Every Wind of Change

by Frank Tuttle

  Music began to play. A soft female voice sang, accompanied by instruments Meralda could not begin to name.

  Aside from the stars and the music, there was – nothing. No deck, no hull, no bulkheads, nothing but stars and the dark.

  Meralda cautiously stuck her hand through the open doors. She felt only the same cool, dry air they had grown accustomed to aboard the ship.

  Donchen stuck his boot outside. “There’s a floor,” he reported. “I can feel it, even if I can’t see it.” He lifted a finger, as he searched his pocket with his free hand. “Just in case.” He withdrew a ball of fine wire and a roll of the sticky black tape they’d found in one of the other wrecks. He taped the free end of the wire to the wall below the panel and began to unwind more. “So we won’t lose our way.”

  Meralda nodded, took Donchen’s hand, and stepped out into the stars.

  There was a deck beneath her feet. It was invisible, but firm, so she took another step, then another. The sensation of being suspended in a starlit void made her slightly dizzy, at first, but as long as she could still see the open lifting chamber, she felt safe enough to proceed.

  She lifted her hand. Streaming stars soared past it, through it. She felt nothing, but the sight of it all left her breathless.

  Donchen did the same. His grip on her hand was tight.

  “You wished to see the stars in motion.”

  They stood together for a time.

  “It isn’t real,” Meralda said at last. “It must be an illusion of some sort.”

  “So is life. But yes. It seems our hosts valued beauty too.” He let his grip lessen. “As do I.”

  The volume of the music changed, growing softer. “Default environment engaged,” said a female voice. “State preferred environment.”

  Donchen lifted an eyebrow.

  “Hello?” Meralda asked. “Who is speaking, please?”

  “Celestia,” replied the voice. “State preferred environment.”

  “You are the ship?”

  “Celestia,” said the voice. “Default environment engaged.”

  “It’s a machine, like Skoof,” Donchen whispered.

  “It’s not spoken before,” Meralda said. “I tried. Skoof decided the thinking machine was ruined, like the engines.”

  “Even metal men make mistakes.” Donchen raised his voice. “What other choices of an environment are available, Celestia?”

  The stars and the darkness vanished, replaced instantly by a sun-dappled meadow. A warm summer breeze manifested, tossing boughs of trees that might have been oaks save for their blue bark and perfectly round leaves.

  “Pastoral One,” replied the female voice.

  The trees and blue sky vanished, replaced with a strip of white sand beach and gentle waves that rolled right to Meralda’s feet. Gulls cried out overhead. Two fat suns shone near the far horizon, touching everything with crimson.

  “Beach One,” said the voice.

  “Thank you, this one will do,” said Meralda. She kicked the next wave. Water splashed, though her boot remained perfectly dry and she felt none of the drops on her arms or legs.

  “Clever,” Donchen said.

  “Celestia,” said Meralda. “What is your status? Mechanically, I mean.”

  “Drives are offline and unusable. Power reserves are minimal. Security protocol ‘Oh no this is bad’ is in effect. Navigation, communication, and automation services are limited or unavailable. Additional clarification?”

  “Why couldn’t you speak to me on the bridge?”

  “Main computer services are offline,” replied the voice. “Bridge controls are disabled under active security protocol.”

  Meralda nodded. “What would you do if I asked you to ignore this security protocol, Celestia?”

  “Command code required.”

  Meralda’s smile grew wide. “Then I order you to rescind the security protocol.”

  “And your command code is?”

  “Quoth the raven, nevermore.” Meralda held her breath.

  “Accepted,” said the voice. “Welcome aboard.” The voice paused, and for the first time, it lost its tone of careful neutrality. “I’ve waited for such a long time.”

  Back on the bridge, Meralda depressed the button labeled CMR RST.

  The panel above it remained dark.

  “Maybe it takes a while.” Mug hovered close. “It’s been asleep for centuries, after all.”

  “Nothing is happening, Celestia,” Meralda said. “Is it?”

  “Command failure,” replied the calm female voice.

