by Paula Volsky
The hours and islands passed under the sun, the memories of war receded, and earlier memories seeped to the front of Karsler Stornzof’s mind; recollections of colder seas, harsher terrain, duller grey skies, and other times, better times, wherein principle and discipline supported understanding, or so he had once imagined.
But he had been a simpleton, he was starting to realize. He had been so credulous, so ignorant of reality, so unprepared. He had thought the truth of the Promontory the truth of the world, and he had been a sorry fool.
He hadn’t seen that for himself, not for a while, and most of the rest of the world still didn’t see it. In fact, most of the world seemed to regard him with exaggerated admiration, a phenomenon he scarcely comprehended. The troops under his command had won a few gaudy victories, the drama and significance of which had been vastly inflated by the popular press, but how many readers had ever considered the deflating reality of trained, well-equipped Grewzian strength, and enemy disadvantage?
His best Promontory teacher, the Elucidated Llakhlulz, would have had words to offer. But then, what had E. Llakhlulz himself known of the real world beyond the Promontory?
Time, salt water, and islands flowed. Karsler Stornzof watched and remembered, until a whiff of costly tobacco invaded his air. He turned to confront the Grandlandsman Torvid, and a flash of something like annoyance singed his mind before he remembered his duty.
“You dream, Nephew,” Torvid observed with amusement. Sunlight glanced sharply off his coin-bright silver hair and his monocle.
“There is little else to do up here on deck, Grandlandsman.” Karsler uncomfortably attempted to match the other’s light tone.
“Ah, to be sure. And what could be the subject and source of your dreams? Victory, one might hope?”
“That is the goal of the race.”
“Sometimes I fear you forget it. There are other dreams to fill ardent young minds.”
“Or even ardent old ones.”
“Oh, Nephew, you kindle my hopes. Could you be something less of a prig than I had supposed? Is it possible, Promontory notwithstanding, that you are truly a Stornzof?”
Karsler bit back an acrid reply. The anger that filled him was irrelevant and counterproductive, as E. Llakhlulz could so well have explained. He might have echoed the grandlandsman’s sarcasm, but only at the expense of large values, and therefore he contented himself with the mild query, “You are a qualified judge of the breed?”
“As good as any,” Torvid responded easily. “Good enough to judge the response of a healthy Stornzof male to a female in heat. Do not take my observation in the wrong way, Nephew. The little Vonahrish thing contrives to make her presence known, and it is only natural that your glands should feel the pull.”
“You allude to Miss Devaire?”
“Bravo.”
“You often cite our family name, Grandlandsman. Is it characteristic of a Stornzof, in your opinion, to defame respectable women?”
“Ah? It seems I was mistaken. You are indeed a prig of the first water.”
“That being so, I will relieve you of the tedium of my presence.”
“And an offended prig, at that. Stay where you are. I intended no affront to your well-developed sense of propriety. Quite the contrary, I compliment your taste, and I withdraw an earlier complaint. The fair Devaire is less boringly bourgeoise than I had initially supposed. She possesses a certain quality of impertinence that is not unamusing. I daresay there is entertainment to be found in bringing that one to heel.”
“The point is academic, Grandlandsman.” This time Karsler did not trouble to mask his disgust. “As you yourself have observed, we are unlikely to encounter Miss Devaire or any other Grand Ellipse contestant again before the conclusion of the race. Your influence with the Overgeneral Brugloist has effectively crippled the competition.”
“Yes, and I do not recall receiving thanks for it.”
“Your efficiency no doubt deserves credit. Nevertheless I cannot help but wonder if an honest race, fairly run, might not have yielded a far more satisfying victory.”
“You are perhaps too much the connoisseur, Nephew. Victory is victory and always sweet, particularly in light of the sole alternative. Moreover, your fine distinctions are inconsistent in their application. You never whined of inequity or dishonesty when the Szarish woman’s peculiar conveyance was running us all into the ground.”
“In that case the advantage stemmed legitimately from Szett Urrazole’s own talents and accomplishments. And her initial lead might well have evaporated later in the race. Now we shall never know, thanks to the murderous zeal of the Lanthian resistance.”
“Desperate characters.” Torvid tapped a precarious cylinder of ash from the tip of his cigarette.
