Star Winds

by Barrington J. Bayley

  He drained a goblet and stuffed more bread and chicken into his mouth. Taken aback, Rachad pondered this revelation. It was an aspect he had never thought of before—though of course the baron’s words could not be relied on. It was likely that he was simply repeating something he had heard.

  Rachad’s sudden discomfiture must have shown, for the baron laughed. Rachad allowed his gaze to wander down the long table, where there sat a comely young girl who for some time had been drawing his glances. Her name, he had heard, was Elissea; she was Matello’s niece.

  She smiled. He smiled. Shyly, he closed the book and resumed eating.

  The baron had given him a favored place at the table, being curious—though it seemed to Rachad in a halfhearted way—to know what he could tell him of the book. The Bucentaur remained in orbit; but Rachad could not help but marvel at how well the comforts of the dining table were adapted to the state of free-fall. Cling-slippers, together with garments that clung almost as effectively to the special plush of the chairs, made the lack of gravity close to irrelevant. The diners drank from closed goblets punctured with tiny holes as in a pepperbox. The food, all solid—bread, meat, cheeses, confections and fruit, pastries and pies—was wrapped in paper napkins and, so that it did not float away, was spitted with skewers which were stuck into cork boards. Apparently the cooks were not discommoded by this restriction, for the repast was delicious.

  Belching with satisfaction, the baron rose to his feet. “In two hours we depart for Maralia,” he announced. “But first, I honor my pledge. Bring them on!”

  At these words Matello’s private secretary seized the alchemical book from under Rachad’s nose and made off with it All those at table—mostly the baron’s senior officers—hurriedly rose also, whether or not they had finished their meal. Serving girls and footmen unfastened the clasps that locked chairs and tables to the floor, steering the now floating furniture to the sides of the hall.

  Baron Matello seated himself on a throne-like chair farther back in the banqueting hall. The main doors opened. Through them came Captain Zhorga and his crewmen, looking about themselves nervously.

  Mingling with the others, Rachad sidled toward the door. He knew what was coming; perhaps if he could slip away, he thought, his defection from the proceedings would pass unnoticed.

  It was not to be. Near the door he came face to face with Elissea, and stopped, entranced by her pert face and smiling eyes. “You came on that ship from Earth, didn’t you?” she said. “Uncle says it was very brave of you.”

  He laughed jauntily, and could not resist lingering. Soon he found himself boasting of his experiences, while in the background he heard, like a continuous murmuring, the voices first of Zhorga and then of the others as one by one they took the fealty oath. Eventually he reminded himself that he should leave; but suddenly Matello’s voice rang out.

  “And where is the lad who was apprenticed to the alchemist? We mustn’t leave him out; I need him on my staff.”

  Rachad felt himself pushed forward, reluctantly.

  Then he realized he would never have got away with it, and resignedly approached the baron to kneel before him, offering his hands in the attitude of prayer as had been shown to him earlier. Nearby stood Matello’s secretary, ready to prompt him.

  The baron clasped Rachad’s hands in his. Slowly, though the words stuck in his throat, Rachad repeated the oath the secretary read out to him, swearing obedience, loyalty and truthfulness. With what seemed a measured perfunctoriness, the baron responded, accepting him into his household and promising protection and fair treatment.

  When his hands were released Rachad stood up and walked away. It was done. He was under oath to Baron Goth Matello, Margrave of the Marsh Worlds, Protector of the Castarpos Moons, and liege to his Majesty King Lutheron the Third of Maralia.

  Chapter EIGHT

  Elegantly the Bucentaur raised sail and receded from Mars, curving round the Girdle of Demeter and then hurtling outward on the plane of the ecliptic.

  In little over a week the orbit of Pluto had fallen far behind, even though the starship had extended but a few of her sails. Then, in interstellar space, the journey proper began.

