by Sharon Lee
* * *
TRUE TO HIS ORDERS, Vachik had kept the shuttle ready. Cantra hit first chair hard, yanked the webbing tight and gave the shuttle its office, the whiles counting off at the back of her head, and with a quarter-eye on the aux screen—six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .
Dancer was up, rising hard through the busy air, and paying not the least attention to squawks from traffic control.
She was busy then, weaving a course through the mess and tangle, filling all of Solcintra’s air space. Everything that could hold air was up, and the sorts of pilots who might be sitting those boards didn’t bear thinking on . . .
“Fools and cretins!” Vachik spat, as she dodged them through a particularly tricksy knot-up, then pushed hard on the rockets.
Cantra stole a look at the aux screen—Dancer was deep in the worst of the mess . . .
“Message from Springbane, Captain,” Vachik said. “They give us . . . almost ample time. Your screen two.”
She looked and smiled grimly. “A challenge, would you say, Pilot?”
Vachik’s answering grin was a frightening thing to behold. “Indeed, Captain. Shall we school them?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem at all.”
It was the board then, and the ship she was flying, and no time for sneak-looks at her life-that-was leaving her behind, nor even for the fading flickers of dragons, dancing on the shore of a sea long dead and dust.
“Long orbit on that ship, Captain,” Vachik said quietly some while later. “Looks good—and it’s well outside the crowd, now.”
She sighed. “Thank you,” she said and shot him a look. “Sure you won’t come with us?”
“To receive such an offer from such a captain,” he answered, formal and not at all Vachik-like, “is an honor which I will long recall. The commander, however, has given Jela’s Troop a special unit designation, and it is there I would serve.”
“Right,” she said, and gave him a nod. “Looks like we’re gonna beat Springbane’s time, Pilot. Best get your kit together.”
“I have everything I need, Captain, thank you.”
She nosed the shuttle in and Vachik was out of the chair as soon as the docking light went to blue.
“Captain.” He saluted and was gone.
She dumped out just as soon as the connect tube was clear, seconds ahead of the time Springbane had given her to dock, and extended a hand to kill the aux screen.
She found Quick Passage in her screens, did the math in her head and set the course.
At the far back of her head, dragons danced, insubstantial as hope.
THIRTY-FOUR
Quick Passage
Departing Solcintra
NOW, WHO’D’VE EXPECTED we’d be leading a parade? Cantra thought, scanning her screens and carefully not sighing.
In her head, the golden dragon glided easy on half-furled wings, beside her the jewel-colored dragonet which the tree had settled on as its version of her co-pilot. Behind them rose dragons of all color and description, old, young, halt and hale. Some few emulated the effortless grace shown by the leaders, others were already laboring hard. Beyond the general chaos loomed a long, disciplined line of black dragons, wings steady, eyes baleful, teeth at ready—Wellik’s rear-guard, that would be.
Back in real-time, the tower was crowded, not only because the pilots were presently enjoying the company of Liad dea’Syl, Lucky the cat, and Rool Tiazan, but with the sound of pilot voices.
Tor An played the local comm board like it was a musical instrument, pulling talk, catching chat large and small:
“Quanta Plus, have you even refribbed that thing in twenty years? But in case it helps, you’ve got to watch your starboard beacons, ‘cause they’re some out of synch!”
“Oughtn’t be doing that. We just had it shopped to your home field—that is if that’s I’ve got Clary Bee talking to me.”
“Clary Bee’s here, I’m to port, actually. That’s cousin Trisky talked about your synch, but it don’t look like his’re all that pretty, either. Port visuals fine, and signal strength right top.”
“Trisky, tell your field man he’ll owe me a day check if you see him.”
“Last I saw, he was mounting somebody a new deflector union. Ought to be out here somewhere . . .”
“Chrono, watch the drift, we got a crowd in a hurry comin’ from behind . . .”
“You got it, Mom. We’re set to spin to port and add some vee on a six count, if you’ll scoot . . .”
