"Cephean," he said, and hesitated. Where to start? "All right. You need my help and I need yours, and we're both incredibly lucky even to be together here to try. But why isn't it working? We both know how to fly, but the last time in the net was worse than ever." He gestured pleadingly. "Don't you want to reach port, Cephean? Don't you want to go home again?"
"Hyiss-yiss," Cephean said, his whiskers curling and springing straight again.
"Did you have trouble understanding the image?" That was the kindest assumption he could make.
"Hh-no." (Carlyle sensed . . . something . . . and was disturbed that he could not identify the feeling.) "Hi heff ffly wiss hyou," Cephean hissed, his black velvet face split in what seemed to be a grin.
"What went wrong, then? Why didn't you coordinate with me?"
Cephean's breath whistled slowly in and out as he apparently considered the question. Behind him, the riffmar rustled and sssk'd quietly as they buried the roots of their feet in a nutrient tray. Cephean touched a forepaw to his nose and rubbed slowly. "Hi ss-ry." (An impression of shame flickered across Carlyle's mind.) "Hyou ffly halone, Caharleel." (He sensed a strange, dark longing, unidentifiable and then gone altogether.)
Why did he have to play these guessing games? What was Cephean really thinking and feeling?
The cynthian stirred, watching him carefully.
"No," he said. "We'll try again, in a while. But if things don't work better this time, we'll just have to try another method." He did not name the dreampool, but it loomed in his thoughts. The cynthian started, and suddenly looked away.
Odomilk. An image of the strange pods drifted eerily through Carlyle's mind. Responding to the commands, the riffmar leaped out of the nutrient tray and danced across the floor to a wooden cache. They lifted out two odomilk pods and carried them back and placed them on the floor in front of Cephean. The cynthian carefully cracked a pod with his teeth and sucked at the yellowish liquid which oozed out. He looked at Carlyle with upturned eyes, making plain his wish to be alone.
Sighing, Carlyle went back out into the corridor. He paced and then went to the commons, in the center of the crew-deck circle. It was a silent place, a human lounge empty of human voices, human presence. He shivered; the lounge was haunted by memories. His thoughts drifted to the men who had relaxed here with him, and tears began to blur his vision. He blinked angrily. He strode to the counter which curved along one side of the lounge and drew himself a beermalt. Then he sat on the opposite divan and tried to steady himself, to clear his mind. He toyed with a flo-globe, watching the colors flash mistily, randomly. They reminded him of the unharnessed Flux after the accident, after the deaths. Dropping the globe, he switched on the wall-generator and watched sparkle-patterns flash in ringlets around the room, the patterns, changing slowly: stoic . . . erotic . . . pastoral . . .
Slowly his thoughts dissipated, and he stared darkly at the wall, the beermalt growing warm in his hands.
* * *
The next session in the net began not much differently from the last. Cephean hummed away at the stern with his own thoughts, while Carlyle pleaded, pressured, cajoled—and Sedora sideslipped and trembled in the smooth-flowing Reld. They were sailing an image of streaming clouds.
Cephean, open up—listen—turn your thoughts out into the net.
The cynthian whistled an unintelligible reply; and the ship swayed in the clouds, thumping.
Follow! Dammit, Cephean!
F-hollow-hing.
Carlyle flew a practice turn. Then, as before, he had to strain, working against Cephean's mistakes to bring the ship back onto course. He flew straight, resting. Janofer came to him in his thoughts, quietly, unbidden. Her presence surprised him, but he said nothing and waited until she spoke.
Can you go it alone, Gev? You may have to try.
Don't ask me that, Janofer. Dear Janofer, sweet keelgirl, you know I can't go it alone. But you always ask.
A wrong fit in the net warps it like a gravity-abscess in a calm stream . . . dangerous. You are sometimes like that, Gev, for all that we love you . . . dangerous.
Do you think I don't know? All right, I'm a lousy rigger.
