Analog SFF, November 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Now that he could see what it was he realized he'd been hearing it for a minute or two already—a distant whine in several keys from its engines. He could also see two spotter bikes weaving in spirals ahead of it. You never knew what might lurk inside a cloud, so the spotters went ahead of the ship to ensure that there were no rocks, water balls, or habitations in the way. On dark nights like this, spotters sometimes found obstacles by running into them. So ships tended to move slowly at night.

  They also used headlights to probe the blackness—that was simple prudence. This ship, however, was running dark. As it left the cloud in a whirl of eddied mist, another nose appeared behind it; and another.

  The sentry raised the horn again, suddenly fearing an invasion; then he saw the lantern-lit sigil of Slipstream on the hull of the lead vessel. He slowly lowered the horn and clipped it to his saddle. He was a citizen of Aerie; he would not pick a fight with Slipstream tonight. In fact, he would be happy not to be noticed by them at all.

  Seven big vessels passed by, all dark except for their running lights. As they disappeared into the black, the sentry shivered and turned his attention back to his watch. This would be a story for the morning, perhaps, but he wasn't about to fly over to the other watchers to compare notes. Somehow he felt it better not to speak of these ships while darkness reigned.

  Hayden hid in his coffin-sized bunk for as long as possible. He'd spent an uneasy and unpleasant night here, but was still reluctant to emerge into the reality of his new situation.

  His bunk was at the bottom of a stack in the exercise centrifuge. He felt like a disused book shelved away in a particularly cramped library. He couldn't sit up because the bunk above his was only inches away from his nose. Each time he rolled over the world seemed to turn in the opposite direction—a familiar enough sensation from town living, but magnified by the small size of this wheel. The thing rotated five times a minute but only provided a tenth of a gravity for all that effort. Its axles had creaked monotonously, men on either side of him had snored in different rhythms, and someone had created prodigious amounts of bad smell that hovered in the air for what seemed hours.

  Now his bedding was vibrating with footfalls as an endless parade of airmen ran laps around the wheel. The sleeping level had only one narrow aisle between the stacks of bunks, so the runners’ feet slammed down inches from Hayden's head. Finally, when someone stumbled and kicked his shelf, he cursed and rolled out into the narrow space between the bunk stacks.

  “Out of the way!” The boatswain pushed Hayden as he made to step into the aisle. For the next few minutes he ducked from bunk stack to bunk stack as other airmen made a game of trying to hit him on the way by. Their crude laughter followed him as he scrambled up the ladder to the upper level of the wheel.

  Last night the boatswain had made it very clear that on board this ship, Hayden was little more than dead weight. He had gone to bunk with the carpenters as ordered, but they didn't want him around either. He'd found an empty bunk in the centrifuge, but clearly he would have to locate some less trafficked part of the ship or he was going to be covered in bruises before the end of the day.

  The upper level of the wheel was simply a barrel fifteen feet in diameter. Half of it was taken up with crates, the other half was bare flooring where men with swords were circling one another under the watchful eye of a drill sergeant. Hayden eyed the crates, and finally climbed up on a stack, losing weight with every step. He settled in to watch the fencing technique of the men below.

  “You!” He looked down. It was the boatswain again. He was a florrid man with a crisp uniform and a shock of carrot-red hair. His eyes protruded when he glared, which was most of the time. Now his lips flapped as he said, “That's delicate equipment, get off it!"

  Hayden sighed and hopped from the crates up to the centrifuge's entranceway, at its hub. Surely there must be a quiet spot somewhere.

  All the ship's ports were open, it seemed, and a cold wind blew through the interlocking chambers of its interior. Everywhere he looked men were hauling ropes, shifting boxes, or hammering something. He decided that an open cargo door was his best bet and flew over to perch on its inside. A stiff wind flapped past just a foot away but he'd found a pocket of relatively still air. He curled up to look out.

  The sun glowed far to aft. It was dim and red with distance; they must be near the border. The clouds they passed threw hazy shadows like fingers pointing the way ahead.

