Tales of the Dissolutionverse Box Set

by William C. Tracy

  The air outside the ship. He listened to that comparably languid music, felt the way the ship moved. If he could redirect where the burning air went, he could propel the ship the other way.

  Notes slid by him, too fast to change, and he had the sensation of hanging. They were moving sideways. The crew might have been shouting, but he could afford no concentration for his physical ears. There was a pattern to the relentless beat of the fuel. He didn’t have to catch the notes to change them. He instead saw their pattern, made the new musical phrase, crafted from his own song, ready to insert it…there.

  The ship righted abruptly, but Origon felt his invested song ripped out of his grip, flying out far beneath them. The ship began to list to the other side.

  Gasping, his stomach threatening to jump out of his throat, he realized what he should have before. He no longer envied Teju his place here. There was no chance to reverse any of the changes he made. Every change to the Symphonies on this trip would be permanent. The shuttle was flying so fast that the surrounding music was in constant flux, notes changing. It would strip each application of his song from his being. If he was not efficient, the flight would drain him to something insubstantial, his song stripped of its notes.

  His body hung to one side and Origon made another construction from his music, inserting it into the breakneck beat, wincing as a small portion of his essence was lost. This could only buy time.

  The flight would be several hours long. Ksupara was small and near to Methiem, compared to moons of other species’ homeworlds, but would serve as a gateway to extensive exploration of the Methiemum system. He would have asked for chalkboard and chalk to make notes, but he could not move under such pressure. This would be by instinct and experience, guiding the ship the smallest amount while keeping to the most efficient path to space. How much had Teju trained for this?

  He listened for the outer cadenzas of the Symphony of Communication, hearing the air currents far up into the atmosphere above the capsule. Below the tank of fuel, swirls of power and force made the music too discordant to follow. While his mind rode the vibrations of the air currents, planning their course, he wondered if Teju would have been able to handle this job, no matter the training. It was nearly beyond even Origon’s grasp. The ship listed again, and he redirected the flow of the fuel with another change, a bit of his song thrust into the Symphony at the right instant. He felt weaker already.

  For a small eternity, Origon molded the Symphonies around him, sweat dripping from his brow. His pointed teeth ground together with each jarring rip as his song disappeared into the air. Time flew by almost unnoticed as he put his full concentration into fighting his way through the air, a small sun strapped to his back. He was the capsule. They were moving fast enough that each change to Symphony was distant from the last. It was oddly liberating to repeat the same composition again and again. Yet every time he did so, the song defining him became more a skeleton than a sonata.

  At some point, the acceleration lessened, and his arms began to rise on their own. His robe billowed out like a multi-hued balloon. Sounds—aside from the internal music of the Symphony—intruded on him, like one or more of the crew being violently sick. He would never shame himself like that. He stifled a burp.

  The melody of the tank of fuel was lethargic now, nearly empty, and he had little need to use his song to effect changes. Origon opened his eyes, blinked, and licked his thin lips, realizing he had not moved or spoken for—how long?

  “What is—” He stopped at his croaking voice and swallowed. The captain twisted fluidly in his direction, no longer pressed down by the great weight of acceleration. A lock of her long gray hair had come free from its bun, drifting like a halo around her head. She was highlighted by shielded carbon arc lamps, throwing great swaths of harsh light around the cabin. A chemical heater protruded from the center instrument cluster, warming the cold interior. Engineers must have installed the newer lights rather than relying on candles—too hazardous in space—or energy stored by a majus of the House of Potential. The crew fiddled with switches near them. Some had small lanterns to see detail by.

  He tried again. “What is the time?”

  “We’ve been traveling for nearly five and a half hours, honored Kirian,” the captain said. “We were worried when you did not answer our calls, but our capsule did not falter after the first few minutes, so we assumed you were busy in your work.”

  Had they called to him? He searched his memory, but could not remember. “I am named Origon Cyrysi, Captain. What is to be done when the fuel tank is empty?”

