"Yes," said the Thangol, "it is possible that I operate a ship for business reasons, and of course I would employ riggers such as yourself in flying the ship, if I had one. But the employment of riggers is customarily arranged by the RiggerGuild, is it not?"
"Customarily, yes," said Carlyle. "But there are exceptions. I don't mean to pry into your business practices at all—my only interest is in tracing a friend of mine, a rigger named Janofer Lief." Carefully he drew forth Janofer's holoprint and showed it to the Thangol. Merck studied it for a moment, holding it in his fleshy right hand. He returned it to Carlyle.
For a moment they exchanged stares. Then Carlyle prompted. "Do you recall seeing this woman?"
Merck rubbed the two thumbs of his right hand against the opposing three fingers. He studied the activity as though it belonged to the hand of another. "I can tell you that I might remember seeing someone who looked like her," he said finally.
Carlyle closed his eyes and took several slow breaths. He opened his eyes again. Normally he might be intimidated by the Thangol's appearance, by his cool reserve, by the fact that he could undoubtedly crush Carlyle with a single one of his mechanical hands. But Carlyle was tired of feeling intimidated. "Could you please be more specific?" he said quietly. "I am asking for my own personal information. Nevertheless, I am asking also as a good-standing member of the RiggerGuild. I had hoped that you would try to help me. As a member of the RiggerGuild."
The Thangol stared at him with both eyes wide and unblinking. Whether Merck interpreted Carlyle's statement as a threat or as formal protocol was not clear. But finally he whispered, "Yes, I think I can safely say that the female rigger you asked about was here."
"And did you engage her services? Or the services of Skan Sen, or Renwald Legroeder?" Carlyle showed the Thangol holoprints of the two men.
Merck waved his right hand. "No," he whispered hoarsely. "Neither of these two men."
"And the woman? Janofer Lief?"
The Thangol hesitated again. Carlyle lightly rubbed the rigger embroidering on his tunic, almost unconsciously. "Yes," said Merck at last. "I engaged her as a rigger on one of my ships."
"How long ago? Where were they bound?" Carlyle squinted, his anxieties multiplying.
"About two months ago."
"Local months?"
"Yes, local."
That was about a month and a half standard. "Where were they bound?" he said.
The Thangol stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Good day!" and turned to float back to the dark recesses of his shop.
"One minute!" Carlyle barked. He was astonished by his own tone of voice. The Thangol/cyborg turned slowly and looked at him. "I said, where were they bound?" He waited, glaring. How far an implied RiggerGuild threat would carry him here he didn't know. But he had nothing to lose.
The Thangol held his silence but moved half a meter closer. Carlyle slammed his hand upon the counter. "Where were they bound?" he demanded.
"Denison's Outpost," whispered the Thangol. He spun and hummed out of sight down the aisle.
The lights in the storefront dimmed. Clearly Carlyle was being invited to leave. He stood thinking for a moment, then went outside. The door clicked locked behind him, leaving him isolated on the deserted street.
It took him half an hour to get another aircab, but he had plenty of thinking to do while the time went by. Denison's Outpost, he thought, was somewhere in Golen space—but he wasn't sure exactly where. There was a Dennison's Hardship also, and a Denizen's Haven. And he couldn't remember which ones were located where. But he had a bad feeling.
* * *
When he returned and checked in the Guild navigational library, his fear was confirmed. Denison's Outpost was located deep in Golen space. That was why the Thangol had been so reluctant to talk. Whatever shipment he had been making to that planet—if he had told the truth—was at least partly illegal. Nearly all shipments into Golen space were partly or entirely illegal. Many of the planetary laws within that space were confused, contradictory, and repressive—and unevenly enforced. Illegal traffic proliferated: illicit drugs, high-energy weapons, psychoactive technics, slavery (both human and nonhuman), and "unsafeguarded" robots and organic computer cores—lacking certain restrictive programmings which would protect human operators. And with the illicit traffic went banditry, piracy, and other more uncertain dangers.
The nonreturn rate for ships entering Golen space was five times that in any other outworld section of space. It was for this reason that sixty standard years ago the RiggerGuild had called a broad strike, demanding protection in Golen space. It was the only Guild strike ever to have failed—not because the combined spacing authorities had not wanted to establish controls over Golen space, but because they had been unable to do so. In rescinding the strike, the Guild had declared Golen space a "protection-free" zone. Riggers flew there only at their own risk, by their own independent arrangements, and without benefit of the Guild's protective umbrella. Under no circumstances could a rigger be required, regardless of contract, to enter Golen space; and all riggers were strongly discouraged from doing so.
Yet some did. Always some did. Some for adventure, for escape, for reward; some for perverse reasons, to satisfy self-destructive urges; some for the feel of exploration, for bravado. The reasons were as varied as the individuals who went. Some were simple, some complex; some were good, some bad; some carried hopes of success, others carried none.
But why would Janofer have wanted to go? A rigger who could have chosen almost any crew, any ship, any destination—what attraction would those forbidding spaces have held for her? Had she felt that desperate, that despairing?
