On Krynn, Teldin had stood beneath the walls of huge buildings and at the foot of sheer mountainsides. In all of those cases, there had been the sense – totally false, but nonetheless disturbing – that the wall had sloped outward near the top, so that it was poised over him like a mighty weight ready to fall. This wasn’t the case here. There was no sense that the black wall was anything but flat, no sense that it posed any threat of falling.
Yes, Teldin felt fear welling up inside him, but it was nothing so mundane as a fear of falling objects. It was the sheer scale that terrified, the very sense of infinity. There was no feeling of direct danger, either to him or to the ship as a whole. To acknowledge danger would, somehow, be to dignify oneself with too much significance, to fool oneself into believing that one’s existence or nonexistence mattered one whit. It was that conceit that the black wall denied, and therein was its terror. In a universe in which such things could exist, how could anything as infinitesimal as Teldin Moore have any importance whatsoever?
“What is it?” he croaked.
It was Sylvie who turned away from the map table and answered him in her clear voice. “The crystal shell,” she said. “The boundary of Krynnspace. We’ll be there soon.”
That didn’t make sense …. “We’re still moving?”
Sylvie chuckled, a sound that reminded Teldin of mountain streams. “At fall speed,” she told him. She came over to him and laid a seemingly weightless hand on his shoulder. “How far away do you think that is?” she asked him quietly.
Teldin paused in thought. There were no marks on that infinite plane, no features or details. It was totally unrelieved blackness, with nothing for his eyes to focus on. How can you focus on nothingness? At first he’d thought the wall was perhaps a bow shot away: one hundred paces, maybe two. But now? He realized his initial estimation had been a desperate attempt by his mind – and, if the truth be known, not a very successful one – to reduce what he was seeing to dimensions that he could comprehend. When he forced himself to be honest, he could no more estimate the distance to that wall than he could accurately gauge its size. “How far?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
“More than a thousand leagues,” the half-elf replied. She glanced over her shoulder back toward the chart table. “They’re ready to open the portal,” she told him. “I’ll talk to you later.” She flashed him another of her instant smiles and returned to her duty station.
More than a thousand leagues …
At the map table, Vallus Leafbower glanced over at Estriss and replied to a silent question. “Yes, we’re within range,” the elf said. “Shall I proceed?” Teldin’s brain didn’t pick up the answer, but the elf nodded in agreement. He picked up a rolled parchment from the map table – Teldin had assumed it to be another navigation chart – and carefully unrolled it. His gray eyes darted over the scroll’s contents, and he began to read.
“Ileste al tiveniel no aluviath bethude …” The elf s voice was soft, and the syllables flowed fluidly off his tongue. Teldin felt the short hairs at the nape of his neck stir with his fear. He’d seen spellcasters weave their magic before; if Estriss was to be believed, the cloak was capable of something similar. But here, within sight of the infinite wall of blackness, the event seemed to take on much greater significance. He felt the sudden urge to cover his eyes, to withdraw. He was involved in things that were too great for him. What was he, anyway? A farm boy. And here this farm boy was, about to pass through the barrier that contained quite literally everything he’d ever known or experienced. It was only with the greatest effort that he kept his gaze steady on the blackness ahead of the ship.
“… menoa tire alao galatrive.” Vallus Leafbower fell silent. Directly ahead of the hammership, a new star burst into life: a point of fierce white light. A smile of satisfaction spread across the elfs face as he saw it. When he spoke, there was a slight tremor of exertion in his voice. “The portal is open.”
Aelfred nodded to an unspoken order from Estriss. “Aye,” he responded. “Flow stations. I’ll spread the word.” He gave Teldin another quick but reassuring grin. Then, stopping only long enough to extinguish the lantern that hung over the chart table, he left the bridge.
Teldin felt his eyes drawn back to the new star that had sprung to life in the firmament. It looked somehow different now from how it had been in its first moments of existence. For one thing, it seemed to twinkle slightly, to shimmer the way stars had always done when he’d looked at them from the ground. In contrast, all of the other stars were constant when viewed from space, totally unvarying in their hard light, like tiny crystals. There was now color, too; sometimes the new star seemed blue, sometimes red, changing its hue so rapidly that his eyes could hardly keep up with it.