  “There is a way to detach it with your magic, Majus Cyrysi,” she answered. “If all has gone well, you can begin our deceleration with the secondary tank. The hardest part will be landing.”

  Origon didn’t bother to correct the woman’s use of ‘magic.’ He was too tired, and even a few maji thought what they did was supernatural, not a science. He bent his head in concentration, seeking through the Symphony for the mechanism the captain spoke of.

  There. Four large catches on the side of the empty fuel tank. Origon could feel the latent power, a slow steady beat, behind the explosive bolts. With another wince, he changed their tune in the Symphony of Power, building the melody to a snappy crescendo with his song. The bolts exploded and the empty fuel tank sliced away behind them, no longer on their trajectory. Of course the change was not reversible. The explosion disintegrated the bolts and the music describing them.

  He knew the Methiemum built this capsule by menial methods, but had the designers not consulted a majus on how to control it in flight? Every little thing seemed planned to use up his potential. It would be a simple thing to modify the architecture.

  Origon sighed. When he got back, he would track down the designers and have a long talk with them. The melody of Communication and Power between the crew—the little solos and trills that manifested in their body language—told him they were over their terror and growing more efficient at their jobs.

  In the depths of the Symphony, there was a glimmer of a building theme so strident it would overpower the rest when it was louder: Ksupara itself. The House of Communication was weaker here, as there was little air, but the capsule was sealed well. He added his own cadenza to the melody of the air in the capsule, freshening it. That at least was not permanent. He retracted his song and the breeze died down.

  The strident theme was getting louder. “Captain,” Origon said. “Is there a way to be viewing our destination?”

  “Certainly, Majus Cyrysi,” the captain answered. She pressed a button and a section of metal slid aside, revealing thick glass. A neat piece of engineering. Through it, he saw a milky glow beneath them—Methiem. Above, a deep swath of black extended in every direction, sprinkled with tiny points of light. Several of the crew gasped, and his breath caught in his throat.

  Shivers ran up his arms as he fixed the picture in his mind. He would remember it for the rest of his life. Wisps of clouds raced below. Ahead, an irregular round object shone, reflecting light from Methiem. It had to be Ksupara. One of the other moons rose behind it, larger, and farther away. But the rocky surface of Ksupara was closer than it should be. Origon said nothing. No sense panicking the crew.

  “That will help immensely,” he told the captain, who nodded back.

  Origon focused on the shining object and the heavy, rising theme which would direct their course. He would have to land the capsule, or rather crash it with everyone intact. The capsule did not need to fly back to Methiem. Those who came through later portals could hack it up for scrap for all he cared. He no longer had any interest in the fine design of the capsule. He let one shaky hand float up, imagining he might be able to see through his hand if he spent any more of his song. But he wasn’t done yet. He took a deep breath in through his nose, resettled his crest, and blew the air out.

  The Symphony of Power outlined the secondary tank, trills of blocked power humming. The tank had exit ports on all side
s of the capsule, controlled by small nozzles, each with a lightweight valve. Once the fuel passed the nozzle, it would catch fire and push the capsule in the opposite direction. It was simple in principle.

  There was only one problem.

  Origon raised his head to scowl at the captain. “Did your engineers consult at any point with one of the maji?” he asked. She visibly paled under his gaze.

  “We did, Majus. Is there a problem?”

  Origon waved a hand irritably. “Never you mind. I will be addressing the problem myself.”

  The subtle vibrations making up the universe could only be pulled and changed so far and for so long. Once he grasped control of the valves to make adjustments, he could not let his focus lag from any of them, lest he could not move them a second time. He would have to maintain a focus on—how many were there?—eight separate valves all at the same time! Teju would never have held the capsule together. He wasn’t sure he could handle it, and he had been out of apprenticeship for forty cycles, not newly raised from apprentice.