And what of Skan and Legroeder? Carlyle had information, however unreliable, tracing both men to Andros II. And Andros II was a natural jumping-off point for Golen space, though it was in and of itself a respectable enough port. But there seemed no way to be sure where they had gone. The Guild office advised Carlyle delicately that no records were maintained of riggers entering the protection-free zone. True, they could find no record of either man arriving at Andros II; but they had no record of Janofer's arrival, either, and Merck would hardly have admitted seeing her if she had not been on the planet. So the Guild's recordkeeping here was less than exemplary.
Perhaps all three were in Golen space.
"Cephean," Carlyle said, since he had decided for himself without even allowing debate, "will you fly with me in Golen space? It could be very dangerous."
"Sssssss," muttered Cephean. He flipped Odi into a somersault and stared at Carlyle with apparitional eyes. "H-all righ-ss."
"Good," said Carlyle. "We'll leave tonight. No cargo except light goods in case we have to barter."
Carlyle tried not to dwell on certain feelings of guilt about the ease with which he had persuaded Cephean. The cynthian almost certainly did not appreciate what it was he had agreed to. And neither, perhaps, did Carlyle.
* * *
The Wall of the Barrier Nebula loomed intimidatingly against one-half of the universe. As Spillix coasted out of the Andros system, Carlyle set his course as carefully as he could, considering how little he knew of this region. The Guild navigational references about Golen space had been sketchy. He decided to skim close to the plane of the Wall, or whatever its Flux equivalent would prove to be. Later they would turn outward to angle across to Denison's Outpost.
Golen space. Was he certain that he wanted to do this? He could be pursuing a phantom, a lie. But did he have any choice?
When he took Spillix down into the Flux, he decided to keep his navigational imagery similar to the actual normal-space view; this should render him less susceptible to surprise, to sudden change growing out of his own imagery. But it would slow their flight, since he could not use daring imagery to abridge their course or to speed them faster through the Flux. At present he just wanted the security provided by that huge, glowing nebula on his right.
Cephean, let me know immediately if you sense anything strange, anythin
g that doesn't seem right. Okay?
Yiss. Whass hwill hi ss-see?
Don't know. I've never been in this space before.
Iss ff-sthrange? He was jittering around in the stern-rigger station, not yet as scared as Carlyle was.
Maybe. Maybe not, he answered reluctantly. Bad things have happened in Golen space, like I told you. But I think we're in about the safest section of it.
They flew awhile in silence, then Carlyle said, Why don't you take more of a hand in flying, Cephean? It's going pretty smoothly now, and I think it would be good if we practiced together. In case anything comes up, you know?
Cephean edged farther into the net. He seemed more relaxed with this "realistic" imagery than with Carlyle's more personal landscapes, but still he did little except use his balance to help steady the ship. He held his tail straight out astern like a long black kite tail.
The Wall moved slowly past on the right, its pastel fuzziness mottled by areas of varying density, some brighter and some darker. The dust lane angled downward like a sinuous and ghostly guardrail. They flew steadily, with only short breaks, for fifteen hours; and then they left the ship on stabilizers and slept for seven.
Later, they picked up essentially the same image, but Carlyle was aware of subtle changes. They still flew alongside a nebular wall, with a universe full of stars and the occasional dust cloud in all other directions; but the Wall was dimmer, more ghostly and greenish, and the open space was also changing. Some of the stars faded slowly from visibility, and others grew rounder and fuller, like fuzzy teardrops. They were entering the actual territory of Golen space. Carlyle was unnerved to think that the space itself could influence his images this strongly. He did not resist the changes in starscape, but he sought to be aware of all of them.
* * *
In the fourth day of flying along the Wall, they were joined in the net by Legroeder. Carlyle was taken by surprise—even though it was his own mind producing the illusion of Legroeder's presence—but he was pleased to see his friend. Legroeder had not joined him for quite a long time, and it was good to have him back.
Legroeder smiled mysteriously in greeting but spoke not at all. He took up the mid-rigger post, which on Spillix was merely an area of continuity in the middle of the net.
Legroeder, do you know this area of space very well?
Legroeder nodded and hummed a little harmony to some unheard melody. Carlyle felt Legroeder's influence less as a physical assistance than as a strengthening of his own self-assurance. Legroeder was unobtrusively giving guidance and confidence, which in a ship this small was probably the best possible form of assistance.
Cephean hissed and sputtered, and Carlyle asked him if it was all right to have Legroeder in the crew. Hyiss, yiss, answered Cephean. Yiss. But he seemed to keep a more careful eye on things. Did he distrust Legroeder? Carlyle wondered. But Legroeder wasn't real here, and Cephean understood that—so how could he distrust the man?
Well, it probably didn't matter. They flew, and Carlyle listened to Legroeder's quiet humming and tried to guess what really was in the man's thoughts; and the ship drifted alongside the Wall like an unpowered balloon. Wondering if there might be some way of speeding their progress, Carlyle asked Legroeder, Do you know an image that can move us faster, but won't get us into trouble?
