. He was acutely aware, now that they had parted company, of the extent to which he had allowed himself to be manipulated by Vantara. Had a man been guilty of such appalling behavior in the air and arrogance on the ground, Toller would have given him a verbal blistering so fierce that it could easily have provoked a duel, and most certainly would have indicted him in an official report. As it was, he had been unmanned and bemused by the countess's incredible physical perfection, and had conducted himself like an impressionable youth. It was true that he had conclusively defeated Vantara on the main issue, but in retrospect he could almost believe that he had been as much concerned with impressing her as with carrying out his duty.

  By the time he reached his ship a crewman was standing beside each of the four anchors and making ready for departure. He went up the rungs on the side of the gondola and swung himself over the rail, then paused and stared at Vantara's grounded craft. Its crew were busy detaching the gasbag and laying it out on the grass under Vantara's supervision.

  Lieutenant Feer came to his side. "Continuous thrust to Prad, sir?"

  If I ever get married, Toller thought, it has to be to that woman.

  "Sir, I asked you if—"

  "Of course I want continuous thrust to Prad," Toller said. "And bring Steenameert to my cabin—I want to talk to him in private."

  He went to his cabin at the rear of the main deck and waited for the skyman to be shown in. The ship felt alive again, its timbers and rigging emitting occasional creaks as the structure as a whole adjusted to the tensions of flying into the wind. Toller sat at his desk and toyed abstractedly with navigation instruments, unable to put the Countess Vantara out of his thoughts. How had he managed to forget meeting her as a child? He could recall being dragged against his will to the Migration Day ceremonies, at an age when he scorned the company of girls, but surely even then he would have noticed her among the giggling, gauzy creatures at play in the palace gardens. . . .

  His musings were interrupted when Steenameert tapped at the door and came into the small room, still brushing food particles from his chin. "You sent for me, sir?"

  "Yes. We were interrupted at an interesting point in our conversation. Tell me more about these empty cities. Did you see no living people whatsoever?"

  Steenameert shook his head. "Not one, sir! Lots of skeletons—thousands of them—but, as far as I could tell, the New Men no longer exist. Their own pestilence seems to have turned against them and wiped them out."

  "How far abroad did you travel?"

  "Not far—two hundred miles at the most. As you know, we only had the three skyships . . . nothing with lateral thrusters . . . and had to rely on the winds to get us about. But that was enough for me, sir. After a while I had an uncanny feeling about the place—I knew there was nobody there.

  "I mean, we first dropped down only a couple of miles out of Ro-Atabri, the old capital. We were in the heart of ancient Kolcorron itself. If there were any people living on Land, that's where they would be found. It stands to reason that's where they would be found." Steenameert spoke fervently, as though he had a personal stake in convincing Toller that his ideas were valid.

  "You're probably correct," Toller said. "Unless, of course, it is something to do with the ptertha. From what I've been taught, the worst of them infested Kolcorron, while the other side of the globe was comparatively free of them."

  Steenameert became even more intense. "The second great discovery we made is that the ptertha on Land are colorless—just
like those on Overland. It appears that they have already reverted to their neutral state, sir. I suppose it was because the poison they developed for use against humans had done what was required of it; and now they are in a state of readiness to war against any other type of creature which threatens brakka trees."

  "That's very interesting," Toller said, but—belying his words—his attention wandered as the image of Countess Vantara's face began to swim before his mind's eye. I wonder how I can arrange to see her again. And how long will it take?

  "It seems to me," Steenameert was saying, "that the logical thing to do now is to mount a proper expedition. Lots of ships, well-equipped and carrying settlers, to reclaim the Old World—just as King Prad predicted we would."

  Toller had half-consciously noted earlier that Steenameert was unusually well-spoken for a ranker, and now it came to him that the man also seemed better educated than might have been expected. He examined Steenameert with new interest.

  "You've been pondering this matter, have you?" he said. "Is it your wish to go back to Land?"

  "Yes, sir!" The smooth skin of Steenameert's face grew pinker. "If Queen Daseene decides to send a fleet to Land I'll be among the first to volunteer for the journey. And if you were likewise inclined, sir, I'd consider it an honor to serve under you."

  Toller considered the notion and his mind conjured up a somber-hued picture of a handful of airships roaming over landscapes of weed-shrouded ruins wherein lay millions of human skeletons. The vision was made even more unappealing by there being no place in it for Vantara. If he went to Land, he and she would literally be worlds apart. It shocked him to find that he was already according her such a prominent place in his life scheme, and with so little justification, but it showed the extent to which she had breached his emotional defenses.

  "I can't help you get back to the Old World," he said to Steenameert. "I believe I have enough to keep me fully occupied right here on Overland."

  Chapter 2

  Lord Cassyll Maraquine breathed deeply and pleasurably as he came out to the front steps of his home on the north side of the city of Prad. There had been rain during the latter part of the night and as a result the air was sweet and invigorating, making him wish he did not have to spend the morning in the stuffy confines of the royal residence. The palace was little more than a mile away—visible as a gleam of rose-colored marble beyond serried trees. He would have enjoyed making the journey on foot, but he never seemed to have time for such simple pleasures these days. Queen Daseene had grown highly irritable in her old age, and he dared not risk annoying her by being late for his appointment.