“I believe so, and therefore wonder at the absence of enemy action directed specifically against us. I am the only Grewzian contestant. The Overgeneral Brugloist has interceded on my behalf, all but ensuring my success; an abuse of power—that is to say, a manifestation of Grewzian solidarity—deeply offensive to rival nations.”
“If Brugloist’s intervention strikes you as morally objectionable, then you need scarcely have availed yourself of his assistance,” Torvid observed dryly. “The Inspiration could and should have sailed without you, for what is worth a blot upon a sweetly pure conscience?”
“As the affair was arranged by an overgeneral of the Imperium, I scarcely enjoyed the luxury of choice.”
“Well then, resign yourself to the good fortune that fate has inflicted upon you, and cease this endless complaint. You whimper like some girl who has played her virginity card, but failed to take the trick. It commences to pall.”
“Then I will leave you.”
“Stay where you are, we are not finished. You were suggesting, if I am not mistaken, the possibility of enemy action or reprisal. What did you mean by that? This ship and her crew are Lanthian. Do you believe it likely that any among the sailors or officers may—”
A howl of terror arising from multiple throats below truncated the grandlandsman’s query. The cries repeated themselves, intensifying in volume and emotion. Moments later a trio of soot-grimed, panic-stricken sailors came bursting through the open hatch up onto the deck, where they clung cowering to the rail.
“What is it?” Torvid demanded in Grewzian of the nearest crewman. There was no reply, and he seized the other’s collar in one formidable fist. “Explain.”
“He is Lanthian, he doesn’t understand you,” Karsler remarked calmly. “And probably could not answer in any case.”
Another couple of crewmen boiled up screaming through the hatch.
“Are these people mad, or idiots, merely?” Disgusted, Torvid released his hold. The liberated mariner, white beneath his tan, backed away.
“Neither, if I am not deceived. You know the nature of my training, Grandlandsman, and for the past hour or so I have sensed some echo of arcane energy infusing our atmosphere.”
“And deemed it unworthy of mention?”
“I was not certain. Within the last couple of minutes the sensation has greatly intensified, and now there can be no doubt that—”
Someone below fired a gun. Three shots rang out in quick succession, followed by a full-throated scream.
“Whatever this Lanthian nonsense may be, I will settle it.” Drawing a revolver from the shoulder holster perfectly concealed beneath his coat, Torvid started for the hatch.
“Do not attempt it,” Karsler advised. “The force now at work upon this ship is proof against mundane weaponry. Stay away from it.”
For a moment Torvid considered, then returned the gun to its holster. “I will be ruled by your superior experience in these matters, for the moment. Understand that my patience is limited, however.”
“I suspect you will shortly discover that patience is not the issue.”
“This deliberate obscurity of yours is—” Torvid broke off as a tentacle of midnight vapor came undulating up through the hatch into
the brilliant daylight, where it paused, swaying a little, as if tasting the unfamiliar sunshine. “What is that thing?”
A couple of sailors and a junior officer on deck spied the black vapor, shouted an alarm, and ran for the stern. The dark tendril silently withdrew.
“Ah, it flees. Here is nothing to concern us.” Torvid Stornzof dismissed the visitation with a shrug.
“You judge too quickly. Wait,” Karsler instructed, and his tone of authority drew a narrow glance from his uncle.
“Wait while these Lanthian fools allow the ship to slow to a full stop? Wait while the fires in the boilers die because the idiot stokers have abandoned their posts? I think not.” Again Torvid made for the hatch.
“Halt,” Karsler spoke as if to a soldier under his command, and the tone froze the other in his tracks. “You have not the faintest idea what you are dealing with.”
“Ah? I deal, it would seem, with a Stornzof who forgets that he addresses the head of his House.” Torvid turned to face his nephew. “Allow me to refresh your memory. Inasmuch as excitement has clouded your judgment, however, I will indulge you so far as to hear your explanation. What, then, are we dealing with?”
“A fairly potent arcane manifestation,” Karsler returned without emotion. “The product, I believe, of the traditional Lanthian Cognition. The Select of Lanthi Ume support and aid the local resistance. In this case it is safe to assume that the sorcerous support has resulted in the creation of a Cognitive shadow hidden away somewhere aboard the Inspiration and designed to activate itself at sea. All things considered, I cannot say I am altogether surprised.”