  Origon sighed noisily, and the captain raised her eyebrows at him. The other crew watched too, but Origon ignored them. Their calculations and buttons did not regrow his song. Why hadn’t the Methiemum designed a lever for this job? Eight people could pull levers, guided by a majus for the correct timing. By the great winged ones’ beards, he would personally rend the designers of this capsule when he got back. If he got back.

  “I wish for absolutely no one to disturb me until this capsule is resting upon Ksupara,” he commanded. He glared around the room. “The less noise the better.” Without waiting for a confirmation, he tightened his straps and clasped his long-fingered hands together, concentrating. He heard a chorus of fabric-on-fabric sounds as the crew followed his example, then silence. Origon stared out of the glass at the approaching moon, listening.

  With the House of Communication, he could control the eight valves. Only a glissando was required to turn them on or off, but the notes wavered as if he heard them underwater, and he slumped in his chair. He found the first valve, clutched at the notes. Then the second, and the third. His breathing became ragged. Four. Five. He shook, just a little, then reached out and grasped the notes controlling the last three valves. The Symphony buffeted him, as the capsule sped ever nearer Ksupara. He had to keep a connection to each valve to adjust any one of them in time. If he lost the connections, he would not be able to get them back.

  Their speed was the first problem, and he invested his song in three valves pointing the direction they were traveling. His hands clenched at his chair’s arms as liquid fire rushed past the valves, randomizing the air currents. Sweat popped out all over his body. But the ship slowed.

  It skewed off course the other way. Ready this time, Origon opened two different valves and closed the first three, correcting.

  Decelerate. Correct. Stop the twist. Sweat. Breathe. More deceleration. Repeat.

  Ksupara was massive in the front view, and he ignored the captain’s plaintive stare. They were going too fast. He wished he could close his eyes as he did for the flight into space, but he needed to see the moon through the glass. That meant more distraction from the crew’s twitches and scared faces.

  Decelerate. More. More. They were going into a twist, but he couldn’t correct it at the same time and stay conscious. Some loose object whirled about the capsule. All the force must go forward to stop their movement. Another crew member was sick, and Origon fought down his own gullet. He closed two valves, opened two others. He had counted on more help from the air itself, resisting their movement, but had miscalculated. Not many realized how much air weighed, and the medium of communication here was much thinner than he expected.

  With the small bit of rational thought left to him, Origon considered his options. Overshoot and they might never land. Crash directly down and they would most certainly die. What else was left? What could resist their movement? He watched Ksupara’s ground coming closer at startling speed. From here, he could see valleys, short, eroded mountains, and large flat plains.

  The surface itself. The insight put a pointy smile on Origon’s face, making the captain’s whiten in response. He ignored her and gently aimed the capsule just below the horizon.

  “Prepare yourselves,” he told the capsule in general. He heard rustling.

  The impact jolted through him, his head bending forward, and his chair rattled in its bolts. He felt one of the valves crush, its music ceasing. It was a relief to hold only seven. He eased the capsule up from the surface, but there was a persistent vibration that shook his bones. A range of hills sprang up as they soared over the landscape and Origon gritted his teeth, opening all the valves on the right side of the craft. They veered left. The capsule trembled and twisted as one corner brushed the side of the highest hill.

  Still not slow enough. Origon aimed the capsule down at a plain dotted with circular marks, keeping the forward valves open.

  The capsule bounced off the plain, the impact shaking his chair like a leaf. Something bent with a screech that made his ears hurt. He rocked back and forth, lighter than he should be, as he readjusted their flight upwards to clear a hill. The ship was slowing.

  One last time he touched the capsule to the surface of Ksupara, smashing another three valves. He heard the captain grunt. Then there was a crash from his left and a form flew across his vision. His was not the only loose chair. He did not have time or attention to spare for the occupant.

  The capsule plowed through the dusty ground of the moon, cutting a groove. He could see a huge valley coming up fast, many times deeper than the capsule was tall. They were rotating sickeningly, and Origon felt for the correct orientation of the remaining valves. Waiting, waiting.