  For now she had moved into conditions of incomparably greater power than was available within the solar family; conditions from which the sun, like a mother, protected her planets with her own etheric atmosphere. Out here were ether winds on a stupendous scale, amassed from the outputs of billions of suns, creating processes affecting the entire galaxy.

  This colossal system of invisible motion was what made interstellar sailflight possible. As the Bucentaur eased herself into the stream that was to carry her toward Maralia, her passengers sedated themselves and took to deep-cushioned bunks. The crew, too, took drugs that helped them to withstand the period of acceleration, though the potions were of a kind that did not bring on stupor, and in a well-drilled sequence more and more sail was run out.

  The ship’s velocity mounted, became stupendous.

  Then, after a few days, a remarkable change took place. A barrier seemed to have been broken, heralding new, pleasanter conditions. The sails remained at full stretch; but the bone-breaking pressure abruptly dropped to a comfortable one-half Earth normal which bore no relation to the ship’s actual rate of acceleration. The Earthmen on board were puzzled by this, especially when they were told that maneuvers which logically should have torn the ship to pieces (such as sudden changes in direction) could now be tackled without danger.

  Rachad Caban, bunked deep down in the starship with the rest of Zhorga’s men, recovered his strength somewhat more quickly than the others. For the first time since coming aboard the stupendous Bucentaur he found himself unsupervised. He decided it would be a good opportunity to go exploring.

  He wandered at length up companionways and through corridors which were still deserted for the most part Eventually he found a hooded door, and on passing through it emerged, without warning, onto the main deck.

  The view was breathtaking. The deck, the size of a large playing field, consisted of an immense expanse of polished planking waxed to the color of light honey. At least a hundred capstans studded it; and swelling over the major part of it like a giant glass cocoon was an enormous transparent air balloon.

  There were towering superstructures whose nature was not immediately clear to Rachad. Farther down the deck, docked in special bays, were the three lighters, plus the fast reconnaissance craft, which the Bucentaur used for planetary contact—though she could, if the need arose, put down on most planets herself.

  In order that Rachad and everyone else on board could stand upright on the floor, the ship currently traveled deck foremost. Rachad knew, however, that she could just as easily move stemward, sternward, sideways or even bottom first. On enormous booms extended from either side of the hull were arranged the sails that made such maneuverability possible; he now turned his attention to these.

  They were even more spectacular than the deck itself, curving away and away into the void, their farther limits vanishing in the distance. And there were colors. Not just the shimmering blue Rachad was familiar with, but thousands of dazzling rainbow colors that crawled across the sails in evershifting moiré displays.

  Rachad stared hypnotized, gaping in a dazed rapture.

  Suddenly a slap on his face rocked him back on his heels. A voice snapped at him harshly. “Keep your eyes off the sails—the silk will trance your mind!”

  Rachad swung blankly to his attacker, shocked out of his reverie. He found himself facing a neatly bearded sailor in a body-hugging striped tunic.

  The sailor’s stern expression softened slightly. “Never look at ether silk when we’re in star travel,” he instructed in a more kindly tone. “The luminescent patterns are because we’re moving faster than light, and they’re not like anything you’ve ever seen before. They’ll leave you dazed for the rest of your life.”

  Rachad touched his stinging cheek. “I—I didn’t know,” he faltered.


  “One of the Earth lubbers, eh?” the sailor said, gazing at him condescendingly. “Don’t know much about star flight, do you?” He gestured upward. “Take a look overhead.”

  Rachad obeyed. At first he thought there was something wrong with his eyes. It wasn’t like looking into space at all. The blackness was incomplete. Violet curtains seemed to be swirling behind the void, reminding him of dark oil poured on water. Set against those curtains, the stars were a startling sapphire blue. And they danced: they wove, darted, spun, leaving contrails of lavender light.

  “Space will get more purple as we accelerate,” the sailor informed him. “Already we’re doing better than a hundred lightspeeds.”

  “Why do the stars move?” Rachad asked shyly.