“Are we to fear shadows?” Torvid’s brushing gesture repelled imaginary gnats. “This timid rag of mist has poked itself briefly up into the light, lost its courage, and fled. It would seem the effluvium of irresolute Lanthian minds fears us.”
“Do not depend upon it,” Karsler advised. “And do not be too quick to dismiss Cognition. There is power in it still, and such sorcerous visitations as this are often dangerously malign.”
“It would seem these little Lanthian tricksters have quite cowed you. Fortunately, I—”
“Look. Up there.” Karsler pointed.
Torvid’s eyes followed the other’s finger to the Inspiration’s smokestack, whose vaporous grey plumage was swiftly changing character. Even as the Stornzof kinsmen watched, dense ropes of black insubstantiality began thrusting up from the depths of the vessel. One after another the dark tentacles shot from the smokestack, climbed for a moment or two, then curved to descend on the deck. Within seconds dozens of them tented overhead, blocking sunlight to create an eerie artificial dusk. One came down inches from the Stornzofs, its weightless touch bubbling the painted deck.
Torvid regarded the nearest writhing strand with interest. One hand reached out fearlessly.
“Do not touch that,” Karsler counseled. “It is likely to burn you.”
“Ah? Remarkable. Let us see.” Torvid passed the tip of his index finger unhurriedly through the shadow, then drew back and watched with apparent pleasure as the skin reddened and a rash of small blisters appeared. “You are correct, Nephew. I should hardly have thought those Lanthian sheep had it in them. Here is unexpected novelty.”
“There is more to come. Look.”
Visible through the interstices of the shadowy Cognitive web veiling the Inspiration, the ship’s smokestack continued to belch unnatural blackness, but again the character of the emission was changing as serpentine tentacles gave way to a larger, denser spread of midnight, swelling as it mounted skyward, darkening as it expanded.
Finally the shadow emerged in its globular entirety to hover above the smokestack, and then the features adorning the central mass revealed themselves. The wavering projection of something like a hooked beak pierced the sky, and above the beak, slightly paler than the surrounding blackness, bulged the gigantic vacuity of two dead eyes.
“I confess I am surprised,” Torvid acknowledged. “Explain to me the nature of this imaginative display, Nephew.”
“Cognitive in nature, moderately potent, potentially lethal.” Karsler’s eyes never left the empty visage looming overhead. “Make no mistake—the human bathed in that caustic shadow, or drawing the vaporous substance down into his lungs, is unlikely to survive.”
“Interesting. And that appearance, somewhat reminiscent of an overgrown cephalopod—that is purely pictorial, I presume? The shadow possesses nothing resembling life?”
“It is not alive, nor does it possess true awareness,” Karsler reported. “Yet it perceives, and its response to its perceptions is governed by the intention of its creator.”
“And that intention?”
“To block the boat’s way east to Aennorve. Perhaps nothing more. The shadow is Lanthian in origin, and the Inspiration is manned by Lanthians. Confronting neither resistance nor defiance, this visitant will probably cause no harm, although it possesses the power to kill.”
“I see. Well, you are the supposed expert. What do you advise?”
“That we wait.”
“Wait. I see. Now there’s true Grewzian valor for you. Shall we then abandon ship, take to the lifeboats, and set off for the nearest island, there to loll on the beach until rescued by the next eastbound vessel? Is that your battle strategy, Nephew?”
“It is not, nor would you imagine otherwise, were you even minimally knowledgeable in this area,” Karsler returned evenly. He saw the other’s lips thin and, without awaiting reply, continued, “Deprived of its creator’s presence and sustaining will, the shadow’s term of existence is limited. Presently—within a few hours, or less, according to the skill of the originating savant—Cognitive force will flag and the shadow will cease to be.”
“A few hours, to sit idle and helpless?” Torvid demanded.
“We can afford them. Barring magic and miracle, my fellow racers can hardly expect to embark from Dalyon until the day after tomorrow, at the very earliest. This Lanthian gesture amounts to nothing.”