Janofer, face darkening: That's not what I mean, Gev. You're a fine rigger. But—
Skan, appearing suddenly: You're a lousy matcher, Gev, that's all. You'd be fine in a one-rigger . . . except you'd be lonely. Too bad you don't have a bit of Legroeder in you.
Skan. Always right but never tactful, damn you. Stay with me awhile, Jan, will you?
Sad, already distant gaze: Can't, Gev—I can't. I'm gone now. Later, perhaps, if you really need me. Perhaps then, for a while. And then she was gone, and so was Skan.
Perhaps then, but not now? Janofer: so kind, so courteous—you hurt me even when you're not here.
But the ship was drifting from its course now, and he reluctantly refocused his thoughts on flying. Sedora challenged his efforts to steer her true—and there was no assistance from Cephean. More strength was needed; he was taxing himself heavily as he flexed his ghost-neuron arms in the current. He cried out, demanding new strength from himself; Sedora answered slowly, but when he eased off for rest she immediately began to slip. He was losing control.
Then a curious thing happened. Legroeder appeared in his thoughts, wordlessly, and entered the net at the keel-station. Smiling enigmatically at Carlyle, the former crewmate lifted Sedora from the keel, helped steady her axis along the blue haze of the mainflow, and pointed her bow just tangent to the distant glitter of Cunnilus Banks. The maneuver went as smoothly, as easily as though Sedora were Lady Brillig.
All right, Carlyle thought. Why not? The strength of Legroeder, he knew perfectly well, was his own inner reserve focused through a wistful memory. But if he could fly through a memory, what harm?
Sedora sailed sturdily under their coordinated control, and Carlyle almost forgot about Cephean, silent at the stern-station. Then a turbulent stretch loomed ahead, an orange tributary streaming in from the left, setting the blue haze of the mainflow swirling with dangerous eddies. Legroeder? Yes, still there. Sedora shivered into the turbulence, and with Legroeder's help he stretched out steely arms and labored like an oarsman to maintain control. But they needed more strength; they had to aim directly into the heart of the turbulence to complete the passage.
As quickly as the thought, Janofer and Skan reappeared—and all three backed him in the net as he hooked his nails into the fabric of space and wheeled Sedora to a new heading. Without fanfare Carlyle found himself a part of a perfect gestalt, and as one, the four riggers brought Sedora into a downwelling and leveled her off again in a smoother layer of current.
The fantasy was a white lie. Never in the past had he achieved gestalt with his three crewmate-friends. If he had, he would still be on Lady Brillig. But the image was perfect in his mind—it was the gestalt for which he had yearned—and Sedora flew now like an eagle. That image multiplied in scope, and they winged silently over sprawling tufted clouds which glittered whitely and handsomely beneath him. He forgot his terrible loneliness. Janofer's music breathed soothingly through the net, and Skan's com lay steady and sure over the gestalt. Even Legroeder, pretending to ignore them all, smiled with secret affection.
Time, in the gestalt, passed unnoticed.
But the image was as taxing as it was exhilarating. Carlyle, bearing the load of four riggers in one, became aware finally of the strain he was enduring—and by then it was too late. His strength turned to souring wine, his senses dimmed and flattened, and Sedora suddenly balked in his failing rein.
His friends' voices were faint now, their faces escaping his memory. The ship began to tumble. He wanted to sleep—no, to collapse. How long have I been flying?
Caharleel! A whisper out of nowhere.
Cephean! My god! Can you help? Can you hold the keel steady? The fine spiderweb of the net was fraying, its grip in the clouds lost.
Hyiss.
Cephean's leverage from the stern increased drama
tically. Carlyle felt relief. Then alarm. Could the cynthian handle the ship—now, of all times? (He sensed a blur of annoyance, and bewilderment at . . . what? . . . at the humans who had materialized to help run the ship, and then had vanished. And . . . eagerness?) Before he could understand, the sensations disappeared. The cynthian had sealed the lid on his feelings, and now he hissed as he wielded the ship over Carlyle's failing control.