  “It’s an illusion. When the sails get up to lightspeed they disturb the ether. That distorts space. And if space around us is different, everything is different. That’s why we only have one-half gravity—roughly Mars-weight—when by common sense we should be smeared against the deck.”

  “Space can be distorted?” Rachad echoed incredulously.

  “We’d never break the light barrier otherwise. If it weren’t for ether silk, light would be the fastest thing there is.” The sailor smiled, grunting reflectively. “It’s a weird experience when space starts to waver and we overtake light. Time seems to slow down, to stand still. I must have gone through it a hundred times. You wouldn’t know anything about it, of course, sound asleep in your bunk.”

  The starman spoke with the pride of one who considered himself a member of an elite. Rachad struggled to understand his words. He was conversant, of course, with the general principle that the larger the sail the greater the velocity. Theoretically if one had a sail spanning the entire macrocosm, its speed would be infinite.

  But the idea that light had a speed of its own was something that had never occurred to him. He did not understand why this speed should be so significant, nor why it should comprise a “barrier.” He did recall, though, that Gebeth had once described light as a compound of ether and fire; and that according to some sages the motion of the ether winds was more apparent than real—the ether did not actually “move” at all, but conveyed a vibration or tensioning force in some way.

  The sailor left to go about his business, giving him a parting warning to keep his eyes off the silk. Rachad strolled about the deck for a time, but grew nervous; always the shimmering sails seemed to lure his eyes. Shortly he went back below, through the hooded door.

  He felt no desire to return to his quarters, however. He walked aimlessly through the quiet corridors, passing men and women all clad in some version of the baron’s livery (as he himself now was). Everywhere he seemed to be tantalized by closed doors. Until, that was, he spotted Elissea, the baron’s niece, stepping along a passageway wearing a flowing robe cinched fetchingly at the waist.

  He quickened his steps, but before he could catch up with her she had disappeared behind a door of paneled wood. Rachad halted before it, lifted his fist to knock, but instead, swallowing at his own temerity, he turned the knob and opened the door gently.

  Quietly he stepped into what was evidently a private bedchamber. Elissea was alone, seated at a dressing table. She turned, startled to see Rachad, her expression one of shock but also of veiled excitement.

  “Is this how you conduct yourself on Earth?” she accused coquettishly.

  Rachad was flustered. “Forgive me, I …” Afraid lest someone should happen along in the corridor outside, he closed the door behind him.

  She rose and sauntered toward him. Her eyes were dancing. “Why, you look terrified. Is this the brave hero who faced space dragons?”

  He looked away, stung by the taunt. “Excuse me. I will leave.”

  “No, wait. Come here.” Taking him by the elbow, she led him to a wide, plush bed and sat him down beside her. “Why so gloomy? I should have thought everything was going well for you.”

  He snorted. “Well? Hardly! I didn’t embark on this adventure meaning to leave home forever. I’ve lost everything—my freedom, my …” My chance to make gold, he finished silently.

  “Shsh.” She put a finger on his lips. “Don’t ever let my uncle hear you talk like that It’s treason.”

  “So what?” he muttered with a shrug.

  They were silent. Then he turned to her. “Well, never mind about that. Tell me what it’s like where we’re going—in Maralia.”

  “Where we’re going is to my uncle’s own domain, the Castarpos Moons. It’s only a small corner of Maralia, and rather dull and gloomy, really.” She let loose a sigh. “That’s why I came along on this trip. I thought it might be fun. It hasn’t been so far, though.”

  “Well, we must, er, see what we can do,” he stuttered, and his arm went round her waist. Excitement mounted in him. At the same time new ideas began to invade his brain. All was not lost, he told himself. New frontiers lay ahead—and there was still a chance, he thought stubbornly, that he could somehow get hold of the alchemical book, still a chance that he could learn the secret of making gold.

  Apart from that, he speculated, allowing his thoughts to spiral crazily, what if he were to become related to Baron Matello? Married to his niece?

  Unaware that there was no chance of a commoner marrying into the nobility, Rachad sank down onto the soft bed with Elissea, and soon, for a while, forgot all his ambitions and disappointments.