“Ain’t never seen so many holiday pilots in one place and if any of us get out of here without a hole in the hull . . .”
“Always an optimist, ain’t you, Bondy?”
“What’s that thing beside you, Rinder? Only got four beacons I can scan.”
“Uncle, that’s my guess.”
“Right. Well, Rinder, you’re safe on that side . . .”
“But low on company . . .”
Laughter from a bunch of ships on that, and the channels changed again.
The chatter seemed to soothe the boy, and, truth told, it eased her, too, knowing they weren’t traveling alone toward who-knew-what.
“Status report,” Tor An murmured. “All ship systems blue; passenger bays secure, systems blue; cargo pods show balance within tolerance, systems blue.”
“We’re ready to go,” Cantra answered. “If we knew when or where to.”
“No taste for mystery, Lady?” Rool Tiazan asked lightly from his lean against the back-up comm station.
“Not where my ship’s at risk, no,” she told him shortly, and spared him an over-the-shoulder glare. “Speaking of, you’ll be wanting to strap in. I won’t have you bouncing about this tower, if transition goes as hard as it’s like to, and putting the pilots at risk.”
He inclined his head ironically. “Your tender care for my well-being is noted and appreciated.”
“Appreciate it all you want, but strap in.”
“Translation wave!” Tor An snapped, and— “Another!”
Cantra reached to the board, ready to hold her steady—which was small-ship reactions. The tiny disruptions generated by those three transitions weren’t enough to jostle Quick Passage, even if they all hit at once.
“Wonder where they’re thinking on going . . .” she murmured, fingers simultaneously making the request of the tracking system.
“First was for The Bubble, looks like, second—”
“Incoming!” Tor An called.
“That didn’t take long,” someone sang across the bands. “What happened, forget your lunch?”
“The Bubble’s gone,” came the terse reply. “Ship won’t swallow the coords.”
She sent a glance down-board, that being the kind of news that might not set well with second chair. Besides his lips being pressed a little tighter than usual, he read calm and collected to her. Good boy.
“Incoming,” he said again—and this time the news was that Nolatine was gone.
“They should conserve energy,” Liad dea’Syl said quietly. “Our good friend Lucky has the right of it, I think. Rest now, for we shall surely need the fullness of our resources on the far side of the event.”
A quick glance showed the cat stretched out on his back across the old man’s lap, thoroughly asleep with his paws in the air. She grinned and turned back to her board. The dragon parade in her head was fading, as if the tree had decided to take the cat’s advice, too. Which was fine by her; she didn’t want to be distracted by pretty pictures during what was likely to come next.
“Number three must’ve got where they were going,” she said to her co-pilot.
“Else they were captured by the leading edge and unmade,” Rool Tiazan murmured, and Cantra sighed.
“Full of fun, ain’t you? Strapped in yet?”
“Incoming!” Tor An shouted. “Captain—a dozen—more!”
Her steadying hand was needed this time, not even something the size of Quick Passage could ignore the turbulence as Tor An’s
dozen ships—and then a dozen more, filling in at the fringes first, so the instruments told her, though the eye insisted they hit at once, each new ripple adding to the building wave of displaced energies.
The noise across the bands was terrible; worse was the carnage as ship was flung into ship, while others vanished, spontaneously translating—then reappearing, the ripple of their re-entry adding to the deadly agitation of energies.
“No!” Tor An cried.
Cantra’s hands danced across the board. “We’re leaving, Pilot,” she said, keeping her voice firm and easy—just a piloting exercise, boy, she thought at him. Stay with me, here, there’s worse to come . . .
“Aye,” he said crisply, and that quick he was steady, his hands moving sure and firm across his board, feeding the shields, slapping the noise off the bands down to a whisper, and doing all that a co-pilot ought, which was good, because she had everything she could do, dodging ships and shrapnel, as Quick Passage gathered and surged around them.
“Alert!”
