The com-signal chimed in her consciousness, and Mogurn's voice broke into her solitude. Jael, what's wrong? The feedback oat here looks poor. It looks unstable.
The landscape turned to brimstone and filled the sky with a rising, burning haze. She tried to control it, to subdue the sudden eruption of anger at the sound of Mogurn's voice. Nothing's wrong. Everything's fine, she answered curtly.
Are you sure? Mogurn's voice was a growl in one corner of her mind. She envisioned him on the bridge, squinting anxiously down into the rigger-station, leering at her still form. His voice was bodiless here in the net, but she was sure that physically he must be very near. She had to work hard not to lose her equilibrium. She countered an instinctive urge to avoid him by retreating to the extremities of the net; that wouldn't help.
I'm fine, she insisted. The image was showing signs of disintegration. The outer edges of the landscape looked unfocused, almost frayed. Mogurn's interference was creating a potentially hazardous situation. The ship was beginning to shake in the turbulence. Mogurn might not have been able to feel it inside, but here in the net there was no mistaking it. Jael drew more energy from the flux-pile, trying to stabilize the image.
I'm depending on you, said Mogurn.
I know. Now please leave me alone to do my job!
Very well. I'll be back to check later.
Jael didn't respond. She thought hard, searching her imagination for something that would help her to stabilize this situation. She focused on the angry horizon, aware that her focusing power was indeed stronger. Had the pallisp really aided her? The colors at the horizon bled, and a crimson sunset swelled over the mountains off to what she envisioned as the northwest.
Mountains. She was startled by the realization. The mountains she and Mogurn had talked about: the ones that he wanted her to skirt. She'd felt their presence from afar; it had just been a question of when she would reach them and what form they would take—and how, or whether, she would skirt them. The route through the mountains was the more direct one to their destination, Lexis, and just now she was feeling inclined to bring this flight to an end as quickly as possible. But there were reports, and not just Mogurn's warnings, that the mountain route was more dangerous, with tricky currents. And, of course, dragons.
Jael smiled at the thought. That, of course, was what Mogurn was worried about: the legends in the rigging community—and that's all they were, legends—which held that dragons lived in these mountain routes along the fringes of Aeregian space. They were real dragons, according to the legends, fire-breathing dragons that lived in the Flux as humans lived and breathed in air. There had been some discussion of the subject back in rigger school, where it had been treated about as seriously as the legends of the "ghost rigger ships," the lost "Flying Dutchman" ships of interstellar space. No instructor could swear that the dragons did not exist, objectively speaking, but one knew well enough what they thought. Dragons made for vivid and wonderful stories, but not one teacher or rigger in a hundred believed that they were real.
Still, the rumors persisted as rumors do: riggers in the starports boasting, telling tales of dueling with dragons. And not just dueling, but conversing. Still, Jael gave even less credence to the boasts of riggers than she did to the carefully disclaimed references in school. So far as she knew, there was no real evidence for believing that anything actually lived in the mountains—or, for that matter, anywhere else in the Flux. But according to the library hypnos, there did seem to be a special quality to the Flux in this corridor that almost demanded mountain imagery in the minds of passing riggers; and sometimes it evoked dragons, as well, or images of dragons. Maybe some riggers believed the dragons to be actual living inhabitants of the Flux, but Jael had never met anyone with firsthand knowledge. The library nav-hypnos described them simply as unusually compelling images. Of course, that didn't mean they were harmless. Even imaginary dragons could threaten a ship, if they were vivid enough in a rigger's mind. Either way, it sounded dangerous to pass that way. It sounded glorious.
And that was why Mogurn had warned her away, she was sure. Still, he had not absolutely forbidden her to fly in the mountains—and after all, she was the rigger, wasn't she? It was she, not Mogurn, who chose the images and the streams of the Flux to ride. He could suggest a route, but the ultimate choice was hers. And what did her senses tell her now?
Stretching the focus of her vision, she tried to spy out the distant range. There was still turbulence from her confused emotions; she could distinguish only the general rise and fall of the mountain peaks. She would have to move in closer to see anything useful. And that might not be such a bad thing to do, despite Mogurn's fears. The greater demands of close-in flying would help her to focus, help her to discipline her imagination.
She banked slightly to angle in that direction. The net sparkled around her as she grew excited—at the thought of quickening the flight, at the thought of danger. Perhaps she shouldn't really do this, not if the danger had become an attraction for her. But there were times when one simply had to take charge, to do things for one's own sake. Mogurn's fears be damned, she thought.
Abruptly she transformed herself into a mountain eagle, and she caught a new current and soared northwest, pulse racing, net glittering like jewels in the Flux.
* * *
Ahead was twilight, emerging from sunset. Mountains stood jagged and black against a wine red sky that deepened into evening. The mountains were much closer now, more fully revealed to her awareness. She scanned ahead with just the slightest feeling of unease, using the edges of her mind to explore the approaching shadows. Would there be dragons? She doubted it; still, there was no way to know absolutely. And she had not yet decided whether she would actually violate Mogurn's request.