  ***

  For two months the Bucentaur sailed along a glittering star arm, traversing several degrees on the great galactic circle by which interstellar flight was reckoned. In the latter half of the voyage her crew, showing great skill, guided her onto invisible running contours which the layers of ether wind created as they slid against one another—for the interstellar ether was far from homogenous but formed tunnels, streams and inclines as it swirled and boiled around the stars. The Bucentaur’s sails were able to gain leverage on these contours and use them by which to decelerate, so that as she approached the borders of Maralia her velocity steadily dropped.

  Finally she fell below lightspeed and began picking her way through a vast natural obstacle that lay between Maralia and the region of space in which Sol lay: a great screen of cosmic rubble, a Girdle of Demeter on a stellar scale. It was the chief reason, in fact, why ships rarely penetrated in that direction.

  Zhorga spent his time being put through a military training routine by Captain Veautrin, together with a squad selected from his former crew. At first it irked him to be under the tutelage of a younger man, but he applied himself to the drills with zeal and grew to like Veautrin, who in many ways was a man after his own heart, though less hasty in his judgments and more disciplined in his actions.

  Toward the end of the training period Zhorga expressed an interest in how the Bucentaur was run. He had heard that her captain commanded her from a control room deep within her hull (though there was a second, rarely used bridge towering over her main deck) and he was puzzled to know how this was done. As a favor Veautrin arranged a visit to this control room.

  There, by chance, Zhorga learned of the nature of the enemy he might well spend the rest of his days fighting.

  The control room was a large, wood-paneled chamber. The captain, a spare, bearded figure, sat in a straight-backed chair on whose arms were fitted a number of wheeled handles. Occupying the opposite wall, receiving his full attention, was an extraordinary device which answered Zhorga’s question.

  It consisted of a circular screen nearly ten feet across, made of milky-white frosted glass. At first Zhorga thought that it was a porthole into space, or that it was painted, for it showed the rock-strewn void through which they were passing. Then the captain twirled one of his handles. The picture expanded; they seemed to hurtle dizzily through space, toward a distant group of irregularly shaped asteroids.

  Captain Veautrin leaned close, muttering an explanation to Zhorga. “A system of lenses, prisms and mirrors projects a view of external space onto the glass scree
n. The system can also function as a telescope of enormous power, as you have seen.”

  “An invaluable aid,” Zhorga remarked, getting his breath. Once again he was astonished at the technical excellence of the starship. Compare this with his own fumbling journey to Mars!

  “It would be difficult to cross these reefs without it,”

  Veautrin agreed, “but in essence the device is simple. It works on the principle of the camera obscura.”

  The image of the rock cluster had stabilized in the center of the screen, quartered by its cross-hairs. Again the captain fiddled with the handles and the rocks shifted, moving toward the circumference where the screen was scored with calibration lines. He turned his head and spoke to the officer standing behind him.

  The first officer took a couple of steps and barked an order into a speaking tube. Shortly afterward the floor shifted slightly under their feet. As the ship changed course, the asteroid group disappeared from the screen.

  The captain relaxed. The screen continued its scanning, sweeping space to and fro in search of danger.

  Veautrin explained that by means of speaking tubes, of which the control room had many, one could communicate with most parts of the ship. Then he pointed to what looked like a locked desk, which with the lid off, he said, disclosed a battle plan of the Bucentaur, useful for directing her armament—though she was not primarily a warship.

  Zhorga nodded, taking everything in. He wondered if the day could come when he might command such an interstellar ship himself. Probably not, he conceded. He was too old to learn so many new tricks.

  They turned to leave, but a murmur behind them caused them to halt. All eyes had turned to the glass screen, which now showed a veritable jungle of asteroids through which the captain was trying to find a safe gap, having reduced the slip’s speed still further. But that was not all. There were also—ships, their images small but unmistakable, sliding through the rock fields.