by Jo Clayton
Though its image was at that moment little larger than her hand, its mass was palpable. And she knew from evidence of her own eyes how huge it was. Two days ago she’d seen it gliding south over the Mines. Two days ago it descended over them to smother them with its immensity, its power. Two days ago it went south to Guneywhiyk to burn a Sanctuary down to bedrock. It could have been the Mines. But for the Prophet’s Hand over them, it could have been the Mines. Two days ago. She felt the dead clustering over her, swimming through the incense of all these alien souls, puff of unseen smoke, bouncing under the ceiling of this alien place. Forgive me, she breathed at them. She sang in her mind the Litany of Dismissal/ The Promise of Return. Return to a quieter, gentler world, a world of calm and order. She sang the litany over and over as the Warmaster grew until there was nothing in the screen but a cratered black surface whose pits and flaws were more and more apparent, a calligraphy of age. She sang the litany over and over, sang it for herself, gentling herself, sloughing off her responsibilities, her plans and fears… odd, when she had so many anxieties and frustrations, how free she felt. As if the moment would permit nothing less. Free. For the first time she began to understand the seduction of war. How it stripped away everything but the need to survive, how it narrowed life to the Now, how it freed you from the niggling irritations and ambiguities of ordinary life. She was enthralled and appalled. The power of it. The temptation. She looked over her shoulder at Aslan; the woman’s face seemed wide open, utterly without defense. She looked into those cool amber eyes, strange eyes, and saw… she didn’t know what she saw, but it terrified her. Aslan knew her, knew what tempted her, knew so much it was an obscenity. Moments passed before Elmas Ofka found the courage to look away. She shook briefly with fear, then the Now took her again, she turned back to the screen and forgot to be afraid.
Karrel Goza leaned against the wall, its vibration playing in his bones, not shaking but a note sung in a voice so deep he felt it rather than heard it. He watched Tairanna drop away, savoring this pale small taste of flight. Otherwise the tug gave him nothing, how could he feel himself flying without a symbiosis of soul and air; shut inside here how could he feel, anything? He was sad. The skips were fast and reliable and nearly indifferent to storms. Within a generation they and their cousins would most likely replace the airships; they were too tempting and with Outsiders coming in and out with no controls on them, Family businesses would be replacing airships as fast as they could import these machines. Would start building them as soon as they had the necessary mechanics trained. Not all airships would go, cost still meant something; but yosspod bags would be left to claw out a poor living on the fringes of transport and hauling. More change.
He sighed. For over two decades, since a childhood he remembered as calm, slow, ordered, he’d watched the world pass through wrenching transformations because the Outside, the OutThere, intruded. What they were doing this day would wrench the world yet more violently from that remembered time, but it might (only might, he couldn’t see beyond the hour, let alone so long into the what-will-be), it might ensure the coming of a new tranquility. If he were fortunate and outlived this day, he might see that time within this life; if not, he was content to wait for the next. He, like Elmas Ofka, surrendered to the point-Now and watched the Warmaster swimming toward them; he forgot sadness, forgot speculation. Immense. Gargantuan. Enormous. Colossal. Feeble, all those adjectives. No words were adequate. It seemed to him impossible that men had made that immensity, it seemed to him that it must have been some demon also beyond words which had laid so impossible an egg. Which was absurd. Men had made it, of course they had. How many men labored how many years in that making?
Parnalee stood across the room from Aslan, where she could see him and be afraid; he enjoyed her fear, though he knew she’d tried to thwart him. Useless. He was here. There was nothing she could do to him, but he could play with her until he was ready to finish it. Omphalos knew far more about these ancient battleships than any jumped-up tinkerer; whatever that woman did to the Brain he knew he could undo, if he had to. He had other strings to pull, more powerful ones than she could have any concept of. Once he had the Warmaster tamed to his hands… He drifted off in dreams of burning Huvved, of a world burnt clean of life, burning burning, of power like a god’s in his hands, HIS hands.
2
Quale nudged the tug up tight against the monstrous flank; Adelaar danced her fingers over her consoles. Like some gargantuan sex organ the pimply surface extruded a rubbery tube; it reached out and touched the tug’s side, closing like a mouth over the freight lock.
