Star Rigger's Way

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  Cephean, we may be headed for some kind of trouble—but I don't know. We both have to be ready. Please don't leave the net. Please!

  Cephean hummed, hoarsely.

  All right, Cephean?

  H-all righ-ss, Caharleel.

  He watched for a clue to what this thing might be. It was not an artifact of his mind, he was sure, but he didn't know if that was good or bad. Now there was a thrumming sound, thrumming as of great ancient engines. A sound of formidable power. Growing. Coming closer.

  Khanns we noss chahange, Caharleel? Cephean whispered imploringly.

  Carlyle thought hard. No. I'm afraid we might lose our way if we change now, too suddenly. He was tempted to send out a distress call on his fluxwave communicator, but he was afraid. This was Golen space. Sending out a cry could be like an injured fish thrashing in a shark-infested sea.

  The ship was approaching Spillix now. The light against which it showed itself grew stronger, colder, and the ship's silhouette grew darker. The thrumming reached Spillix like a heartbeat, and there was a hiss now, and a mutter of voices, many voices. The voices, which were indecipherable, seemed to echo against the Wall on the right. And the Wall was changing, bulging outward ahead, its bulge full of flecks indicating possible turbulences, possible gravity wells. He had to steer left to stay clear of the Wall. Left, toward the mysterious ship.

  He banked and hoped for a current to carry them swiftly ahead, more swiftly than the other ship. But his effort was in vain. If the steerers of the other vessel were deliberately seeking to intercept him, they knew where the currents ran and where shoals lay. His stomach felt as though it were crawling about inside him. His control of the net faltered.

  The mutter of voices escalated in pitch and in volume.

  Colors exploded about him in space. Drums boomed, boomed, reverberating.

  The ocean was suddenly alive with scrambling life in a frenzy of feeding, with popping lights that glared and blinded against the turbidity of the night. It was hard to see the Wall, and the other ship was invisible against exploding paint splashes of color. Spillix trembled through her net, bucking. There was no question: they were under attack.

  He had no idea what to do. Attack was a danger that riggers were not supposed to have to face. The voices growled and shouted at him.

  Caharleel, hyor frenss! cried Cephean.

  What? What? Are they coming? Did Cephean want him to bring them to life again?

  H-no! Hyor frenss! Hi hhear hyor frenss!

  Are you mad? Cephean, we've got to pull this one out ourselves!

  The ship was buffeted; the voices shouted. And suddenly he knew what the cynthian was hissing at him about.

  He heard Legroeder's voice in the babble from the attacking ship.

  Chapter 11: Raiders and Glassfish

  Legroeder!

  Was this—? No. No! This was not a memory-fantasy; he knew the real voice of Legroeder. His friend was aboard that ship—and he knew now what kind of a ship it was. It was a Golen space raider. A pirate ship.

  And it was closing fast. Coronas of light flamed around it, but the ship remained dark, black, swallowing its own light. Carlyle found himself staring as though hypnotized—staring—staring—and suddenly realized that Spillix's net was slipping from his control, was starting to bend around like a comet's tail and stretch outward toward the raider. Carlyle fought to hold the net tight.

  Caharleel! Whass? H-why? cried Cephean. (Fear! Confusion! Anger! spilled through the net in waves.) It was obvious that Cephean felt betrayed.

  These people aren't friends—they're enemies! Carlyle cried back. I don't know what Legroeder's doing there.

  The marauder-ship's corona bloomed with tentacles of flame which reached outward and around, as though to encircle Spillix. The raiders obviously meant to grapple Spillix and haul her out of the Flux, to take her back into normal-space where she would be helpless to repel boarders.

  Whatever else, he had to keep Spillix free of the grapples.

  The ocean was filled with flashes of light refracting weirdly. Carlyle banked Spillix desperately hard to starboard and down, away from the marauders and into the stroboscopic glare. Cephean—hard into the tail! Hard! The cynthian kicked, giving the ship an extra lurch away from the enemy—but the momentum was not enough. The arms of the marauders' net curved closer. Carlyle streamlined his net still further in a futile effort to gather speed.

  Who were these raiders? Why was Legroeder with them?

  The voices in the Flux had crescendoed into a kind of terrifying music. He could no longer identify Legroeder's voice. Perhaps he had been mistaken! Perhaps Legroeder was not there, was not a pirate. But no—even Cephean had distinguished the voice. And if he was there in the raider's net, Carlyle had to let him know who it was that he was attacking. Surely Legroeder could stop it if he knew!

  The method of attack was an astounding overplay of the raiders' Flux imaging and Carlyle's own. It should be possible to reply in kind, if he had the power—but he was being hammered, and he was dizzy, and he was confused, and he could hardly think or breathe. Discordant chimes struck him in the face—backed by a bombardment of drums, booming drums, tribal undersea drums of terror and doom.

  Whass iss thiss, Caha-harleel? Cephean cried in anguish.

  Doom, doom, doom doom doom . . .

  Pirates, Cephean! Raiders! They're after us and our ship!

  Whass he-we dho? (Anger! Terror!)