  Mrs. Primsbite put her hand on the nearest wall, patting it as if to comfort it. “Now, don’t feel bad, Miss Celestia. We know you’re doing your best.”

  Meralda’s mother rolled her eyes. “It’s a machine. Coddling it is wasted effort.”

  “Mother, please,” Meralda said. “Celestia. What can we try next?”

  “A full power-on sequence.”

  “Is that complicated?”

  “It will require six to ten hours to complete,” Celestia replied. “I can provide the commands, but I will be terminated halfway through the process.”

  “Heavens, we mustn’t terminate you,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “Must we, Mage?”

  “I don’t understand any of this. You are the ship’s thinking machine, but you are not?” Mug rose and flew about the room, still searching for the source of the machine voice. “Mage, I think maybe our friend here has more dents that Skoof.”

  Meralda fell back in the captain’s chair and rubbed her eyes. “Celestia, explain to Mug what you are, and how you relate to the main computer again. It’ll give me time to think.”

  As the Celestia – for the third time – described her identity as a truncated version of the ship’s main thinking engine, cut off from the primary system as a safety measure in case of damage to the bridge, Meralda turned to Donchen. “Do we dare risk it? If we lose her, we might also lose lights and air.”

  Donchen nodded. “The time may come when we are forced to take that risk. But not tonight. You’re exhausted.”

  “He’s right,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “We’re all too tired to go messing about with thinking machines. I’m sure things will make more sense in the morning.”

  “I concur.” Meralda’s mother put her hand over her mouth to hide a yawn. “My bed awaits. Good evening, all.” She turned and left the bridge.

  “I believe I shall retire as well.” Mrs. Primsbite winked at Meralda when Donchen was not looking. “Good night, you two. Goodnight, Miss Celestia!”

  “Good night,” replied the ship. Mrs. Primsbite smiled and left the bridge.

  Mug flew back to Meralda’s side. “Skoof, did any of what Celestia said make sense to you?”

  “The entity to which you refer is a subset of a larger, currently nonfunctional entity,” Skoof replied. “A shade, if you will.”

  “Wonderful,” Mug muttered. “Now our ship is haunted, too.”

  “That would make an excellent song, Mr. Mug,” Skoof said. “May we retire to your quarters to compose it?”

  Mug tossed his leaves. “Might as well,” he said, bobbing behind Skoof as the metal creature headed for the door. As he passed, Skoof dipped his dome to Meralda, and she wondered if the metal being just winked at her.

  Donchen stood and began to pace the bridge. “Celestia. The flying engines are disabled, correct?”

  “The hyperdrive systems are all unresponsive,” said the ship. “Deeply unresponsive. This indicates profound mechanical damage.”

  “But the ship – you, that is, looks intact,” Meralda said. “We haven’t seen any damage anywhere.”

  “Nevertheless. The hyperdrive is unresponsive.”

  Meralda joined Donchen in pacing.

  “Are there other motive systems?” she asked, after a full turn about the bridge.

  “Atmospheric maneuvering thrusters are intact,” said the Celestia. “As are the landing jets.”

  Both Meralda and Donchen fr
oze as they exchanged glances.

  “Could these engines allow you to fly?”

  “Flight requires the primary computer to be operational.”

  Meralda frowned. “I am a pilot. Is there no way to assume manual control, for a short distance?”

  “Manual flight of the captain’s launch is possible,” said the ship. “Manual control of the main hull is not.”

  “The captain’s launch?” Meralda’s heart leaped in her chest. “Where is it?”

  “Location of launch unknown,” Celestia said. “The bay is empty.”

  Donchen sighed and shrugged. “Just our luck.”

  “Are there any other vehicles aboard?” Meralda asked hopefully.

  “The tractor is absent as well,” replied Celestia. “As are both service sleds and the Chevy.”

  Donchen sat again, wiping a lock of black hair from his face. Meralda sat down beside him and took his hand. “I have an idea. Still not sleepy?”

  He smiled back at her. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Celestia.” Meralda sat and made herself comfortable. “Do you have access to a list of every item aboard? Cargo, equipment, all of it?”