3
Clutching sickbags the fighters swam through the tube. Quale gave them a lecture before they left. Thirty to forty percent of you will suffer nausea when you hit the tube and go weightless. Unless you want to swim through vomit, you’ll see your kin and your friends have those bags ready and use them if they need them and they will, believe me, they will. It has nothing to do with strength of body or mind. Ever been seasick? Multiply by ten. Uh-huh. And those of you out there looking superior, even if you’re never sick at sea, that’s no predictor of your belly’s state when the weight comes off. Take the bags and use them.
4
Comforted by the seasickness analogy despite Quale’s warning, Elmas Ofka expected to swim undisturbed through that relatively short distance between the artificial gravity of the tub to the artificial gravity of the Warmaster. She was furious when the first convulsions shook her; Quale had forced a sickbag on her, she’d tucked it out of the way behind her belt, now she got it up just in time to catch her first spew. She glared at Karrel Goza who was pulling himself along untroubled.
Contorted with spasms of vomiting, pale with fury, she yanked herself along the travel lines anchored to the tubewall, ignoring the gulps, coughs, groans of her fellow sufferers. In spite of her difficulties, she took less than five minutes to reach the lock area where she surrendered with a relief that didn’t lessen her annoyance to the comfortable grip of a familiar weight. She wrenched off the sickbag, glared around.
Carefully not smiling, Quale slid back the cover on a disposal chute and took the bag from her. He dropped it into the hole, stood back to watch as the rest of the force came swinging out of the transtube, landing on their feet again, their bodies celebrating the return to weight as they looked round the lock, a trapezoidal chamber large enough to accommodate ten times their number. The Hordar who’d succumbed to nausea dumped their bags in the waste chute, took mouthfuls of water from their belt canteens and spat it after the bags. With a minimum of noise and energy expenditure, they gathered into bands and isyas and waited for the order to proceed. Lirrit Ofka drifted over to stand beside Karrel Goza; she was pale and still somewhat shaky, but she managed a wan smile as she touched his arm in a gesture close to a caress. “Absurd,” she murmured, “we’re starting our war like a clutch of colicky babies.” She pinched him, sniffed. “Some of us.”
Elmas Ofka moved to the center of the lock, beckoned Jamber Fausse to her. He went onto one knee, she stepped up onto the other, holding his hand to steady herself. With a two-finger whistle, she called her people to her. “Time is,” she said; her voice filled the chamber with passion and triumph. She watched them as they sorted themselves out, smiled as she saw an alertness and a confidence born out of years of deadly exchanges, even the youngest who’d been an inklin in gul Brindar before he joined Akkin Siddaki’s raiders, a baby-faced thief with legendary fingers. “Drive chamber, go.” She watched the isyas and the bands move off behind Kanlan Gercik, swinging along in a slouching trot that covered ground with a minimum of effort. “Duty stations, rest area, go.” Two more squads left. “Sleepers, go.” She stepped down. “Bridge,” she said. “Let’s go.”
5
Aslan watched the squads peel off and slide away, the bodies fading curiously into a dimness that wasn’t shadow, the sourceless light cast no shadows, that was more like a thickening and darkening of the air itself.
; It seemed to exaggerate every quality, to dramatize each of the individuals left in the lockchamber. Elmas Ofka was an odd combination of wargod and earth-mother; Jamber Fausse was chthonic, earth crumbling off him, about to burst into grass and weed, his men reduced to elemental shadows crouching at his knees; Karrel Goza and Lirrit Ofka were dangerously elfin, dark and unpredictable, unhuman; Churri was like that too, and not like, a coppery sprite redolent of a mix of malice and compassion ordinarily impossible but not here. Kante Xalloor was Dance incarnate with enormous eyes, her body singing a wry amusement at what was happening around her. Swardheld Quale loomed, no other word for it, big, somber, and for the first time, impressive. In spite of herself, she smiled as she thought the words, her lust for his body, she’d seen him as a quiet man, committed to nothing except money and even that seemed to provoke no great interest. No great interest in her either, though she’d been shedding signals around him like a kirpis sheds scales. She sighed, she’d been through this before, these stupid infatuations, she knew exactly how it’d go, whether she slept with him or missed on that, one day she’d look at him and wonder what the fuss was about; until then she was stuck with these palpitations and hot rushes. Parnalee… she looked at him, looked away. Black Beast, evil exaggerated; he terrified her more than any other person male or female she’d ever met. She started to wonder how all of them saw her and almost missed the Rau’s return. Light rolled like water off his short thick fur; he sank into that adhesive dimness, a shadow more solid than the twilight around him but still curiously nebulous, a demon familiar of the pleasanter kind. She smiled. Living up to his legend, she thought.