  Doom doom doom doom doomdoomdoom . . .

  I don't know! But he did know; he had to try to reach Legroeder. Cephean! Create the old image—the nighttime image, the dark! Black out these lights! Muffle the sound! They were being assaulted by sight and by sound; they were being wracked through their bones. God knew how many riggers they were combating in the other ship, or how much amplifying power in the raider's flux-pile. But they had to subdue this insanity to project a message through to Legroeder.

  He felt Cephean clawing and spitting against his fear to create quiet, to regain the old image—to find the Wall to the right, and oceanic night all around. Lights flashed randomly about them, generating confusion, lights out of synchrony with the doom doom doomdoomdoom. Carlyle focused on night . . . night . . . night deep night . . . and what conceivable image could tell Legroeder that it was Gev Carlyle out here? Try, Cephean, try! And he thought and thought, and the lights flashing and drums dooming became a little darker, a little less distinct. He doubled his effort with Cephean; and for a moment, flickeringly, they held an image of night with a ghostly wall, with a phantom ship silhouetted treacherously against a pale and evil light.

  Carlyle flashed out an image: Deusonport Field, Janofer and Skan and Legroeder crying farewell.

  Night swallowed the image—and then came thunder booming and the coronal light-show of a rigger-net blossoming entirely around them. They were losing the battle; they were surrounded.

  Again, Cephean, again! I have to get through!

  Cephean sputtered, and the light darkened smokily, and again they were in a night sea moving inexorably on the current toward the other ship. The thunder receded.

  Carlyle flashed forth another image: Lady Brillig, bold and gleaming against an evening sky.

  Madness shattered the image. Tentacles of fire encircled them and joined, welded, and drew them inward. They were captured. Spillix fell sideways in the current toward the raider.

  Carlyle cried out against the bonds, and terror reverberated between him and the cynthian. He struck vainly against the tightening web of fire drawing them in.

  * * *

  There was a change in the Flux. The raider was beginning to climb with Spillix, out of the Flux toward normal-space.

  Cephean! Deeper! Dive deeper!

  Sssssss! cried Cephean frantically—and for a moment the cynthian's terror overwhelmed the total power of the enemy. Carlyle joined him fiercely, twisting downward, and Spillix like an enormous hooked fish dragged the raider deeper into the Flux. Night spilled like ink t
hrough the deadly light of the raider's net.

  They succeeded for a few moments. But then the surprise and the momentum were lost, and the raider's superior power began to tell against them. The two ships again moved upward through the diminishing layers of the Flux.

  Suddenly a shaft of light, just out of phase with the rest, spun from the raider and struck full into Spillix's net. It blazed and then darkened in its center, and with a jump in focus Carlyle found himself staring down an enormous barrel toward the raider. Swirling energies in the tube wall held it solid, sealed against the outside.

  Show yourself! demanded a voice, reverberating.

  Carlyle peered down the bore in alarm. He could see nothing; it might have been the pirate's leader shouting, but he had to take the chance. He drew himself to full size in the net (whispering to Cephean, Be ready! Be ready!), and he bellowed down the tunnel: This is Gev Carlyle! You show yourself!

  Christ, Gev—what are you doing here? roared Legroeder.

  Carlyle stared, dumbfounded, up the tunnel. Finally he found his wits.

  What am I doing? he cried. I'm looking for you and the others! What are you doing with pirates? And why didn't you warn me?

  I just found out it was you! Wait—

  There was a change, and Spillix seemed to be resisting the raider's pull more successfully.

  I'm feigning difficulty with the others. I can't keep it up long.

  Why didn't you warn me an hour ago, when we were flying together? Carlyle cried frantically.

  What? What are you talking about?

  When you . . . and suddenly he remembered, that had been a fantasy-construct of Legroeder . . . God, he was losing his grip . . . never mind. What's going to happen to us?

  You're in trouble, Gev. The man doesn't take many captives. If I'm going to help you we've got to move fast.

  What are you doing here, Legroeder?

  No choice. And no time—and I don't know why you're looking for Janofer and Skan in Golen space, of all the—

  They came this way.

  What? Well, why did you—?

  Lady Brillig, Legroeder—so we can fly her again!

  For that you—Christ, Gev, our chances aren't worth—wait—wait . . .

  * * *

  The moment seemed to last an hour, and they were drawing very close to normal-space now. Then the pounding of the drums faltered. Legroeder shouted, Gev! Go!

  Beneath Spillix, a ribbon of the raider net broke free and trailed away, exposing a window of ink-black space. A window for escape.

  Carlyle hesitated. There was so much to say! And Legroeder . . .

  GEV, GO! THIS IS IT!

  Caharleel!

  The escape window was closing. The drums picked up and thundered, booming.

  The cynthian didn't wait for Carlyle's decision. Yowling, he kicked, clawed his nails deep into the Flux, and drove downward with Spillix on his tail. Carlyle swung, gasping, and almost cartwheeled out of the net, stomach reeling—and he dove, hung onto Cephean, and focused on keeping Spillix's net as small and as hard and as dense as he could. Spillix flew like a stone. Wind and drums and screaming voices rushed in his ears and somewhere among them was Legroeder shouting farewell. Carlyle clenched his eyes to keep the tears in, and they dropped through the hole in the raider's net just before it sizzled closed, and vacuum hit them with a thunderclap.