A sense of quiet anticipation settled in as she flew on eagle wings ever closer to the range of peaks. A part of her almost hoped that dragons would appear—if for no other reason than to ease her loneliness.
The com-signal chimed again, chilling her.
Isn't it time you came out? asked a bodiless Mogurn.
A sudden crosswind made her shiver. Is it? she asked, stalling.
You've been in there for hours, Jael. Too long.
Really? It doesn't seem that long.
What's the matter, Jael? Don't you want to come out?
She hesitated, torn by conflicting desires. He would be waiting to give her the pallisp, she knew. But this was not a good place to leave the net unattended, not with the mountains approaching. It might not be safe to leave right now, she said finally.
Not safe? Why not?
She spread her wings to catch a warm updraft. Because . . . there might be dragons.
His eyes squinted furiously, or so she imagined. Dragons? Dragons? Jael, have you taken the mountain route?
Jael beat her eagle wings with sharp strokes. Yes. That is—no, not exactly. But we're near there.
Find a stretch of safe passage. And then you come out and see me in my cabin, Jael. His voice touched her like ice, and she stopped pumping her wings. His anger made her tremble. She saw distant lightning among the peaks, reflecting her sudden fear.
All right, she whispered, and the world suddenly seemed even colder and lonelier. She did not want to leave here to face him, of all people. But neither did she want to lose the pallisp tonight.
You should have thought of that before, she thought.
Banking left, she brought the ship into a heading that would take it parallel to the range, if there were no unexpected shifts in the wind. She thought she could probably safely leave the net here. Still, she delayed leaving—gliding in a gentle breeze, watching ominous dark peaks drift past, far off to the starboard. She wished that somehow the fear and the loneliness would subside.
Finally, when she could no longer justify staying, she set the stabilizers and the alarms. Her senses melted back into her body as she withdrew from the net, and she opened her eyes, blinking, half expecting to see Mogurn squinting in at
her. But the bridge was deserted, gloomy and lonely. There was nothing here to greet her but the instruments, and for that she was grateful.
She stretched as she stood beside the rigger-station. She realized for the first time that she was hungry. And tired; her limbs were heavy with fatigue. She wasn't sure which she wanted more, sleep or food. But Mogurn had said to come immediately. Sighing, she left the friendly gloom of the bridge and went to Mogurn's door. She pressed the signal. The door paled and she stepped inside.
Mogurn was seated, smoking his long pipe. His eyes betrayed nothing of his thoughts. He rose and silently gestured for her to sit. She slid onto the bench-seat, conscious of the crystal tapestry twinkling over her head, wishing she could spin around and disappear into that miniature world of light and refraction. Mogurn frowned, studying the end of his smoking pipe. The smoke curled toward her, stretching out like a vaporous hand. "Why did you disobey me?" he asked.
Jael shivered, certain now that she would be denied the pallisp. Perhaps that was for the better, but she could not see it that way now; all she could see was the relief and the warmth that the pallisp could bring to her. "I . . . meant no disobedience," she murmured, shamefully aware that it was only half true. Yes, he had not strictly forbidden her to fly that route, but of course she had been aware of his desires and had—yes—rather relished ignoring them. Had quietly relished his fear of the mountains—his fear, she presumed, of dragons that almost certainly were not real.
Mogurn stepped closer, hovering over her, alternately blocking and exposing the light behind him. Jael squinted nervously up at him. "Did I not say that I preferred the longer route, Jael? Was there some special circumstance you haven't told me of, some need to take the more perilous course?"
Was that fear in his voice? No. He was the master. Jael bit her lip. "I . . . was having trouble, the other way. But this way it was clearer. And I wasn't worried. I think, well, the stories about . . . dragons . . . are just stories. I don't consider them real."
"Oh?" Mogurn glared at her with his bloodshot eyes. "Tell me, Jael—what is real to a rigger? Can you tell me that? Is it what is in the Flux—or what is in the rigger's mind?" He drew a lungful of smoke and exhaled it as he spoke. "It doesn't matter, Jael—either one can destroy us."
Jael met his stare for a moment, then nodded mutely.
"And, drunken sods though most riggers may be," he added bitterly, "one should never laugh at their reports, should one?"
Her face burned at his sarcasm. "No. But still, it's just legend!"
"Is that it, Jael? Just legend? When riggers report what they have seen and felt, is that just legend?"
Jael shrugged. How many riggers, she wondered, had actually reported dragons? Not many, she was sure. But she said nothing.
"Now, are we still close enough to our original course to turn back onto it?" He exhaled another cloud of smoke, which drifted past her face before being drawn into the ventilators. Jael opened her mouth to reply in the affirmative, but something made the words stick in her throat. Instead, she shook her head. "We can't avoid the mountains?" he growled. She shook her head again, with greater determination. Mogurn stared at her, drawing smoke from his pipe and exhaling it in repeated large plumes. Finally he turned away in silence.