“The transtube’s operational,” Pels the shadow said, “Adelaar’s punched the command through.”
“Good.” His eyes narrowed to slits, Quale scratched at his short dark beard, pushing his fingers along his jawline. “One last time,” he said. “Let Pels and me go ahead so we can make sure the way’s clear.”
Elmas Ofka’s head went up and back, her eyes glittered. “No,” she said.
Quale shrugged. “Pels, lead off. Soon as the tube decants you, do your thing. Be careful, huh? I’ll be out soon as I can manage. Hush, Hanifa, you saw him work and you got me as hostage.” He looked round, beckoned to Karrel Goza. “Take three of your fighters and follow him.” He waited until that four was formed up, then tapped Elmas Ofka on her shoulder. “Hanifa, you and your isyas and your…” he grinned at Jamber Fausse, “your bodyguard, you’re next. Churri, you and your friend follow them. Parnalee.”
Parnalee shook his head. “Last,” he said.
Quale looked at him a moment, then he shrugged and turned to Aslan. “You’re it then, follow the dancer. I’ll follow you.”
Aslan nodded; she’d have preferred a few more bodies between her and the Proggerdi, but with Quale behind her she felt safe enough.
“All right. Go, Pels.”
The Rau led them through corridors round as wormholes, gray, ashy dead-colored holes, even the air was the color of death, holes thick with gray sound-absorbing dust, dust-heavy cobwebs, rat droppings, the discarded housings of dead insects. Aslan trotted after Churri, watching dust drifting down over him, gradually leaching the color out of his body and his clothing. By the time she’d turned a few bends right and left and switched from one wormhole to another to a third, she was thoroughly lost and a gray ghost herself, in a line of gray ghosts, trotting through dust, age and ugliness, her hand over nose and mouth to keep the worst of the clutter out of her lungs, her brain busy-busy, honey-sipper busy with image and sound.
She ran up on Churri’s heels before she noticed he’d stopped walking.
The door was a squared oval bent to conform to the curve of the wall; it was pulled out and pushed away and weak gray-yellow light struggled out of the opening. Aslan followed Churri over the raised sill into a round chamber like the inside of a tincan. The kind of ships she usually traveled in didn’t use tubes like this; you rode in minicarts or you walked. She peered around Churri’s shoulder and watched Xalloor step through a vaporous throbbing darkness, moving slowly until only the lower part of her left leg was visible on this side; abruptly that was gone, one instant there, then whipped away. Without missing a step Churri went after her. Shivering with excitement and fear, Aslan followed him.
Soft pudgy giant hands seized hold of her and took her instantly elsewhere. She felt no acceleration, only the pillowy gentle hold. She was deaf and effectively blind, all she could see was a red-shot silvery gray shimmer.
The hands set her down on a small platform hardly large enough for one person to perch on; immediately ahead of her she saw a familiar pulsing cloud. She plunged through it and emerged into another tincan; she stepped over the raised sill and found herself standing in something that was part corridor, part atrium, part multiplex chamber five hundred meters long, perhaps a hundred wide, whose ceiling was so high overhead it was lost in the dimness peculiar to the light in this ship. Quale flashed past her, swung round, his eyes on the tube exit. He waited for one minute, two. Aslan moved away a few steps, turned to watch, a cold knot forming in her stomach as the seconds slid past and Parnalee didn’t appear. Quale checked the chron set in a ring he wore on his thumb, then he swung to face Elmas Ofka. “All right,” he said, “is this some idea of yours?”