  Dotting the sky around him were other ships. He counted six; there might be more on the other side of the vessel, but this was a far cry from the dozens that had left port. As the Rook slowly rotated around its axis he was able to verify that there were only seven ships in this group, counting his own. Where was the rest of the fleet?

  They skirted the sides of a cloud-mountain and suddenly the air ahead opened up, clear of obstructions. Hayden blinked in surprise. He faced a deep blue abyss—a span of darkness that ran from infinity below to infinity above, and stretched endlessly to both sides. The Rook was driving straight into Winter.

  He couldn't understand how he'd come to be here. He'd had the chance to kill Fanning, and he hadn't done it. That made him a coward—but, undeniably, there was also something big going on, something beyond an imminent attack on Mavery. He might be the only spy Aerie had aboard these ships. As he'd tossed and turned last night, he'd kept coming back to the conclusion that it was his duty to find out what he could, and report it back.

  When he no longer had a role to play, he would kill Fanning. This time there would be no hesitation.

  “Hey you!” He turned to find himself facing a boy with a rat-like face who wore an airman's uniform several sizes too big for him. “You Griffin?” he asked belligerently. When Hayden nodded, he jabbed a thumb in the direction of the centrifuge. “Yer wanted in the lady's chamber.” He smirked.

  “Thanks. You can call me Hayden, by the way. What's your name?"

  “Martor,” said the boy suspiciously. “I'm the gopher."

  “Good to meet you, Martor. By the way, where can a guy get a meal around here?"

  Martor laughed. “You missed it. That was six o'clock. Not that you could have et with us men, anyway. Yer gonna half to find yer own meals."

  “How much to get that arranged for me?"

  Martor's eyebrows lifted. He thought about it. “Six. No less."

  “Done.” Hayden went forward, a little less deferential to the other men now that he had a destination.

  It wasn't Venera waiting for him outside the captain's quarters, but the bland Carrier. He stood on the air with his his arms crossed, toes pointed daintily. He frowned at Hayden. “You have duties,” he said without preamble.

  “I, uh—yes?"

  “Lady Fanning has secured a bike for our use. This is not a military machine but a fast racer with sidecars. You are to familiarize yourself with it. Three hours a day, no more no less."

  “Yes, sir!” So they wanted him to fly? Well, it would be their funeral. “What model is it?"

  Carrier waved a hand negligently. “Don't know. Anyway, the rest of your time will be spent assisting the new armorer. We were told,” he said with a faintly unpleasant moue, “that you were mechanically minded."

  “Well, I tinker with bikes—"

  “Good. You are to report to the armorer immediately. That's aft,” Carrier added helpfully.

  “Okay, but what will I—” Carrier didn't even frown; he just turned his head away almost imperceptibly. Hayden got the message.

  A little of the stifling gloom that had settled on him last night lifted as he headed aft, but he was still bewildered at how quickly and thoroughly he'd gotten himself into this situation. If he'd had any sort of courage he'd have killed Fanning yesterday. The fact that he hadn't, and was now effectively working for the enemy, made him feel deeply sick.

  “—Know where you're going, do you?” said somebody. Hayden looked down to find Martor squinting at him. “It's this way,” he continued, pointing past the
drooping bellies of a row of fuel tanks.

  “Thanks. Hey—when I looked outside earlier, I saw we were headed into Winter? What's all that about?"

  Martor looked uncomfortable. “Don't know. Nobody's telling us anything, not yet anyway. You saw we split off from the main fleet? Rumor is we're going to come around behind the enemy. But that don't make no sense. Enemy's farther in to the suns, not out here."

  “You mean Mavery?"

  “Who else would I mean?"

  Martor was trailing Hayden now, shifting his weight and fiddling with his hands, much more like the boy he was than the tough man he tried to be. “Winter's nothing to worry about,” said Hayden. “I've been there."

  “You have? Is it true that there's capital bugs with suns in their bellies? And whole countries frozen solid, guys about to stick each other with swords when their suns went out and their whole armies covered in ice now?"