Was it just his imagination, or was the star growing larger? At first it had been a point, totally dimensionless. Now he could swear that it had a disk …. Yes, there was no doubt at all. It was growing larger.
With a suddenness that was as shocking as a solid punch to the stomach, his perception of the universe instantly reordered itself. No longer was he looking at a star that was somehow, unaccountably, growing in size. He was looking at a hole in the blackness – a hole through it – leading to what lay beyond that infinite wall. The light he saw wasn’t coming from an object. It was the light of whatever lay outside this crystal sphere, outside Krynnspace. The hole – the portal – wasn’t growing. The Probe was hurtling toward it at inconceivable speed ….
Teldin couldn’t control his reactions. He slapped both hands over his eyes and folded at the waist so his chest was against his knees. He heard a whimper of panic … and realized that the voice was his own.
He felt a hand on his back, and the cool touch of Estriss’s voice in his mind. There were no words involved. It was the mental equivalent of a soothing murmur, the inarticulate sound of comfort parents make to their small children. Teldin drew strength from it. He sat up again, taking his hands away from his face. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He couldn’t meet the illithid’s gaze, nor look up at the others standing around the map table. His humiliation was complete.
Words formed within his brain. There is no reason to be sorry. Fear is natural when one is confronted by the unknown. The vast majority of those who travel the universe experience a reaction similar to yours at some time, … often the first time they see the boundary of a crystal sphere and realize its significance. Humor tinged the mind flayer’s words. My own reaction was much the same as yours, perhaps more intense. Estriss continued more seriously. The shock typically strikes but once. After the first impact, die traveler is inured, it least partially.
Come, a test. The illithid tightened his grip on Teldin’s shoulder. We are about to pass into the flow. Look on the portal and tell me your reaction.
Somewhat hesitantly, Teldin raised his eyes. The view ahead of the ship was vastly different. The true nature of the porral was obvious now. It was perfectly circular, a great hole in the blackness. The margin of the portal – the circumference of the circle – glowed with a harsh and brilliant blue-white light that reminded Teldin of lightning storms over the mountains neat his home. Under other circumstances, this glowing margin might have been bright enough to dazzle, but here it faded almost to insignificance – because the light of chaos itself seemed to flood through the portal!
Beyond the black plane of the crystal sphere was what looked like an ocean of multicolored fluids intermixing in turbulent, riotous confusion. Streaks and whorls of every color of the rainbow churned with hues for which Teldin had no names. All glowed with a radiance in which every object on the bridge cast shifting multihued shadows. Wisps and ribbons of color seemed about to leak through the portal, but appeared to evaporate at the last instant. This must be the flow ….
The ship’s forward motion had slowed drastically. No longer did the portal seem to grow with such dramatic speed. Instead, the Probe seemed to be edging its way forward, cautiously, toward the unknown. For the first time, Teldin
’s brain could finally make sense of what he was seeing and grasp the scale involved. The portal was near now. He could tell that for sure; only a hundred paces or so remained. It wasn’t as big as he’d initially guessed, only about twice the length of the Probe – a total of about five hundred feet – in diameter.
How do you feel? Estriss asked him.
Teldin didn’t look at the illithid, didn’t take his eyes off the view ahead. “Dazed,” he replied quietly. “Amazed, but under control.”
Good. The captain joined the others at the chart table. Even though the thought wasn’t directed at him, Teldin “heard” the illithid’s order: Take us through.
The Probe inched forward. The distance to the portal halved.
The chaotic colors of the flow seemed to bulge outward, away from the ship’s bow, as though a bubble were forming in a liquid. As the ship advanced, so did the bubble. It’s like we’re a ship in a bottle, Teldin thought, remembering the intricate ship models he’d once seen an old man selling, impossibly constructed inside a narrow-necked glass bottle. If you immersed the bottle in paint, this is what the crew would see. The Probe’s bow passed through the portal. For an instant, the black wall was invisible. A thin line of blue-white brilliance encircled the ship. Then the vessel was through.
