Star Rigger's Way

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  "For the files," the registrar said. Cephean hissed. The man arched his eyebrows only slightly and went on, "We are giving you the certification of Special Provisional Apprentice Rigger. You'll have a medallion to wear, and you'll be accorded all the normal Guild privileges, except for voting. You'll only be allowed to vote when you're given normal status, and you'll be eligible to apply for that in one local year or one point two years standard."

  Cephean blinked and canted his ears. "Whass hhe means, Caharleel?" The man fiddled with the instruments, making clicking sounds.

  "It means you can fly Spillix with me. And you won't have to stay with me if you don't want to—you can go to any RiggerGuild Haven and stay as long as you want."

  Cephean sputtered something vaguely affirmative. By that time, the registrar was finished with what he had been doing, and he moved around behind the instruments. "Wait here," he said, and went into the next room.

  He came back a few minutes later and held something out for Cephean to take, then shrugged and handed it to Carlyle. It was a medallion similar to the rigger-friend medallion which Cephean already had. "Lower your head," Carlyle said. Cephean reluctantly obeyed, and Carlyle carefully fitted the medallion to the cynthian's forehead and secured it in place with a cleverly designed harness made of a thin gold chain which clung to the back of Cephean's head. The medallion at once changed from a flat gray color to luminous gold. A smoky pattern in the gold changed shape slowly and continuously.

  "It'll only do that when you are wearing it," the registrar said with a certain mixture of nonchalance and pride.

  "Not bad, Cephean," said Carlyle. "It sets off your fur very nicely." He pointed to a wall mirror, and Cephean turned.

  "Ssssss," he muttered. "Yiss."

  Next they went to the flight assignments section and checked with the Spacing Authority dispatcher. Minimum carryage for Spillix was available for a flight to Rinesindrum IV, seventeen lightyears north and counterclockwise out, which was at the extremity of the area Carlyle wanted to search. Carlyle considered, then decided to wait and see what else developed.

  That night he dined alone in the Guild restaurant. Things were on his mind—one of them Alyaca and one of them Janofer. Alyaca was a sharp hurt; when he thought of her he was flushed with feelings of inadequacy and anger and regret. But they carried less deeply than the slow burning in his chest each time he thought of Janofer. Janofer, Janofer. He tried to call her for a conversation, but she did not respond. He ate little, and did not much enjoy what he ate; but the longer he thought, the more anxious he was to lift ship and find his friends.

  Next morning came a call. Courier baggage had just been checked for Gladstone Port on Dani III, thirteen lightyears almost due north. Gladstone had been Legroeder's first port after leaving Chaening's World, and it was also quite likely a stop on the northern Aeregian tour which Skan had reportedly intended to rig. They could lift off that day if they hurried with the arrangements.

  "Caharleel," hissed Cephean. "H-we khann ffly tzugethsser?" (Uncertainty, shimmering with anticipation.)

  "Well—" Carlyle said, startled, "of course. Are you worried that we won't be able to?"

  "Ssssss." The cynthian swallowed his words, mumbling. He batted a riffmar idly.

  Carlyle thought hard. What if they did have problems working together? "Look. Tell you what. We can have a small dreampool generator installed in the ship's commons. It wouldn't be as nice as the one on old Sedora, but it will help if we start to have problems."

  "Hyiss," Cephean said. And that startled Carlyle almost as much as the original question. So willing? Was Cephean beginning to miss his quarm, perhaps?

  He put in the order, though, and by midafternoon Spillix was ready for flight—cargo, provisions, and all.

  * * *

  The Lacerta Ocean fell away beneath them, a shimmering blue ocean edged by land. Chaening's World. He would want to return. But now was the time to get away and be on with things. Overhead was the tow, her broad wings and Circadie space inductors glowing fuzzily against deepening darkness. Chaening's World shrank quickly as Spillix and her tow sped across the black emptiness of the Verjol system, accelerating continuously. Five hours later the tug broke company and dropped away into the distance; and half a day later Carlyle dropped Spillix into the Flux.