  “Never saw anything like that..."

  “But how would you know, since it goes on forever?"

  “Forever?” Somebody laughed. “I don't think so."

  An irregularly shaped box was stapled to the outer hull under a mad web of netting. The box had a perfectly ordinary door in one of its facets. The voice had come from that direction. It sounded suspiciously like a woman's.

  “You're gonna tell me that's the armorer,” Hayden whispered to Martor. Martor nodded vigorously. “Thought so."

  He stuck his head through the door. There was indeed a woman fitted into the intricate mess like a main cog in a watch. She was opening one of several dozen boxes crammed in around her, and was currently upside down compared to him so that all that registered at first was the halo of writhing brown hair that surrounded her face and the fact that she was dressed entirely in black save for a glimpse of burnt-orange silk that peeked out below her collar. He rotated politely to match her orientation and stuck out his hand. “I'm Hayden Griffin. I was told to assist you."

  Her hand was warm, her grip strong. “Aubri Mahallan. Who told you to assist me?"

  “Um, man named Carrier."

  “Oh, him.” She dismissed the man's entire existence with those two words. Mahallan had a heavy accent, bearing hard on sounds like er and oh. Right-side up, she looked as intriguing as she sounded, her skin pale and perfectly unblemished like the most pampered courtier, her eyes wide in a perpetually startled look and over-emphasized with black makeup. Her mouth was broad and was always twisting into one or another expression so that a constant parade of impressions flickered across her face. Just now she was pursing her lips and squinting at Hayden. “I suppose I can use you for something. And you!—” she aimed her expressive gaze past Hayden at the open door. “This is the fifth time you've blocked my light this morning. Guess I'm going to have to find something for you to do as well."

  “Yes, ma'am,” came Martor's voice faintly from somewhere outside.

  “But I can't have ignorant savages working for me,” continued Mahallan as she spun and opened a port-hole to let a blast of fresh air into the junk-filled cell. “Winter does not go on forever—or rather, it does, but only in the sense that you could go around the outside of a dinner plate forever. Do you understand?"

  “No, sir!” said Martor, still invisible.

  “Come in here!” Martor peeked around the door jamb. Somewhere outside, a gang of airmen was engaged in a swearing contest. “And close the door, will you?” added the armorer. Hayden shifted to let Martor do that, and found himself close enough to Mahallan that he could smell her perspiration.

  Her attention was fixed on Martor. “Do you believe this world goes on forever in all directions?"

  “Yes, ma'am,” said Martor with no trace of irony. “Rush came out of Forever, two generations ago, and we attacked the countries here. After we've cut through them all, we're going back to Forever, out the other side of the countries."

  “I see we have our work cut out for us,” said the armorer with an amused glance at Hayden. “Young man, do you know what a balloon is?"

  “A bag for storing gas,” said Martor instantly.

  “Good. Well, Virga, your world, is a balloon. It is an immensely big balloon, in fact, fully five thousand miles across and orbiting in the outer reaches of the Vega star system. Virga is artificial. Man-made."

  “Ma'am, that's very funny,” said Martor with a stilted grin.

  “It's utterly true, young man. Is it not a fact that your suns are artificial? So, then, why not the rest of the world, too?” Martor looked a little less sure of himself now. “Now, the problem is that even a fusion sun capable of heating and lighting everything out to a distance of several hundred miles is just a tiny spark in a volume this size. Especially when clouds and other obstacles absorb the light so readily. Sixty, eighty, even a hundred suns aren't enough to illuminate the whole interior of Virga. So, we have large volumes of air that are unlit, unheated—volumes of Winter."

  “I'm with ya,” said Martor.

  “But these volumes don't go on forever. They end, one way or another, at the lighted precincts of some other nation, or at Candesce if you head straight towards the center of Virga. Or they end at the skin of the world, where icebergs crowd and grind like the gnashing teeth of a god. And your asteroid, Rush, orbits very slowly around the middle of this world, tugged by the almost imperceptible gravity the air creates."