Cephean took the ship deeper—diving steeply down into the Reld. The cloud-image vanished, and the ship was suddenly underwater, and sinking with terrifying speed.
This was all wrong . . .
Cephean! What are you doing? Carlyle's heart leaped with fear. He tried desperately to oppose the cynthian; but Cephean refused to yield, and in the struggle for control the net strained and sparkled brightly, heatedly, and began to tear, to shred. The ship tumbled deeper, deeper—and suddenly broke down through the Reld and was beneath it, and the Current was only a shimmering ocean surface above them as they fell toward the abyss. Here in the depths, space was dark; it was the midnight of cruel dreams. Sedora was off her course and out of control, and what nightmare it was bound for Carlyle did not want to guess. If the cynthian aimed to destroy them, there was no surer way.
Fear turned into panic. Carlyle, like a stricken diver screaming for air, acted badly, instinctively. He triggered the maneuvering fusors to turn the ship upward. The fusors burst into life, and the ship began to groan—until finally it rose, roaring and shaking, on the torches, its wake casting a light into the darkness. Carlyle had forgotten to numb the sensory field astern, and the fire of the jets crawled upward along his spine, setting shots of agony alight in his soul. Cephean screamed soundlessly; in the stern-rig he was near the heart of the sun-fury, and beyond any help Carlyle could offer now. The cynthian's outcry flew in whispers: Ru-hinned . . . ss-/-how . . . deh-mise! The rest was lost—too fleeting—but Carlyle heard a distant cry as the cynthian sprang free of the net.
The fusors were dreadfully inefficient in the Flux; but they generated an image of directed movement, and that gave Carlyle the confidence he needed to reassert his control over the ship. Like a crazily inverted river, the Reld came back down toward him as the ship rose; then the river fogged, and sputtered in the jet flare. When he finally shut down the fusors, Sedora's keel was again drifting in the hazy stream of the Reld. She was held cockeyed but steady by the tangled remnant of the net.
Carlyle set the stabilizers and withdrew, shaking and twitching, from the net. He sensed the cynthian nearby, jittery and numb and bewildered, but he was far too exhausted to look. His veins flowed with lead, and before his eyelids could open he foundered into unconsciousness.
* * *
Images of the quarm fluttered naggingly, incessantly. A strange communion: cynthian heads bowed in a circle, clusters of riffmar shivering, forgotten. Ears, whiskers twitching. Thoughts fleeing from one's body to join, to intermix like buffeting winds—to share dreams and strange worlds, to animate imaginary bodies. Time slipped quickly, spanning eons, or stretched and staggered, and flowed like clotted milk. There was distaste here, disdain. Sour anger toward . . . toward others in the quarm, personalities that slipped into and out of the self without invitation. Resentment?—that intimacy should come so easily, so unavoidably.
(But wasn't the quarm a relief, a boon to the lonely mind? Wasn't it a natural end to solitude, an inborn gift of being cynthian?
(Why did Cephean so want to be alone?)
* * *
Carlyle felt dizzy and confused, uncertain of his own identity. The cabin walls blurred, resisting focus, as he struggled to recapture consciousness. Recollections filtered into place. He had awakened on the bridge, exhausted—years ago, it seemed—had stumbled to his cabin and bunk. He had slept—how long?—a full shipday. Jesus. There had been memories, dreams—the quarm, whatever that was. He had picked up more from Cephean than he had realized.
And flying, earlier—lord, flying as four people, he must have been trying to kill himself. Small wonder he had slept solidly for a day.
Rousing himself, he went to the commons. Hunger soon made him feel awake, and he ate ravenously, a meal of sea-tarns and warmloaf. Scarcely another thought went through his mind until he had finished. Afterwards, he fixed a mug of hermit brew and sat and collected himself, knowing that he ought to be looking for Cephean.