His voice sounded strange in his ears: calm, collected, professional. His fingers moved efficiently across his board, doing what was needful while his heart hammered, and he rode his screens and scans—
“Captain—on visual, your screens six and eight . . .”
Objects—Were they objects? They glinted and gleamed in the visual tracking system, their shapes disturbingly fluid, even as they eclipsed stars and ships. They appeared to actively avoid Quick Passage, and scarcely registered on the radar—
“Got ‘em,” Pilot Cantra said, her voice so calm and easy that the pounding of his heart eased somewhat. “They don’t scan like anything I’ve seen before. Almost look organic, close up. Keep ‘em in eye and sing out if they look like changing their minds about avoiding us.”
“Aye, Captain.” His fingers had already brought the tracking systems up. He looked to the shields, and frowned, trying to place the low growling noise that had suddenly come on-line.
“Aha! Our noble feline would defend us from those!” The scholar cried, as delighted as a child. “Captain Cantra—an adjustment—if there is time? I have an additional factor. This should be added to the final equations, for accuracy.”
Now? Tor An thought wildly. With space in chaos about them and creatures unlike anything seen or told by pilots—
“Go,” Pilot Cantra said calmly. “I’m tracking.”
“Yes. You will wish to multiply the final result of section seven by this number, which is a very rough approximation induced by the infinite expansion theory I have settled upon. The number is this: Three-point-one-four-one-five-nine-two-six-five-three-five-eight-nine.”
“Three-point-one-four-one-five-nine-two-six-five-three-five-eight-nine,” Cantra sang back, fingers dancing across her board.
“That is correct,” the scholar said. “Very good.”
“Added, compiled and locked. Is the cat . . .”
“The cat proclaims his warrior status, Captain Cantra. Also, you will perhaps wish to know that Rool Tiazan is behaving—or shall I say, not behaving!—in a somewhat peculiar manner.”
Tor An looked up. At first glance, it appeared that Rool Tiazan leaned as he had been, in defiance of the captain’s repeated order to strap in.
On second glance, his pose was not relaxed, but rigid—and he was . . . glowing with a pale green light . . .
“Captain?” He began, his heart racing into overdrive again . . .
“Mind your board, Pilot! I need seal readings, now!”
He wrenched his attention back to his first duty, scanning and quoting the shield strength, the seal parameters, the go-condition of life-support.
“Matches straight across. Energy level’s up, but we’re not at transition yet. Keep an eye on that, and tell me what you’re scanning down low. I’m watching for intercept course objects, but I don’t find anything . . .”
The ship’s acceleration was constant, and Solcintra could now truly be said to be behind them rather than beneath. The rear screen was tracking the planet, but the clarity of the image was off—Tor An slapped the back-up into life.
The weird, organic objects were converging on Solcintra, melding into one enormous . . . object, which cast a long, cold shadow along the land . . .
“I am my own destiny,” Rool Tiazan said suddenly, and his voice seemed to reach beyond the skin of the ship, and out unto the very stars.
“I am my own destiny. Do what you will.”
THIRTY-FIVE
HIS BODY LEANING against the chair, he kept watch, all things great and small shining within the net of his regard.
There, Spiral Dance sang sweet seduction to her makers, the tree’s sacrifice adding counterpoint, and sending insults of dragons.
And there—the Fourteen lay poised and secret, energies caught and cloaked, holding the secret of their Weaving close, watching the lines, and the luck, and the progress of annihilation, weighing the virtue of each passing instant.
Ships as numerous as the stars themselves rose from those planets which had yet escaped the Iloheen’s kiss, equations were filed into boards, velocity was sought. Meanwhile, a taint of subtle poison drifted on the winds, which was the mark of she who would rule in place of the Iloheen. And at every front, through every level and phase, was there evidence of the Iloheen’s work, the wave front sizzling with icy energies.
Nearby, the ssussdriad was silent, its essence folded close.
On this level, the pilots were living flame, burning bright, and fierce, and fast. Against their glory, the old man was but an ember, shielded by the shadow of the cat.