  “I do.”

  “Then please begin listing everything we have.”

  “Preferred order of iteration?” asked the ship.

  “Alphabetical, please.” She squeezed Donchen’s hand. “It’s going to be a very long night.”

  The Celestia began to speak.

  That night, Meralda dreamed.

  In the dream, her mother juggled knives while blindfolded and wandering about, bringing her flashing blades far too close to everyone and laughing away suggestions that she practice somewhere else. Meanwhile, Mrs. Primsbite read from the old Book of Kings, starting on page one and continuing in a flat monotone as her voice grew louder and louder until it was like thunder in the heavens.

  Skoof and Donchen played cards, using the strange deck depicted on the sinister painting on the bridge. They refused to answer her questions about the game, saying only they were playing for tents.

  Annoyed, Meralda awoke, to find herself wrapped in her sheets. She sat up in bed and groaned, contemplating a bath, when she suddenly leaped from her bed and wrapped herself in the orange robe that now served as a dressing gown.

  “Celestia. Can you hear me?”

  “I hear.”

  “This was a circus, was it not?” Meralda asked. “Performers, clowns, shows, all of that?”

  “Confirmed.”

  “Then why weren’t tents on your list? Doesn’t every circus travel with tents?”

  “Tents are produced upon arrival before every landing,” Celestia replied. “From item number 865 on the list, Extruded Polymer Stores. When the events are complete, the tents are deflated, and the material returned to storage for re-extrusion when needed.”

  Meralda fastened her robe, standing. “This…material. Is it lightweight? Strong? Air-tight?”

  “Exceptionally so,” replied the ship. “Shall I provide precise values?”

  “No. You say the tents are extruded. Can the shapes be changed?”

  “Easily,” Celestia said. “They are custom made for each landing, to fit social and cultural norms and expectations.”

  “So, you could fashion for me a sphere, for instance, of a designated size?”

  “Yes. With any markings or color patterns requested.”

  Meralda, fully awake now, took in a breath. “Is this tent-extruding device working now?”

  “Yes. The extruder station is located on the lower deck, just ahead of the suspension tanks.” A screen set on the wall across from the bed lit, displaying a diagram of the ship and marking the room and the route to it in flashing yellow.

  Meralda ran to her bathroom. “I need a source of heat. Something small and preferably light.”

  “There are 86 possible matches to that query in storage,” said the ship. “Clarify volume of space to be heated and desired average air temperature.”

  “Never mind,” said Meralda. “Call Donchen. Wake him up. Ask him to meet me in the commissary, if you please.”

  “Doing so now. Will that be all?”

  “Not quite,” said Meralda. She kept talking as she hurriedly bathed.

  Meralda pulled her hair into a knot behind her head. She frowned at the mirror but quickly dressed before rushing to the commissary.

  The smells of coffee and some otherworldy meat greeted her. Donchen looked up from his stove and greeted her with a wide grin.

  “Breakfast is made,” he said, scooping food onto plates. “Shall we dine as we talk?”

  Meralda joined him at the gleaming steel cook station. “I have decided to keep you.” She greeted him with a fierce hug.

  “Wonderful. Now tell me. What marvelous idea have you to share?”

  As Donchen set the table, Meralda poured coffee. Then both sat.

  “I dreamed of tents last night,” she said. “Then it occurred to me – there wasn’t a single circus tent listed by Celestia. An odd omission for a traveling circus.”

  “Indeed. Tents were depicted on the waybills we saw.”

  “I asked,” Meralda said. “They don’t travel with them. They make new ones for every show. Then they bring the used fabric back aboard. A machine breaks them down for storage until tents are needed again.”

  Donchen took a bite of a pancake. “I begin to see. You plan to make an airship from the fabric, is that it?”

  “An airship of sorts,” Meralda replied. “We lack lifting gas, or enough water to make it. But we can heat air and fill an envelope with it. Celestia says she can form tents to any size or shape.”

