(You had never flown before? But . . .)
(Hone-ly held-hers f-hly!)
(Elders? Then you aren't . . . very old. Oh.)
Lord-o, it wasn't the same for the others. He just had to get away from the quarm and from Corneph's incessant nagging, never letting him rest for a moment without conforming to the quarm. Share, merge, unite, never leave a thought untouched. Here: become a plant, become an alien (he had never even seen an alien!). Broil-dammit! Was he strange, just because he alone could not stand it?
Ooh, to be free of them! That's why he had fled! But he'd never meant to make it permanent.
(Did the others offend? Is that why you do not wish company?)
(Whass?)
Now he was stalled, stalled! Why would the thing not fly? Seated in his sunken dais, he grilled the riffmar on their findings (though he had not been tending them, so how could they have found anything?). He hurled abuse at the quivering creatures, and finally he leaped screaming, scattering them in fright. Odomilk! he shrieked, and when it was brought he sucked on the pods with a vengeance, while the riffmar huddled in their nutrient beds. Nothing like pungent odomilk—but still, there were the riffmar to be attended to. Certain chores they could perform by rote, but hardly what he was demanding now. And he had best be careful; there were only six of the sluggards left. Here, an idea: perhaps there was a maintenance recorder.
Humming, he set the riffmar to locating the memory cube and then, once they found it, to obeying the cube's silent recitation. Hey-now, the thought-flow amp seemed to be working, so maybe it was just the controls out of kilter. That was more like it—a pity he hadn't thought of the recorder sooner, but after all he was a forest-singer and not a flight-crafter. Corneph—that sot-rotted nuisance would be unbearable if he knew of this. His bloody arrogance could drive anyone from home. Corneph, with his stinking empathic whistle, diving like a fool into the quarm and dragging you off on a mindlark whether invited or not. Lord-o-lord, to be rid of him was worth even this!
A riffmar peeked shyly at him, awaiting recognition.
Useless plants! He recognized it with a powerful swat. Hah! Two with one blow!
Oh damn, now, he needed those two to fly!
Alarmed, he prodded the limp ferns—but it was no use; they were dead. He sprang to all fours, whiskers curling and twisting. What had they been meaning to tell him?
The four living riffmar huddled at the control tree, so obviously paralyzed with fear that he approached with unusual caution. What had they learned?
Ssss. They quivered, struggling to coordinate a reply. Hssshell ffly . . . h-need more uss. One of them collapsed, strained beyond its limit, and the others lifted it gingerly and carried it to the nutrient bed. Ssssss.
That was it, then; he was finished. He had caught the image before it faded. The controls had been upset by a passing storm; now, with the help of the maintenance memory cube the problem had been corrected, and all he needed to fly again were six riffmar to operate the controls. And all he had left were four.
Rage boiled in his stomach. He could not fly with only four, and there was no way to speed the growth of the young buds. He could switch on the distress beacon, but there would be no one to hear it; he was far beyond cynthian space. So that was it; he was finished.
He was also embarrassed beyond description.
A groan erupted from his throat, and through a deepening haze he saw the riffmar shrinking from him. Damn them! Wailing, spitting, he leaped at the control tree—rebounded with a crash of breaking elements—and launched himself at the riffmar. Two of them fell to his claws, but in his madness he lost his thought-control, and the other two fled shrieking to safety behind the nutrient bed. He forgot them and bounded back over his dais; he skidded, and slammed broadside into the wall. He staggered away, stunned, and hurled himself yowling into the control tree again, where with a smashing of splinters he tumbled, battered, to the deck.
Later, on awakening, he tore savagely into his stock of bramleaf, and he gorged himself on odomilk. He ignored the riffmar, ignored the broken tree, ignored the shell's warbling distress beacon—and concentrated solely on glutting himself to the limit on bramleaf and odomilk. When he finished he sank groaning into the dais, laid his head upon his tail, and slept.
(My god, such violence! Have you no discipline? No wonder you can't coordinate worth a damn in the net.)
(Ffsssss—hyou who kannoss kheef hyor mines h-where iss be-hlongss, Caharleel!)
On awakening this time, he hissed in pain. His stomach was a hard knot of complaint; his fur was matted and disheveled; he wanted badly, oh so badly, to regurgitate, or, failing that, to die. He fumed in silent agony, his eyes watering, his thoughts orbiting one another in meaningless jokes. Could he maybe work the little knobs himself, with his big, clumsy paws? Yeh. Ooh, to throw the fiercest tantrum in history! But he could hardly move, for the abdominal cramps.
Eventually his head cleared somewhat, and he turned grimly to the final challenge: arranging for himself a good, classical demise. He looked balefully at the two riffmar sssking in the nutrient bed, and his blood heated once more.
But no; he must spare them, at least for the moment.
Had he grounds for demise? Dereliction in space was embarrassing, to be sure. Depressing, infuriating, humiliating. But was it humiliation enough? It was hard to be certain, and he had little experience in such matters. What he really needed now, for a demise that would even put Corneph to shame, was to be perceived as being a victim rather than an idiot.
(Demise? What do you mean, "demise"?)