Elmas Ofka glared at him, her suspicion matching his. “Or yours?”
Xalloor poked her elbow into Churri’s ribs; from the corner of her mouth, she shot at him, “Do your stuff, poet, or we’re gonna have a war right now.” She caught hold of Aslan’s arm. “Hush,” she whispered, “anything you say just makes things worse. She been primed not to believe you.”
“Hanifa,” Churri said, his voice making a minor magic of the word; she switched her glare to him, softening it automatically as she realized who was speaking. “Just one thing, make of it what you want. It was Parnalee’s choice, coming last. None of ours. Looks like he had plans he wasn’t telling anyone.”
She thought that over, clamped her mouth so tightly her lips disappeared; no more talking, that was the message. Let’s get on with this, that was the other message as she swung round and faced the great bronze doors that sealed off the bridge.
Quale glanced at his chron again. “Take cover,” he said. His voice was low, but pitched to carry. “Ten minutes before Adelaar opens her up for us.”
The grand Atrium had an angular egg shape with exits like liver spots spattered through every sector, ramps and handrails focused on what was now the floor, sealed-hatch storerooms, undedicated alcoves with no barriers at their portals, small rooms, large rooms, the few she could see into apparently as empty as the greater area, holes, nooks, recesses, stalls, coves, pockets, a hundred different receptacles breaking the smoothness of the metal walls. Aslan followed Churri and Xalloor into a small closet area with empty shelves and bins lining the walls; Karrel Goza and Lirrit Ofka crowded in with them; guarding Elmas Ofka was their first duty and their desire and staying close to the Outsiders was part of it. Aslan hid a smile. Duty didn’t dampen their excitement, their impatience to get on with taking the ship. She edged away from them and stood a step back from the entrance and to one side so the darkling air and the wall shielded her from observation; like all the other doorways she’d encountered in the ship, the sill was raised shin high, perfect tripping height, was that the purpose? Two of Jamber Fausse’s band looked in but decided this closet was already too crowded; from the sound of their voices, they went to ground in the next nook that’d hold them. Elmas Ofka, Jamber Fausse and the rest of his band chose yet other waiting places. Quale vanished somewhere and the Aurranger Rau transformed himself into a ripple in the dimness and went flickering about, nosing into whatever took his interest, unlocking hatches, poking into bins and drawers, going a short distance down some corridors, running up ramps to check out others. After she discovered how to estimate where he was, she watched the band of light and let her mind drift where it wanted to go, sliding contentedly through level
upon level of metaphor and symbol. She’d read about the Raus and their talents and she’d heard a dozen tales about Pels and his pranks (though she’d discounted those, knowing the tellers too well to credit their accuracy); watching him at work was endlessly fascinating. She’d thought of him earlier as a sort of benevolent demon in the bowels of this malevolent beast of a ship, as a magister’s familiar, Quale being the magician/master; she’d been playing games with image and word, but her imaginings were beginning to seem more accurate than she’d suspected. She checked the Ridaar. No need to slip in a new flake, not yet.
Where she stood she could see the entrance to the Bridge, an oval like the rest of the doorways but larger. Much larger. The door was laminated bronze with an antique patina and the Imperatorial sigil in onyx calligraphy on a silver shield. Impressive, but they had its key and that key was her mother, Adelaar sitting out in the tug, playing her nay-saying tunes through the tap. At the proper time, she’d send a command bouncing through the satellite, down to the mainBrain and up again through the slavelink into the shipBrain. Open the door. And the door would open.
She could hear the ship breathing, the hushed whirr of fans that pushed the cleansed and constantly renewed air through the web of conduits; she could hear clicks and creaks and feel a subliminal hum through the soles of her sandals. A mite in the gut of an immense indifferent beast. She moved closer to the door and saw the invisible turn visible, pip-pop unroll the curtain, shape the beast from shade to solid, magic hardening into mundane. Pels kurk Orso, graduate engineer and living toy. She watched the flow of his broad black hands as he used a silent sign talk to argue with Quale. I wonder what that’s about? The exchange ended. Pels shrugged, rippled out again and went back to his snooping. Quale crossed the chamber at a rapid trot, stopped beside one of the exits.