But he was rather comfortable, basking in the ochre morning glow of the commons, and instead of getting up right away, he put his feet up and thought. As he sipped the brew, memory-faces rejoined him. Skan led the conference, shaking his head: "No flow, Gev. You've got to bring that cat right into the rigging—wring him out, make him work."
"Thanks, Skan. Care to help?"
Skan, smiling broadly: "I have, Gev."
Janofer, flowing and concerned: "Perhaps you should think of using the dreampool, Gev. Or, if you must, go the whole way alone."
The dreampool—assisted intimacy. Not for nothing had he kept it out of his mind. It terrified him, even with another human. "Just like the old days? That's not much help, Jan. That's how you've always spoken to me."
"I've tried, Gev—you know that. But there was always something that wouldn't connect between us."
"How many times did you try? Twice? Three times?"
"Which nearly broke me. It wouldn't work, Gev—it just wouldn't."
"Hm."
"You're coming up on the Flume, Gev. Don't be thinking about us. We'll help when we can, but if you depend on us you'll burn yourself out."
Skan: "The cat—you have to get the cat working with you or you'll never make it."
"He seemed to be trying, last time. But God knows what he was doing. He acts suicidal."
Legroeder, from somewhere, looked up and nodded, but distractedly, as if his real thoughts were elsewhere. Janofer, whispering, drew close and brushed him with a kiss, and then withdrew, her voice a fading note on the air. He was alone again.
He drained his mug and left the commons, thinking to find Cephean and—what? Okay, it was time to act like a commander and start kicking ass.
Right.
But Cephean was not in his quarters. Carlyle stood in the corridor under one of the humming, brushed-bronze stabilizer arches. Fretful, and feeling a little silly, he considered where to look next. Well, what might Cephean have been doing while he slept away the last day? Unsupervised, almost anything.
The bridge was deserted. Likewise the communications coop. He went back down the ramp, worried now, and began a systematic search: dreampool theater and exercise room, then the lower deck and utility storage, lifecontrol, airlock, and conversion room. In the central part of the deck was the prep room leading to the fluxfield chamber. Lots of bad memories there. He checked without entering the chamber; the suits were all in place, and the monitors were steady, indicating that the pile shields had not been breached.
No Cephean.
That left only the cargo holds, accessible from the next lower deck; the primary holds were grouped in a broad oval around the bulk of the flux-chamber. Carlyle actually was not even certain what Sedora carried, but it was likely to be costly merchandise. Not that it mattered much, at this point; nevertheless, he hurried below.
The corridor was eerily silent, and he found himself moving stealthily, peering through each sealed cargo port like a thief. He came to number three port and cursed. "Damn you, Cephean!" The port was retracted, and a tattered bit of something lay on the deck: a broken riffmar leaf. Carlyle stepped quietly inside. The hold was gloomy, and crisscrossed with anchoring webs from which were suspended individual pieces of cargo. He recognized the articles almost immediately—Lifecybe organic computer cores, each in a fried-egg-shaped cradle connected by umbilical to a central life-maintenance unit. He was surprised; he had not guessed that the cargo was that valuable.
Cephean was on the far side of the hold, hunched over one of the cradles. Carlyle started that way, ducking and threading his way among the anchoring strands. Suddenly he
was stopped in midstride by a snap of light, a flash from nowhere which danced in a quick series of circles about the room, then vanished—and for a moment he totally forgot his purpose, his destination. When he shook his head and completed the stride with his left leg, the spell evaporated and he was aware again. But what? Oh—the light was external stimulation for the computer cores. Mesmerizing but, one hoped, not dangerous.
He crossed over to the cynthian. Cephean looked up at him, eyes dark, glinting.
A welter of emotion crawled through his mind: loathing, curiosity, scorn, anger. A mixture of his own feelings and Cephean's. He struggled to sound diplomatic, thinking of the precarious position they were in. "Cephean, what in hell are you doing?" He heard a whisper, and looked down at the two riffmar, who rustled quickly around behind Cephean. (He sensed disconcertment, frustration.)
Star Rigger's Way Page 2