  Cephean joined him in the net but did little actual flying. However, he muttered and ffumff'd and occasionally remarked on their progress. Ghoods foress ffor hriffmar, he said as Carlyle pelted Spillix in a zigzag fashion through an autumnal forest which, as it happened, was filled mostly with evergreens. He was bound for winter.

  I expect it would be. He didn't want to say that it would be getting cold in this forest soon; and he didn't know for sure, but he suspected that the riffmar would not do well in a winter climate. But winter was in his heart, and he thought that the safest way to handle that feeling was to choose a winter scene which he could control and make safe. Would you like it for yourself, too?

  Yiss.

  Are you in the mood for snow? That's what we're going to see soon. Do you want to help fly?

  Ssssnoh?

  Light fluffy stuff. We'll make it good and powdery and dry. Hanging off the trees nicely. The image followed quickly on the thought, and Spillix flew among snow-laden boughs. The ground was covered deeply with the soft stuff.

  Caharleel—hi kann noss ffly hhere!

  Of course you can—you did it before on Sedora, just before the Flume. Remember?

  Yiss, buss hi kantss now!

  Instead of abandoning the landscape, which he should have done, Carlyle tried to encourage his crewmate. Give it a try, Cephean, all right? We can do it together.

  Cephean tried. He strengthened his presence in the net and gave the ship an extra kick. Carlyle called to the cynthian to stay close, so they wouldn't lose each other in the powder.

  Yiss, Cephean answered, but he seemed unsure of himself. In an effort to keep up he actually slid back along the shimmering ghost that was the net's outline. His hind paws dragged in the snow, and he slipped and skittered—as Spillix careered past a tree. Hhae-yae-sss! Cephean howled. He pulled himself in as Carlyle readjusted their flight path.

  Cephean, wait!

  But the cynthian withdrew to the inner safety of the net, and there he remained. Damn! Carlyle muttered. He felt terribly alone. He thought of Janofer and Alyaca, and flushed with unhappiness.

  Spillix pitched downward, with his mood, and exploded into the powder. The net went white—then Spillix erupted beneath the snow and winged into a cavern system where the walls and ceiling were ice split by crevasses, and the only sun was a bluish glow bleeding in from the outside world. Carlyle shuddered and flew with every nerve in his body. It was a damn-fool place to be: stalactites groaning above them and ceilings quaking, threatening collapse, and treachery in flying fast through a deceptive maze.

  Where am I going? I don't know the way out!

  Fear closed over him, icy and blue. Imprisoning. Cephean, I need help! No, wait—if he's nervous in snow, he'll be a disaster here. Cephean, just let me know if you're there!

  What's happening? Why am I saying this?

  A wall jutted from the left. Frightened, he veered and skirted close to the right-hand wall. That wasn't good, either; he banked closer to the center. Cephean! Cephean, I'm scared. Are you there?

  Whassss? Cephean crept a little closer to him in the net.

  I shouldn't have gotten into this place—I have to get us out. Can you come closer and stay with me while I find a way out? A vision of cataclysm entered his mind against his will: tumbling walls of ice, earthquake-loosened, smashing Spillix like a tin balloon.

  H-nno!

  No no no! That's not going to happen! It just—

  But the cry was in vain; Cephean had pulled out of the net in alarm. Carlyle was completely alone now. And he was flying at perilous speed; there had to be a way to slow down, to get out. There had to be a way. A new image—that was in his power—all h
e had to do was imagine a path of escape for the ship (but I can't do it alone!) and not panic because he had fallen into a dark fantasy, fear fear fear—jeesus, a thought of a woman got him here, so why couldn't a thought of a woman get him out? A woman who knew the way. Janofer would know—and there she was now, at the far end of the cavern, waiting for him up there by the tiny little light which must be the exit; if he could just fly true and clear, he could reach her.