“There you mistake the matter. Passive acquiescence is not Grewzian. Nor is toleration of conspiracy and open defiance. The sooner our subjects learn that lesson, the better for all concerned.”
“What remedy do you favor, Grandlandsman?”
“Cognitive sabotage or no, this ship continues on toward Aennorve. That is a simple statement of fact.”
“Fact does not always lend itself to simple statements.”
“Spare me the Promontory profundity, now is not the time. Observe, I will demonstrate.”
The darkened deck around them boiled. Agitated sailors scurried everywhere in search of escape always blocked by snaking strands of Cognitive shadow. Torvid Stornzof reached out at random, and his estimable grip closed on a passing arm clothed in a sleeve bearing the braid and insignia of an officer.
“State your name and rank,” Torvid commanded in Vonahrish, and that language was comprehended by the prisoner.
“Heek Ranzo, mate of the Inspiration.” An unsuccessful effort to wrench free accompanied the reply.
“The ship has veered from course, and slowed almost to a halt,” Torvid observed. “The crew’s performance is inadequate.”
“Are you mad? We’re abandoning ship. Let go.” Another sharp twist failed to free the trapped arm.
“You are ill informed, I think,” Torvid pointed out, and a turn of his powerful wrist drew a hiss of alarmed pain from the victim. “I am a grandlandsman of Grewzland, and you will address me properly as ‘Armipotence.’ Is that understood, little Lanthian?”
“You Grewzian fool, turn me loose!” Ranzo snarled, then gasped as his captor calmly backhanded him across the face.
“Is that understood, little Lanthian?” Torvid repeated, without apparent rancor.
“Yes, Armipotence.”
“Excellent, Mate Ranzo. Now here are your orders. You will go forward, take the helm, and steer this ship east at top speed.”
“I haven’t the authority, Armipotence. Now, will
you let me—”
“I take responsibility,” Torvid assured him. “You will carry out your orders.”
“That’s impossible, you—Armipotence,” Ranzo recollected himself. He pointed with his free hand toward a ladder wreathed in writhing tentacles of shadow. “Look, the way up to the bridge is blocked, and—”
“So I see,” Torvid concurred serenely. “And yet I place my full trust in your resolution and competence. Surely the Mate Ranzo is not a man to be deflected by minor obstacles.” He released the other’s arm. “Go forward and take the helm.”
“Go bugger yourself, Armipotence,” Ranzo suggested, and started to turn away.
“One moment,” Torvid advised, and drew his revolver.
Ranzo halted at once. He studied the gun, his expression glazed with disbelief.
“Forward to the helm,” Torvid commanded calmly.
“Enough, Grandlandsman,” Karsler spoke up. “This is a pointless exercise in tyranny. These men cannot hope to withstand a Cognitive—”
“Silence. You forget both soldierly and familial duty,” Torvid rebuked his nephew, without letting his eyes stray from the Lanthian mariner’s face.
Conflicting values waged internal war. Karsler said nothing.
“Now, Mate Ranzo, forward.” Torvid took leisurely aim at the Lanthian’s belly. “I will not repeat the command.”
For a moment Ranzo’s desperate eyes flickered between revolver and shadowy ladder, weighing the known efficacy of bullets against the unknown potency of anonymous Cognition, before opting to brave the latter.
“Bugger yourself,” the mate repeated almost inaudibly, and went to the ladder.
Setting his feet to the rungs, he climbed toward the bridge, and for a moment it seemed he might reach that goal. A vaporous tentacle coiled experimentally about his leg, but the woolen fabric of his trousers seemed to ward off burns, and Ranzo shook himself free. The agile ascent continued, but the activity in the midst of its appendages must have triggered the shadow’s innate defenses, for a dark throng came undulating out of nowhere to converge upon the luckless officer. Instantly Ranzo was engulfed, wrapped from head to foot in squirming Cognitive blackness. His woolen uniform gave way at once, and then his flesh began to do likewise. The flashes of white intermittently visible among shifting coils of blackness quickly darkened to red, and then the screams began, but they were brief. The strong intake of breath that his cries demanded drew the shadow deep into his lungs, and at once Ranzo tumbled headlong from the ladder. He hit the deck hard and lay still, whereupon the Cognitive strands lost interest, detached themselves, and withdrew.