Teldin’s curiosity overcame the sense of weakness that still possessed him, and he forced himself to his feet. He edged his way past the officers at the chart table and descended the three shallow steps to the forward weapon deck. The crewman who was taking Teldin’s watch duty was squatting on the deck, his back against the ballista’s swivel mount, gazing around him with undisguised fascination. He heard Teldin’s approaching steps and nodded a greeting before returning to his observations.
Teldin searched his memory for the man’s name. After a moment, it came: Shandess. Older than most other members of the crew, he reminded Teldin of an ancient bit of chewed leather: very much the worse for wear, but still tough and resilient. “You’ve done this before?” Teldin asked him. He’d meant to speak in a normal voice – a way to prove to himself that he’d shaken off his earlier shock – but the words still came out in a whisper.
“The flow?” Shandess nodded. “Oh, aye, three score times, more maybe.” He grinned, showing crooked and broken teeth. “It always gets you, don’t it?” The old man pointed upward and astern, over the forecastle. “That’s your home behind us, ye know.”
Teldin turned. The black plane was visible again, but this time astern of the Probe. The sense of infinity was missing, simply because the flow itself wasn’t perfectly transparent, and attenuated his vision over distance. Still, the sheer immensity of what he could see was quite impressive enough.
The stern of the vessel was just passing through the portal. From this perspective, it was easier to appreciate the shape and size of the air bubble that surrounded the ship. It looked like a smooth ovoid, about three times as long as the ship, and about three times as wide as the Probe’s beam. As far as he could tell, the bubble’s “walls” were totally insubstantial; the light of the flow didn’t reflect or refract from anything. He knew that his initial image of the bubble as a glass bottle was wrong, but still it was very descriptive. As the ship moved forward, the intertwined rivulets of color parted for it, eddying slightly as they flowed backward along the bubble’s periphery.
He looked astern once more. The portal was gone, closed. The black plane of the crystal sphere was unbroken and unmarked. Krynnspace – his entire life up to this point – was on the other side of that colossal barrier, and he was sundered from it, perhaps forever.
Chapter Five
The corridor was dark as Teldin made his way back toward the cabin he shared with the gnomes. Normally corridors and companionways were lit by small oil lamps mounted in brackets on the bulkheads, but now the brackets were empty. The only light came through open doors, and that was the shifting, colored light of the flow flooding in through portholes. Teldin wasn’t sure if it was this dim but constantly changing illumination or his own weakness that made him sway almost drunkenly as he walked.
He could hear the conversation before he reached the cabin and found himself grinning. Although he couldn’t distinguish the words, he recognized the tune. Dana’s voice dominated, and from her tone he could tell she was voicing her displeasure about something aboard the Probe. Maybe it was the food again, or the way the ship’s weapons master wouldn’t let her adjust the action of the heavy ballista, or maybe it was something new. He had to give Dana credit: she had a gods-given ability to find something wrong with everything.
Rather surprisingly, the conversation cut off as he opened the door. The two hammocks were occupied by Miggins and Dana, while Horvath sat cross-legged on a cushion of folded canvas. Teldin stifled a sigh. The way his body felt right now, he needed a rest, and sacking out on the floor just wasn’t comfortable, but what could he do?
Before he could lower himself to the deck, however, Dana had swung herself out of her hammock … anticipating by an instant Miggins’s attempt to do the same thing. The younger gnome shrugged and resettled himself comfortably.
Dana flopped down on a bundle of sails in the corner. “Take it,” she said gruffly, indicating the hammock. Not once did she look up or meet his eyes.