  “Requiring only a basket, a heat source, and a fan, I presume. Intriguing. We could very possibly fly out of the reach of the Mag if some means of steering the craft can be achieved.”

  “I’ve thought of that. I have seen dozens of electric motors that might still function. Celestia claims she has any number of powerful batteries in store. This could work, Donchen. Even if we can’t get Celestia into the air, we might still be able to reach our spoke without fighting our way through each and every Mag.”

  “It’s a brilliant idea,” Donchen replied. “I fear this craft, marvelous though she is, is probably beyond hope. We shall need to build our own vehicle. When do we start?”

  “Now. First, we need a sample of this tent material, to make sure it’s suitable. Then we need to find the lightest combination of fans, battery, and heater we can put together.”

  “Then you’ll measure the heat output, take into the account of machines and people, and estimate a volume for the balloon,” Donchen said.

  “Precisely.” Meralda gulped coffee and hurried through her breakfast.

  “Would a rigid envelope be better suited for this effort or a simple bag?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Meralda said, around a mouthful of pancakes.

  “It’s good to see you enjoy a meal again. One question, though. These spokes. How does one go about opening one?”

  Meralda swallowed. “You just get close to it. Skoof says it’s all automatic. If we’re compatible with the place it connects to, it just opens, and lets you through.”

  Donchen nodded. “We’ll also need a means of preventing the Mag from following us. A weapon, in other words.”

  “We have the burning ray. I’m sure other devices can be adapted as well.”

  The doors to the commissary slid open, and Meralda’s mother marched in.

  “I knew I smelled something cooking.” She looked askance at Meralda and Donchen. “Up early or up late?”

  Meralda turned, frowning. She choked and coughed when she saw what her mother was wearing.

  Gone were the dull crew overalls and the sturdy lace-up boots. Instead, her mother was dressed in a performer’s outfit.

  She was enveloped in a shiny black bodysuit that did nothing for modesty. It was molded to her body, moving and bending with her spare frame. The front of the garment was cut low in
a wide vee, with a sheer black panel of equally stretchy material offering the barest of coverings.

  Her tall boots were black as well, and shiny, with too-high heels and a salacious gap of bare legs showing on each side. A short black cape with a blood-red interior hung from her shoulders.

  A piratical black beret sat at a jaunty angle atop her head. Her hands and forearms were covered in supple black gloves of the same material as the suit.

  “Mother! Have you lost your mind?”

  “Good morning, Miss Bekin,” Donchen rose and pulled back a chair for her. “Please join us. I shall fetch you a plate.”

  She seated herself, ignoring Meralda entirely, as Donchen hurried back to his stove.

  “Whatever is the matter?” asked her mother. Meralda glared back at her.

  “Why are you dressed in such a fashion?”

  “This?” Her mother laughed. “For a lark, dear. I woke up and decided to be flamboyant. I spent my life being formal. I always wondered what it would feel, to ignore the bounds of propriety. I am happy to report that it feels wonderful.”

  “Couldn’t you ignore the bonds of propriety alone, in your cabin?” Meralda asked, in an exasperated whisper. “Where did you find such an outlandish costume?”

  “Miss Celestia is quite helpful,” replied her mother. “And this was hardly the most outlandish garment I might have chosen.”

  Donchen returned with a third plate of pancakes and eggs. “I hope you enjoy this. Coffee?”

  “That would be delightful. You are an accomplished host, young man.”

  Donchen bowed slightly and went to fetch the coffee, turning to hide his wry grin.

  “So, what are you two plotting?” her mother asked. She took up her fork and stabbed at her plate. “And where, pray tell, did your clever young man find eggs?”

  “They aren’t real eggs,” snapped Meralda. “The ship creates them. We aren’t plotting. We’re going to try to build an airship of our own.”

  “I wondered when you would think of that.” Her mother smiled in approval as she tasted her meal. “It solves one problem, at least. Although we remain ill-equipped to fight our way through thousands of carnivorous fiends. These are quite good,” she added, as Donchen returned with a steel pitcher of coffee. “Thank you.”