Jael watched as he laid his pipe on the reading table and returned to her, pallisp in his hand. "All right. It is time." His voice held no kindness, nor did his eyes. But the sight of the pallisp sent a thrill down Jael's spine. Unhappiness and loneliness welled up in her; she hated the realization, but she was shivering in anticipation of the joy that would come from the thing.
At Mogurn's gesture, she bent her head forward and pushed her hair aside. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mogurn's arm reach, saw the pallisp gleam . . . and felt the cool touch of the probe. She felt the pallisp's warmth reaching into her with shimmering energy; felt that warmth encircling the ugly, waiting feelings of alienation, fear, anger; felt it closing around those feelings like flowing blood, healing and soothing and transforming the emotions, softening her inner defenses and filling her with the warmth of joy and love . . .
The wave turned icy cold. Jael swayed dizzily as a tide of fear and dread welled up inside her, sweeping away all other feelings. For a moment, she was disoriented as well as frightened. Her thoughts were flooded with pain and confusion. Then she realized—the pallisp was gone. She sat back, blinking wildly, struggling to hold back a rush of tears. As Mogurn spoke, she could hardly see him through blurred eyes; but he had stepped away from her, and she could see the glint of the pallisp in his hand. "That's all for tonight, Jael. You must understand what obedience means, even for a rigger." Jael tried not to tremble under his gaze, but she was desperate with frustration and need, and helplessness. Slowly, and with great effort, she steadied herself, drew herself upright into a semblance of dignity. Mogurn nodded. "Now, Jael, help me with my augmentor. Then you may retire."
Though dying to scream, she obeyed. Mogurn reclined and she fitted the synaptic augmentor to his head and adjusted the controls, and when Mogurn was reduced to a silent figure fluttering his hands and pawing himself with a blind-eyed grin, she backed away and fled to her cabin.
* * *
Her thoughts seemed to roam about the cabin like birds on wing against a distant sky. Her cabin was at once a boundless space in which she felt tiny and insignificant, and a grim claustrophobic cell, threatening to crush her. She stalked the little room like a caged animal, brooding.
The question kept coming back at her: why had Mogurn done this to her? Why use a device that would make her addicted? Was there any doubt that he had known what would happen? What had he wanted, a rigger who was so dependent upon him that she would never leave unless dismissed? It seemed likely. She thought of the pictures she had seen in his cabin, the haunting despair in the eyes of those riggers. Am I that far gone? she wondered. Could she leave him now? Would she have the courage, if given the opportunity?
And what about his promise of heightened sensitivity in the net? Was that a lie, too? She had felt something, to be sure; but was it truly an improvement in sensitivity, or was it just an altered coloration of perception? It might well have been real; indeed perhaps that was another of his goals—to have, not just a rigger-servant, but one who could sense the realm more keenly, and perhaps fly faster and more stealthily in the service of his smuggling activities. But at what cost to her mind, to her soul?
She peered at her reflection in the mirror and tried to decide if there was anything different in her own face. Did she look thinner, more worn? More experienced, more capable? She pushed her fingers back through her hair, and exhaled deeply. Lord, how she wanted . . . how she needed the pallisp! How she wanted it to take this lonely bitterness from her soul and turn it into something warm. She would almost kill for that. But only Mogurn knew precisely how to use the thing, and so she needed Mogurn, too.
Maybe, she thought, a mist-bath would make her feel better. Checking that her door was locked, she shrugged out of her clothes and stepped into the tiny mist cubicle. She elbowed the start button, and closed her eyes as the mist issued from the walls and surrounded her with a warm swirling dampness. Sighing, she allowed the mist to gently scrub her clean, and she blinked as the droplets dispersed, leaving her skin tingling. She tentatively ran her hands down her body. She inhaled the moist ionized air, savoring the physical refreshment. As she stepped out, she grabbed a towel and rubbed herself down. Then she pulled some loose-fitting clothes out of a drawer and slipped into them. Though she intended to sleep, she felt safer dressed.
She sat cross-legged on her bunk, thinking, feeling the weight of her worries pressing down upon her again. She began to think of her father, to wonder if he had done things like this to riggers in his employ. She drew her knees up under her chin, thinking of Dap, whom she had trusted. Sighing, she switched off the light and stretched out, and after a moment turned on the sleep-field to lift her gently, not quite off the surface of the bunk, to help
her sleep.
And then she tossed and writhed, unable to rest at all. Unable to stop thinking. To stop her anger at Mogurn. To stop remembering Gaston's Landing, where her unhappiness had been so great that it had driven her to accept this instead. To stop remembering Dap . . . and that night, and the dreamlink . . .
* * *
His willful insistence, his gentle but deliberate deception, promising intimacy and understanding; she remembered the offer of friendship, and his eyes dark and earnest, and his vow: "We'll be looking right into each other, and our souls will link . . ."
And the golden glow of the dreamlink, and the warmth and the seduction . . . and the opening up of her heart and memory . . . and the devastating awareness of Dap's reaction to her need; his revulsion and his fleeing . . .
And her own muted cry of pain, which she had wrapped about herself and forced back in, bottling it so it could no longer hurt her . . .
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