  Janofer laughed, and her face lit the way, and the tiny little piece of light was now a bright piece of sky. It was easy, after all, it was nothing to sail right out through the hole in the ice ceiling—and suddenly they were free in the air, with open sky over tundra. Janofer sang, and kissed him once, and vanished without having spoken a word.

  Wait! he cried. But it was no use. She was gone, and maybe she'd be back when he needed her; but it didn't seem that she'd be around when he merely wanted her.

  The sky turned to pure, threaded gold, and he locked the stabilizers and got out of the net.

  * * *

  They were a week late getting into the Dani system, due mainly to Carlyle's getting lost in an endless and winding brackish-water glade. He had started taking things more slowly, rigging only when he could maintain images satisfactory to both Cephean and himself. As a result, he charted a longer course than he had intended. He fretted about the delay. He wanted to get there, to find a trail if there was one, and to move on quickly if there was not.

  "Cephean," he said, "let's get this ship straightened up before we come in, all right?" The commons were littered with spillover from Cephean's room; he was not keeping the riffmar on the job of housekeeping.

  "Caharleel, whass hwe dho hhere?" Cephean asked, rather than answering the question.

  "We're going to the port of Gladstone, on Dani III, and I'm going to ask for news of my friends. Probably we won't be here long; probably we'll be trying another planet."

  The cynthian studied him, whiskers twitching. His eyes were slits with a glint of copper. He looked at the litter on the deck, looked back up at Carlyle. He seemed to be trying to decide if the effort was worthwhile. Then he turned and went into his quarters, and Carlyle heard the rustling of riffmar at work.

  After two weeks of flight, they left the Flux. The Dani III tow met them and took them into a landing at the Gladstone spaceport. This was an urban port, with the gray buildings of an industrial city forming a skyline beside the space field. Carlyle had never been here before and he was not sorry, now that he saw it. The Guild Haven was adequate, however, if not lavish.

  He left his shipmates in the bar and went to the Guild offices to see what he could learn.

  What he learned was something, but not much. Legroeder had passed through here a couple of months ago. But he had not returned from Argos II, which was to have been his next port of call. There was no information at all about Janofer or Skan. It was suggested that he might spend some time in the bar, talk to as many people as he could, and hope for news or rumor from other riggers who had been traveling in the region.

  Glumly he returned to the bar. He looked around for Cephean, and couldn't believe his eyes. The cynthian was seated at a bar table, on a large cushion which someone had evidently placed on the floor for him. Several of the riffmar were up on the table, swaying slightly in time with the sensory light-show coming from the rear of the bar, and the rest were clustered under the table. But what most astonished Carlyle was the cocktail bulb in front of Cephean. As he approached the table, two of the young riffmar picked up the bulb, pointed its jet into Cephean's mouth, and pumped it gently. Cephean lapped at the stream, spilling half of it; and then he pulled away, blinking and sputtering.

  Carlyle slid into a seat. "When did you start drinking cocktails?" he asked, examining the contents of the bulb. It looked like a rum-fruit cocktail. "Did you order this yourself?" He noticed now that there was another bulb on the table, squashed flat.

  Cephean licked his lips and pawed at his whiskers. Was he tipsy, or was that Carlyle's imagination? "G-hoods, Caharleel," he sputtered. "Mans bross iss." His whiskers twitched to the left, and he emoted satisfaction.

  From the shadows on Carlyle's right, a man approached the table. He looked rather old and pale, he wore an oversized rigger's shirt, and he squinted in one eye. "Name's Jolson. I was sharing a couple of drinks, here, with your friend."

  Carlyle gestured, and Jolson took the opposite seat. "I'm Gev Carlyle. And this is Cephean."

  "Ah, Cephean. So that's your name. I wasn't sure." Jolson glanced back and forth between the two, grinning. "We talked a bit, earlier—or mostly I talked. But we had a little trouble making sense."

  Cephean's eyes moved liquidly from Carlyle to Jolson.