  Now. He opened all of them and the ship rose, listing to the left. The valley sped by underneath them, reaching far into the moon. Someone screamed.

  The reserve of fuel was nearly depleted—most of it had gone to decelerate the capsule. He could force them to the ground a final time, using the still intact valves now on the upper side of the capsule, but they would not rise again. He strained to see the edge of the valley, which seemed to take up half of Ksupara. Finally the far edge came into view—thankfully a plain, and not a mountain. Origon hoped he had cut enough speed to keep them all from dying.

  “This is it!” he cried, and let the last remaining fuel guide them forward and down.

  PART TWO

  Violation of Natural Law

  - The exploration of the sky above our worlds is a journey we will eventually take. Though ten species at least have found the Nether on their own, we are separated physically by uncharted distances. Certainly there may be other neighbors, closer. If we were able to explore the sky, might we find others and bring them knowledge of the Nether?

  From the first Methiemum proposal to the Great Assembly on the subject of space flight

  Origon awoke to a flickering light. It was a store-fire lamp, an artifact of the House of Potential, storing the song of fire from a majus of the House of Power. It showed the captain’s face, close to his. There was a large bruise on her cheek and her gray hair had fallen out of her bun, draping her face.

  “Majus Cyrysi? Are you well?”

  Origon blinked wetness out of his eyes—blood?—and mentally checked himself. There were points of pain all along his back and neck, and his shoulder seemed twisted, but nothing broken. He nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes at the pain in his head. He was sideways, and the captain was standing on the rounded wall of the capsule.

  “Are we landed, then?” He barely remembered to use the Trader’s Tongue.

  “Yes, Majus, and the crew all accounted for. Dipara has a badly broken leg, but thankfully nothing worse, for all she flew across the length of the capsule.” Origon looked to the other side of the capsule at a sharp cry. A young woman was lying down, two other crew around her. He quickly averted his eyes from a shock of white protruding from her leg, glistening in th
e low light. “In addition, Doctor Chitra has suffered a concussion and is not able to ply his trade. Numerous other bumps and bruises among my crew. I will be speaking to the engineers on the condition of those seats when I get back.” The captain folded her arms.

  “You will wait for me to finish with them first,” Origon told him, rubbing his neck. “I may not be leaving anything to complain to. Help me out.”

  The captain undid his restraints and Origon nearly fell from his chair, rolling in the light pull of Ksupara. He stood on the former wall and stretched, barely catching himself before he stretched straight into the air.

  “Be careful,” the captain warned. “You are far lighter on Ksupara. Lighter than on any homeworld—even Etan.” Origon let out a short laugh. His arms and legs were barely able to hold him up, even here. If he had been standing on one of the homeworlds, he would have fallen over from fatigue.

  Chairs and equipment hung sideways in the capsule, unlatched buckles dangling like hanging vines, casting shadows from the chemical lights on the center hub, now to his right at head level. One lamp was cracked and sputtering, but the others threw out harsh orange light. They had landed partially capsized, the flat bottom of the capsule in the air and the base of the rounded dome planted in the surface of the moon. The other side of the floor was now a peak far overhead.

  Cabinets on the far side of the capsule hung open above them and Origon saw a jar fall out of them, curiously slow, to land next to one of the crew. Supplies were tossed about and underfoot and the crew was separating them into piles, useful and not, broken and whole. The thick glass viewing window had not broken in the crash, though there was a crack running its length. It was vertical, now, the lower edge buried in gray-green dirt and the upper portion higher than Origon’s topfeathers.

  “Well, captain,” he said, slumping back against his horizontal chair, “what is to be the plan? Are we ready to go back to Methiem? I believe I may be managing a portal, if you are giving me some few minutes to build up my strength.” He could barely hear the Symphony. He had used up more of his song in the flight than ever before. He knew he should be angrier at what the capsule designers did to him, but was too tired to summon the emotion. His crest sagged in exhaustion.