Wordlessly, Teldin clambered into the hammock and relaxed with a sigh. He didn’t know what to make of Dana’s actions, but as a farmer he knew the inadvisability of looking a gift horse in the mouth. He glanced surreptitiously over to Miggins, hoping the boy would give him some clue, but the youth’s smug smile didn’t tell him anything – or, at least, anything he wanted to know, part of his mind admitted. He shook his head as if to clear it.
The chaotic light of the flow poured into the cabin, washing the bulkheads with ever-changing veneers of color. Under other circumstances, Teldin might have found it beautiful, even somewhat hypnotic. Now, however, it made him feel edgy and a little claustrophobic. Looking around, he saw that the cabin’s single oil lamp wasn’t burning – why should it be? – but at least it hadn’t been removed like the ones in the corridor. “Can’t we cover the portholes?” he said a little peevishly. “Here, I’ll light the lamp.” He reached for the steel and flint he always kept in his belt pouch ….
He didn’t even see the gnome move, but suddenly Horvath’s hand was like a steel band around his wrist. “No!” Horvath said sharply. “No fire.”
Teldin looked at the other gnomes. They were all staring at him in horror. “All right,” he said reasonably, “no fire, but why?”
Horvath still held his wrist, but the grip had loosened from its initial viselike tightness. “We’re in the flow,” he explained in a tone he’d reserve for a child or a congenital idiot. “We’re in the phlogiston. Don’t you know what that means?”
“Obviously not,” Teldin replied. The gnome’s manner irritated him somewhat, but he was sensible enough to realize that he’d been about to make some major mistake. “What’s —” he stumbled over the word “— flegisten?”
“Phlogiston” Horvath repeated. He finally released his grip, leaving Teldin to rub his bruised wrist. “The flow is phlogiston.”
“Which is …?” Teldin prompted.
“Merely the most flammable substance in existence,” Horvath said heavily, “flammable and explosive. Why do you think there isn’t a light burning in the entire ship?”
Teldin didn’t answer. Instead, he remembered Aelfred’s actions on the bridge when the Probe had been preparing to move through the open portal. The first mate had said something about “flow stations” … then he’d extinguished the lantern over the chart table. At the time, Teldin hadn’t attached any significance to it.
Horvath wasn’t finished. “Do you know what would have happened if you’d struck a spark just now?”
Teldin felt a cold stirring in the pit of his stomach. “What?”
“You might well have blown your hand off,” the gnome told him flatly. “At the very least, you’d have suffered
a nasty burn, at the worst killed yourself, depending on how good your steel and flint are. That’s why, when a ship’s about to enter the flow, an officer always goes around to make sure everything’s at ‘flow stations’ – no lights, nothing burning. Spacefarers are full of tales about ships being destroyed because the cook didn’t know the ship was leaving wildspace and hadn’t quenched his stove.”
“I’ve got an idea for a flow-stove ….” Miggins piped up, but immediately fell silent again under Horvath’s harsh glare. Dana snorted. “That oversized lout of a first mate didn’t believe we understood about flow stations.”
Horvath’s hard expression softened slightly. “Nobody told you that?”
“No,” Teldin said, shaking his head vigorously. “I suppose they assumed I already knew it.”
Horvath frowned. “Sloppy, that was,” he said. “Never assume anything with dirtkickers.” He patted Teldin’s wrist reassuringly. “My apologies for my anger, Teldin. The fault was theirs – and, I suppose, ours – not yours.”
Teldin shook his head. So close … “The phlogiston is really that flammable?” he asked.
“All that and more,” Horvath assured him. “Why, my father was trying to invent a phlogiston bomb, a sealed flask of phlogiston with a fuse attached. Never managed it, may his soul rest in caverns of gold.” The gnome placed a respectful hand on his chest.
With supreme effort, Teldin choked bad a chuckle. He tried to keep his voice casual and amusement-free as he asked, “Did the bomb work too well?”
Horvath shot him a hard look, then his eyes twinkled and a grin split his face. “No, that’s not the way of it. The bomb proved impossible simply because you can’t bring phlogiston inside a crystal sphere, no matter what you do. No, my father died well, may the gods rest him, of old age with his family around him.”
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