Legroeder went right on doing what he was doing and gave no sign of having heard the question. And then, as Carlyle was about to repeat himself, Legroeder spoke. Would you like another image? He hardly stopped humming as he spoke.
Well, yes. I'd like to get where we're going sooner. But I don't want to take chances, either. I don't know this region at all. For a moment, doubt crossed his mind and he cautioned himself not to get carried away by his fantasy, but the doubt shimmered away and the caution was lost. The image was already changing.
The Wall's luminosity dimmed to a ghostly greenish sheen. Most of the stars in surrounding space turned muddy and disappeared, as though obscured by intervening matter. It became difficult and confusing to judge the ship's movement along the Wall.
The net glimmered very faintly, as did the Wall. So, now, did a few undefinable patches, or areas of vision ahead, above, and to the left. Below was darkness. Behind was . . . Carlyle did not look behind. The spots off in space were like smudges on a glass, or light aberrations in a holograph, or lights in the distance in the underwater realm of a nighttime sea. And that, he knew now, was the image—nighttime under the sea.
The sight was not comforting. But there was a feeling of mystery which he found exhilarating. He hoped that "Legroeder" knew where they were going and would steer by the same intuition which had created the scene. To circumvent worry, he talked while he flew. Maybe he could learn some useful information. Do you know what has become of Janofer and Skan, Legroeder? I've caught rumors of where they've been—and you, too—but here I am flying off to Denison's Outpost, and I don't even know that Janofer's there.
The best way to find out is to look, Gev.
Yes, but haven't you heard anything? At least you've seen them more recently than I have, and maybe you've bumped into them at some port somewhere since you all split up. He started to ask why they'd split up—but this wasn't the time.
Legroeder muttered something in reply to the original question, but Carlyle couldn't make out what he said.
What?
Legroeder muttered again and did something to realign the ship. For a moment Carlyle thought, as he again turned his attention outward, that there was another movement—as though something were abeam of them, paralleling their course. Almost certainly it was his imagination. But he listened carefully for signs of other life, since another ship could make a disturbance like that. The probabilities of chance meeting with another ship in space were vanishingly small, however, even when ships followed common currents in the Flux, and he was reasonably sure that he had witnessed either some emanation from his own mind or a turbulence in the Flux itself.
Cephean, how are you doing back there? he asked.
Silence.
Cephean, are you still there?
Silence. Then: Yiss. Whispered. Carlyle thought he detected fear in the reply. Instinctual fear. Why was Cephean afraid?
The ship glided smoothly in the night sea. The glimmering Wall was textured with fuzzy undulations, as though covered with vast, pale anemones, their flowering fingers alive and seeking in the night. The ship swayed with a fluid and relaxing movement. The current carried them forward and down along the Wall.
There was that shimmer again, of movement out to the left.
Perhaps it was one of the lost phantom ships, he thought wryly. Devonhol, or Atlantis. Or even Impris herself, queen of all the legendary Dutchmen.
He envisioned a silvery leviathan emerging from the mists, her prow aimed across the course of Spillix like a cruiser intercepting a launch. The seven minds of an infinitely weary crew spotting him on collision course and broadcasting warning. Or laughing with deadly mirth, and deliberately cutting the smaller ship in their wake. Or perhaps not noticing Spillix at all.
Carlyle, cut it out.
He steadied his grip on the net. He had come very close to actually creating the scene he had been imagining. A good way to destroy themselves, that would be.
Legroeder looked at him with an odd expression, which was about the nearest Legroeder ever came to laughter.
He banished the images and the worries, and concentrated on flying. The worries didn't stay banished, though—especially when the sounds began.
The first sounds were rolling sea sounds, more relaxing than unnerving. They reverberated as the gentlest conceivable disturbance in the Flux. Carlyle wondered if he was listening to the lapping sounds of sea against shore, or of currents bumping objects together in the depths. The sounds were rhythmic, a continuous bumping and sucking of water.
And that movement was real out there. A shape, a silhouette against pale light in the darkness. A ship, a creature, or an enormous shoal against a g
hostly luminosity in the distant depths. Legroeder, do you see that? he asked.
Silence. Except for the bumping, the bumping and sucking of water.
Legroeder? But he already knew the answer. Legroeder was out of the net, gone.
Cephean, are you still there? He was beginning to feel nervous, terribly nervous. Cephean?
Yiss. Soft, scared. Cephean didn't like what was happening here.
Stay close, all right? Pull in tight on your side of the net.
The cynthian complied without answering.
On the left, in the distance, the light grew a little stronger. The shape which shimmered was a ship, a ship pacing them through this fantastic ocean in the night of space, a ship outlined like a shadow against a kind of light that made him shiver from the spine.
Was it real? What was it doing there? Was it possible that it really was a phantom ship?
Star Rigger's Way Page 16