Later, mulling, and gnawing at his tail, he was startled by a CLUNGGG reverberating through the shell. And a buzzing outside—was there something out there? Someone? Fascinated, nervous, he moved over to the wall and listened. What, what? There were thumps, small thumps moving in a progression around the outside of the shell. Lord-o, now what? Was space itself going crazy?
He listened more carefully, and extended the range of his thoughts beyond the inner shell. Why, there were the stars and space—too broil-damn much space!—and . . . an alien! He pulled back, sputtering, and then reached out again. A creature from another shell, a biped, enclosed in a form-fitting suit of some kind. Walking about on the outside of his, Cephean's, shell. Searching . . . for him?
Blood rushed to his head, then ebbed. And suddenly the meaning came clear. The creature had heard the distress beacon—and who had activated that, anyway?—and he was here for a rescue!
Now what better humiliation could be asked?
Feeling suddenly much brighter, he sent the two riffmar to ready the airlock to receive the alien—and to prepare the space-balloon, since clearly they would be transferring to the alien's ship. While he, with assurance at last, began plotting a truly graceful demise.
Carlyle broke into the memory. Cephean, you mean you came aboard with me . . . (vision of the cynthian and the two ferns, plus baggage, drifting across space in the flimsy clear bubble, squeezing with considerable prodding into Sedora's airlock; Cephean clawing the bubble open like a plastic bag) . . . meaning from the start to . . . kill yourself?
Fffssilly ssfhool! Hnow hyou haff h-made me ffssay iss!
But can't you see I'm trying to help you get home again?
Ffssthufid! H-noss h-my home-ss.
Carlyle, facing the cynthian through a gauzy veil: Cephean, if we get out of this, you can find a way home. I'll help you. Is humiliation the only reason you're not cooperating? You want to scuttle my ship, destroy it, take me down with you? Wouldn't you rather go back—laugh at Corneph, make him look like the fool instead?
Cephean lurched about in great agitation, almost crashing through to Carlyle's side of the veil: H-no, no! Noss Corneph hin mi-mind-ss! H-noss hafter thiss!
Cephean, I didn't take you off your ship to embarrass you, or even just to save you. I needed help as badly as you did. There's no humiliation in offering help, and that's what I want you to do—offer me help.
The boun
dary layer shimmered like a curtain, threatening to part, and Cephean pushed his face close to it to peer at Carlyle. Ssso? Whass-about hyor frenss hyou halways heff?
You mean Janofer, Skan, and Legroeder? They're not here in person—they're different. I thought you knew. They're out of my memory and imagination—sort of like your quarm, I guess.
Hyou heff no quarm! Scornfully. (Or perhaps enviously?)
No. But we wish we had something like it, or something like what you saw between the others and me in the net. But wishful thinking is as close as we come. We're alone. The way you seem to wish you could be.
Hyiss.
We're condemned to it. Except for short times, when we're in the dreampool—and then it's scary, but we do it because it helps us work together in the rig. The way I want you and me to work.
H-why hyor frenss noss helff?
They were never there. That's my whole point. I was flying alone in the net—just me, with my memories. Perhaps I could do it again for a while, but never long enough to get us through the Flume.
Whass iss Flume?
Again? Here:
The Flume. Breakup of the Reld Current, and the vicious spawning ground of new currents. The Flume varied in detail with each vision of the Flux, but in its most basic character remained the same. It was a place riggers passed at peril and with utmost attention to control. They were like ancient sonarmen—sounding their ocean depths carefully, guessing shrewdly at reflection layers, scattering layers, deep transmission layers. The only certainty was change, the intrinsic frailty of any given condition. Things happened fast: a vortex luring a ship into subtle pathways to unknown space; a waterspout lifting a ship whole and pinwheeling it lifeless back into the sea; white-water rapids smashing a ship and flinging the pieces to the heavens. Or: the ship dancing across the flux-eddies like a skipping-stone over water, the reins of the net allowing the rigger to guide it through the danger zones, to master the flow and bank into the chosen exiting current, and to send the ship high and fast toward its destination.
H-we kann noss!
Yes we can, Cephean. That's why we're here—to learn how. Are you ready for an experiment in cooperation?
The cynthian drew back, sputtering. Whass?
The setting changed abruptly. They stood together on a hillside meadow under a beaming sun. The meadow lay upland in a range of rugged hills; all around and down-land from it sprawled pockets and cushions of forest. Whass! Cephean was astonished and indignant, and his eyes flashed like copper buttons in his black velvet face. This, Carlyle perceived, was a bit like the tricks old Corneph used to pull. Well, too bad. This is your world, isn't it, Cephean? Syncleya?
Hyiss. Suspiciously? Or angrily? Either way, Carlyle could sympathize. The dreampool drew from both of their minds; and probably Cephean did not realize that neither of them was wholly in control of the process.
There was a sound of giggles, badly suppressed. The two riffmar poked their heads out of the grass, and sat up hiccuping.
Another sound—a hissing chortle, from the top of the hill. It was Corneph, gazing down with delight; he was a somewhat smaller version of Cephean, with a brown and white streak down his black breast. (Carlyle sensed sudden malevolence—from Cephean.)