And everywhere, on every surface, on every level, the luck gleamed and swirled and danced, infusing every action, every thought, every breath, so that even the Hounds of the Iloheen were turned aside, and sought lesser prey.
The touch, when it came, was so elusive that it seemed at first a memory.
Again, the touch, followed by a fuller presence. Within the lines and the fields of underspace, it made itself known, with a certain pleasing subtlety, as if it had learned somewhat of grace.
This falls to me, came his lady’s measured appraisal.
Rool acquiesced and withdrew to the subordinate posture, sparing a thought for the precious lives and the dancing of the luck.
Daughter of my intent, I greet you! The hour of your destiny is nigh. It is time to take up your proper place and duty.
A fair sending it was, as the Iloheen came at them from several levels, seeking advantage, seeking to distract, seeking to measure their strength.
I am my own destiny, his lady made answer, as Rool parried, expending the least energy possible; keeping the secret of their strength. Do what you will.
Is this how you welcome me, who made you what you are? The test that accompanied this was less wary, and too close to the plane wherein dwelt the darlings of the luck. All about, on every level, the wave-front of annihilation moved fast, and ever faster.
What peculiar arrangements you contrive for yourself! To cede dominance and submit to this prisoning of your powers! To consort with the small lives and strive to force a variant outcome? And yet—your promise is fulfilled. You are become as the Iloheen and have earned your place among us. Open to me. I shall free you from this bondage you have accepted and together we shall achieve perfection.
Rool felt a shift—stealthy and subtle—and tasted a stench upon the breeze. He looked to their shields, and made his reserves ready.
I am where I wish to be and those things which I have put in order please me, his lady answered. Begone! And trouble me no more.
Rool felt the hated touch against his essence as she who would rule in place of the Iloheen drew him. Willingly, he released the small tithe of his power that she had bargained to gain, and severed the thread that bound them.
The wind whipped foul and hot as she struck, strongly and with surprising depth. The Iloheen made answer, yet not without taking some damage.
Again, the wind struck, and Rool
increased his defenses, holding them close, intent only upon surviving this battle as the Iloheen drew its energies and—
From underspace itself, and from planes which no zaliata nor Iloheen had ever glimpsed, burst a vast and implacable greenness, a rage of life so potent that the terrible advance of perfection trembled, paused—
And crashed onward, consuming all and everything which was not itself.
Rool threw out what was left of his power, encompassing the fragile shell that contained the last, and best, hope of life.
Lute! he screamed against the wind. Lady Moonhawk!
Now, sister! The time is now! his lady’s sending echoed his as they plummeted, burning, to the physical plane.
BEHIND THEM, the sphere that was Solcintra distorted, its crust crushed beneath the weight of the shadows, fireballs bounced around the tower, and alarms shrieked as moons, meteors, and comets assaulted the shielding. Quick Passage lurched while the pilots fought for control, for stability, for—
“Now!” Rool Tiazan screamed. “Transition, Pilots, or all is lost!”
Wild energies engulfed them; radiation shielding boiled away. Tor An slapped for back-ups, saw Cantra lean to the operation stud, as the ship staggered—
And steadied, the screens showing gray.
“Systems check!” the pilot snapped. “Vacuum check! Interior radiation check!” Ordered, his fingers moved, querying the ship. He read out the answers, hearing wonder in his own voice.
“All ship systems blue; passenger bays secure, systems blue; cargo pods show balance within tolerance, systems blue. Interior radiation within tolerances.” He looked up and met her eyes.
“Vacuum check clean. We made it.”
“By the skin of our teeth,” she answered, but she was smiling.
“Rool Tiazan.” She spun her chair about to address him, sitting bedraggled and blood-stained in the comm-chair, properly webbed in, and stroking the cat on his lap.
“Captain?” he returned, warily. Wearily.
“Thank you,” she said, and spun back to face her board.
THIRTY-SIX
Quick Passage