  “Now you're having me on,” said Martor.

  Mahallan sighed extravagantly, but couldn't hide a smile. “Go on. You're taking up my air. You,” she said to Hayden, “stick around and help me unpack some of these boxes."

  The seven ships killed their engines a dozen miles into Winter. They drifted for a few minutes, then with slow grumbles of their turning engines they slid into a star formation, each one pointing out from a central point. Lines were cast from nose to nose, and the captains of six ships hand-walked across to an open port in the side of the Rook. In all directions, darkness swallowed distance and detail.

  When Admiral Fanning entered the Rook's chart room he was pulled up short by the vision of the captains clinging to floor, walls, and ceiling like so many wasps in a paper nest. They were all identical in their black uniforms, rustling and moving slightly. He could practically hear a subliminal buzz coming from them.

  He shook off the impression and glided to his chair by the chart table. “You've all been very patient with our secrecy,” he said as the last visiting captain ducked past him to loop a hand through a velvet wall-strap. Now that he thought about it, the idea of these men as wasps seemed more and more apt. They were dangerous, focused—and for the most part, dumb as planks. Perfect for the job he had in mind.

  “I'm sure you've had your suspicions about where we're going. I'm equally sure,” he said with a smile, “that your crews have been devising all kinds of extravagant ideas of their own.” There was a polite smile from the swarm in return.

  “Now that we're out of semaphore-range of any potential spies, we can make a general announcement."

  “It's about time!” Captain Hieronymous Flosk, the oldest and least patient of the company, leaned into the light from the chart table. The glow made his face a mask of crevasses and pitted plains. “This secrecy is ridiculous,” he grated. “We don't have to skulk around hiding from Mavery. Hit them direct, and hard. You'd think that would be obvious,” he sniffed.

  “Well, you'd be right,” said Fanning, “if Mavery were our target."

  Several of the captains had been muttering together, but these words shocked them silent. “What do you mean?” asked Flosk, his voice momentarily reduced to a whine. “After the damned sneak attack the other day—"

  “Almost certainly not them,” said Fanning drily. “Oh, their munitions, right enough. But Mavery's border dispute with us has been trumped up by a third party—one with deep pockets and spies throughout Slipstream.” He took one of the slides his wife had prepared for him and slipped it into the hooded lantern under the chart box. Opening a little door on the side of the lantern, he
projected the image onto the wall behind him.

  “This,” he said, “is a secret shipyard of Falcon Formation. One of, uh, our spies took this photo less than a week ago.” Several of the captains rotated in place to try to find a better view of the picture. Fanning glanced back to verify that he'd chosen the correct slide: it was Venera's picture of the giant warship.

  “The dreadnaught you see in the deep background is fifteen hundred feet long,” he announced. Again, the captains went still. “Nothing like it has ever flown in Virga. It's big enough to be a carrier for mid-sized hunter sloops, as well as a substantial assault force. We believe this ship will be the flagship of a fleet aimed at Slipstream. We have learned that they are using the dispute with Mavery as a ruse to draw our forces away from Rush. Once our fleet is entangled in Mavery, they will move in and take the city.” He didn't have to add that Rush was Slipstream. Take one and you had the other.

  There was a long silence. Then Flosk said, “Who's this ‘we’ who believes all of this crap? You and the Pilot?"

  “The Pilot, yes,” Fanning lied. “He is well aware of our nation's failings in the espionage area. He's taken steps—hence the pictures.” He changed the slide for another that showed the shipyard itself. “That's the strategic situation. I'm sure you can appreciate how important it's been to keep our knowledge of the situation secret."

  “Wait,” said someone. “You mean we're going to attack Falcon?"

  “Suicide,” someone else mumbled.

  “Clearly we need any advantage we can get,” said Fanning with a reluctant nod. “Your ships were either designed as Winter ships or have been refitted as part of a Winter fleet. These upgrades have been going on for some years, since my predecessor discerned a need for such a fleet."