  Around them was only darkness . . . and receding, receding screams of anger. Cephean kept the ship hurtling, spinning. So fierce was his desperation that he paid no heed to Carlyle or to the pursuing raiders or to direction, except to plunge back deeper and deeper into the Flux.

  The Wall wheeled into view, a shimmering cloud, curling away to the left. Keep diving, Cephean! The cynthian didn't answer. Carlyle held his breath, and the Wall grew before them, covered with enormous hungry anemones, and Spillix arrowed straight through the ocean night and into the soft surface of the Wall, through billowing luminous clouds. The night was lost astern, and so was the raider, and with it, Legroeder.

  They were swimming in eerie chambers of cloud and flowing vapors. Steer clear of the high-density areas, Carlyle warned as he finally took up his own reins in the net, with Cephean. They could be Flux abscess. Chamber opened into chamber, with walls of streaming pastel vapor. The densities he referred to were embedded like cysts in the fluid walls. Spillix drifted steadily through the system of chambers.

  Good job getting us out of that, Carlyle choked, thinking of Legroeder. Odd shudders rippled through his spine. He stretched nervously through the net, glad for the cynthian's presence to keep him from dwelling on Legroeder. Cephean, too, was tired and nervous, and they both kept looking around for signs of pursuit. Carlyle felt that they were safely clear of that danger, but they were also clear of Legroeder. The time had been so incredibly short—so many things unsaid, unasked, unanswered. They had come so far looking, and now he was gone.

  But Legroeder was a changed man, different from the man who lived in Carlyle's memory-visions. So abrupt, so forceful, so forward. Even in an extreme situation, that was not the man Carlyle knew or imagined. Never mind that he was a pirate. Probably he had risked his life for Carlyle's. It was doubtful that he could have concealed his actions from the others in the raider net. Would he return to Lady Brillig? Would he even be able to try?

  Doubts crowded into Carlyle's mind. Even if he found Janofer and Skan, what new people—and new realities—would he discover?

  Caharleel, h-where h-are we? Cephean whispered.

  The present intruded again. I—why, I don't know. Their surroundings were eerily beautiful, whatever they represented. But though he assumed that they were somewhere within the analogue of the Barrier Nebula, Carlyle had not the slightest idea of their bearings or position. They would have to be extremely cautious until they learned more about the nature of this space. They might avoid one kind of abscess or queered gravitational effect, only, perhaps, to be taken unawares by another. And there was no reason to assume that other outlaw ships did not fly or lie in wait in these peculiar clouds, though why any raider would expect innocent traffic in these clouds he couldn't imagine. Unless they maintained a base . . .

  Cephean, we must steer very carefully through here. I don't know what to expect.

  Glowing clouds passed to the right, to the left, above and below them, like the system of some living, gaseous sponge. Carlyle shaped the spiderweb traceries of the net into sails and vanes, which were extensions of his own arms and legs; and he encouraged Cephean to use his tail as a rudder. The cynthian cooperated, but tensely. Carlyle wanted to say something, to apologize, to excuse the behavior of his fellow humans, but he could think of nothing to say. He was stunned and bewildered himself. Later. Perhaps later they would both understand.

  Legroeder—what will happen to you for setting us free?

  If only he could have done something to help his friend in return. The price Legroeder would pay might be his life. And probably Carlyle would never know.

  The Flux current moved smoothly, gently. They passed several dark regions of coalescing matter, giving a wide berth, and then they saw no more such hazards. In time, the mists thinned and edged out into the center current until there was no clear passageway, not even fuzzy boundaries between cloud and space. Now there were just varying intensities of mist, and they steered through the lesser. The current slowed, dissipated by its broadening, and eventually it was difficult to tell whether or not they were even still moving.

  Carlyle studied the surroundings: pale illumination in all directions, but mostly in areas of obscurity, lemon and rose fogbanks. They were in a doldrums area; he could detect no current at all. This was probably a good place to rest. He set the stabilizers and set alarms to summon him in the event of significant change. Cephean, would you like to pull out for a while and rest?

  Ho yiss, whispered the cynthian—and he was gone from the net.

  Carlyle joined him.

  * * *

  Four shipdays later, they
were still in the doldrums zone. Carlyle really wasn't even sure that they had moved since entering the zone. They were trying to decide whether to continue waiting the situation out (while who knew how many days went by in the normal-space universe), or to change the image to something shiftier and probably riskier.

  "I really wish I knew what we should do next," said Carlyle. He watched the cynthian poke idly at the smaller riffmar, who were clustered raggedly about him on the floor of the commons. Carlyle reached out and tickled the leaves of Odi (at least he thought it was Odi), who was standing nearby with his back turned. The riffmar quivered and sssss'd gigglingly. Carlyle changed his touch to a stroke, and the riffmar relaxed.