  "Where are you from, Jolson?" Carlyle asked.

  "Oh, lots of places," Jolson said, waving vaguely across the table. He coughed. "Just in on a long haul from the Dreznelles. But that was actually the first time I rigged in that particular direction. Usually I work the northern Aeregian lanes—I like to take slow floaters and duel a bit with the dragons along that mountain route to Lexis and Venice." Jolson caught a waiter's eye and procured another bulb.

  Carlyle asked for a beermalt, in a glass. To Jolson he said, "You haven't been around a planet called Charos, by any chance?"

  "Charos? Why sure. In and out of there quite often."

  Carlyle lifted his eyebrows and glanced at Cephean. The cynthian was watching them both impassively, in apparent contentment. Carlyle accepted his glass and sipped at it. He braced himself for the next question. "You haven't come across a rigger by the name of Legroeder, have you? I heard he was bound for Charos, some time back."

  "Oh, then, that's another matter. He could be anywhere. What was his name? Magroder?" Jolson squinted harder.

  "Legroeder. Small man, dark hair, sort of dark skin. He was a stern-rigger when I was with him."

  Jolson squirted a stream from his bulb and swallowed it. "That name does sound familiar, and so does the description. But I'm not sure I could put the two together and make it stick. Let me think about it for a bit." His eyes narrowed and followed the passage of two female Narseil riggers across the bar. They were glistening, almost humanoid amphibians; the Narseil were rarely seen so openly in human company.

  "Well, how about a couple of other friends of mine? Janofer Lief, a woman with long silvery hair." How many times would he have to go through this before he finished? How many times could he? "And . . . and Skan Sen. Light skin, solid facial features, faintly oriental eyes."

  There was a quiet slurping noise—Cephean taking another swallow of his drink, then licking his lips. Jolson struck the table with his fist. "Skan! Yes, by damn—by damn, I did meet a Skan. But not at Charos. It was—where was it? It was, I think it was at Andros. That was it. By the Wall of the Barrier Nebula. Near Golen space." He took a long pull from his bulb.

  Carlyle gulped his beermalt nervously. The light-show flickered against the side of Jolson's face, making him look even paler than he had before; there seemed a hint of translucence to him—or was that Carlyle's imagination?

  "Golen space," he muttered.

  "Uh-huh," said Jolson, peering at him. "You ever been there?"

  Carlyle shook his head. "No, but I've heard." Pirates. Flux abscess. Many lost ships. Golen space began with the fringe outworlds, and became more lawless and politically unstable the farther one flew. There were rumors of hostile aliens, as well.

  "Most of what you've heard is true—in essence if not degree." Jolson snapped at the waiter for another bulb. His voice was softer now, and Carlyle leaned forward to pick out the words. Cephean crooned softly to himself, apparently not listening. The riffmar squatted on the tabletop, looking as though they were listening.

  "Did you talk to Skan? Did he say what he was doing there?"

  "Well, no," answered Jolson. "Not exactly. This was some time ago, you understand, before my Dreznelles haul. And I don't believe I actually spoke much with him myself. But I do seem to
recall hearing that a ship was taking on riggers heading for one of the Golen space worlds—I think one of the more civilized ones. He may have gone on that ship."

  "But you don't know?"

  "No," he said, shaking his head. He squirted liquid from his bulb.

  Carlyle's hand trembled as he lifted his glass. He drank quickly, spilling beermalt down his chin. The thought of Golen space chilled him straight to the marrow. But if his friends were there, he had to go.

  But . . . Jolson didn't know.

  Jolson's eyes were flickering closed. He blinked them open again and looked at Carlyle with a start. "I'm tired now. Need sleep. And I really did want to talk some more with your Cephean friend." He sighed, finished his cocktail, and dropped the flattened blub on the table with the others. He started to rise. "Perhaps if you'll be here tomorrow, we can speak again." He fought back a tic in his left cheek; his face seemed almost bloodless.