Not far downslope from Corneph, Janofer sat serenely watching; and presumably Skan and Legroeder were somewhere about.
That's the whole cast, Cephean. Carlyle turned, scuffling his feet in the turf; he breathed great lungfuls of the open air, and gazed about at the almost torturously green countryside. Will you show me around?
Cephean spat and sputtered in perplexity, and finally pawed his nose, his tail lashing about behind his head. Hyiss, ss-all righ-ss. He sprang downhill on all fours, the riffmar hurrying at his heels, and vanished into the woods. Carlyle followed, surprised by the sudden display of speed. He found Cephean in the woods, unconcernedly waiting beneath a stand of slender, smooth-trunked trees.
Ssthoff.
He stopped. Clearly Cephean had something to show him. The cynthian sat and simply looked off into space, his molten eyes wide. The riffmar stood perfectly still.
A sound passed through the air like a shadow, a musical tone. Or had something touched just his thoughts, and not the air at all? He couldn't tell what it was that he was hearing—even when the note repeated itself, and other notes followed, notes of different pitch and different timbre. Clear, piping notes—but were they in the air or in his mind?
Notes fell like rain. Reedy mournful sounds, and crystalline belltones, and a shower of melohorns, and a whole skyful of tones for which he had no name. There seemed to be no melody. But other patterns emerged, as though from the depths of his mind, blossoming into his thought. Visuals: of colors and of blending, sagging clays, of red sands tumbling, sliding from cliffs. And smells: of fresh-cut greens and broken cedar. His vision blurred, and instead of seeing Cephean he saw a whole community of cynthians, crafters at work—directing riffmar and the larger, brawnier roffmar at construction tasks. In the background, low-slung pack delmar grumbled and sighed. The controlling thought-commands rushed cacophonously through his skull.
The vision shifted with merciful speed, and he glimpsed a quarm, a circle of female cynthians, the everyday telepathic clamor subdued to an intense mumble; a circle of minds traipsing together in other worlds. The vision shifted again, and here were cynthians at study (investigating what?), their sparkling eyes gazing into oddly shaped crystals. Hum of probing thoughts; and instructions for younger cynthians (such as Cephean?). The vision shifted again, and broke altogether.
The music-rain trickled wetly, and stopped. He looked at Cephean in amazement. The cynthian was now resting, utterly relaxed, beneath a cleverly woven bower of trees. Carlyle blinked. Had the trees bent themselves to Cephean's designs? The music had so engaged him, he had seen nothing of what had happened. You did that? he whispered.
Hyiss.
The visions—had they been a deliberate presentation, or a distraction, or merely background noise?
The question died unasked. A boisterous scream shattered the stillness—and Carlyle whirled about in consternation and looked back through the woods, squinting. What the hell? he wondered. The scream sounded again, louder. Finally he looked up. An enormous flying beast soared low over the woods, then descended, crashing through the trees, and landed on the forest floor with a CRUMP and a horrible strangling noise.
Carlyle's throat constricted at the sight. It was a koryf, a dragon-creature from the wilds of Garsoom's Haven. He had seen a real koryf once, on that world. The beast had so terrified him that he had humiliated himself by hiding and abandoning his guide to face the creature alone. The guide had escaped unscathed, fortunately, but Carlyle's pride had not. The humiliation and the fear rushed back now, and before he even realized what he was doing, he was looking frantically—and futilely—for a place to hide.
The koryf was hideously crumpled and gray, like a deflated elephant skin hung on a misshapen skeleton. Even from a distance its stench was gagging, and its teeth were highly visible, long and yellow. The beast screamed again, and spat acid saliva that fell smoking among the trees.
Whassss! Cephean hissed shrilly.
Carlyle glanced at him blankly, then came to his senses. Quickly he explained to Cephean what the creature was—and that it was going to try to kill them. This one's from my memory, he said woefully. He wheeled around, looking for a place of safety.
The koryf furiously beat its wings, smashing tree branches recklessly; and it lurched toward them with a cry of death. Carlyle backpedaled, urging Cephean to flee. But the cynthian was paralyzed by indecision—until the laughter of another cynthian (that toad, Corneph!) hissed through the woods. In sudden fury, Cephean raked his ears forward and flashed his teeth. SSTHOFF! he shrieked at the monster.
The koryf lunged, spitting and wailing, and tore a tree apart with its jagged incisors. Sputtering, astonished, Cephean fled after Carlyle.
You can't stand against it, Carlyle in
sisted, huddling behind a tree. Cephean glared at him. The riffmar scuttled on past and didn't stop.
Carlyle tried frantically to remember just what it was one did do against a koryf. We can't outrun it, not far, and we can't fight it unarmed. We'll have to outwit it.
Sss-how?
Suddenly he remembered. It's stupid. It's telepathic but it's stupid.
The koryf was crashing very close now. His words spilled out in a jumble. We have to distract it—it can only concentrate on one thing at a time. If we can each get its attention, we'll confuse it. Then—I don't know, but if we don't do at least that much it will kill us for sure.
Corneph, somewhere, hooted.
Star Rigger's Way Page 4
