Every Wind of Change

by Frank Tuttle

  Meralda nodded, her eyes shut. Her Sight was fixed on the craft, which lay far below Celestia.

  It radiated barely-contained chaos.

  “It looks like a kid’s sand castle,” Mug remarked. “But she’s the Mage. Mistress, how do we set it afire?”

  Meralda spoke. “That ring of joined panels, along her bottom. There are thirteen. Removing at least seven of them will initiate the thermal release.”

  “Well, it looks like some kind of hullmetal,” said Mr. Gliff. “From the way she’s dinged up, it doesn’t look like anything special. But there’s only one way to find out.”

  “Can you fire from here?” Meralda said. “Through this smoke?”

  Mr. Gliff nodded. “A short burst ought to tell the tale.”

  “Whoah, Mistress. Won’t that bring the Mag right to us?”

  “A microsecond blast,” said Mr. Gliff. “You can’t see a particle beam, just what it hits. With all the flashing and explosions and fire down there, I doubt they’ll notice.”

  “We have to know,” Meralda said. “All right. Celestia, can you time the test firing to coincide with the next large explosion down below?”

  “Easily.”

  “Then do so, please.”

  The flight deck fell silent as Celestia waited.

  “Firing,” she said.

  The image of the ship on the screen flashed briefly. When the light faded, her hull bore a neat circular hole, the edges glowing blue, along her aft end.

  The flight deck erupted in cheers, save from Mug, who simulated a dismissive grunt.

  Meralda let out the breath she’d been holding. “How long will it take to remove all seven panels?”

  “One and a half seconds,” replied Celestia. “From this position. If we exit the smoke, less than a second.”

  “That’s good news.” Donchen slouched at what Mr. Gliff claimed was the life support station. “Now. Say we wound the derelict thusly. How long do we have, Mage, to exit the Hub, before we too are engulfed in the inferno?”

  Meralda rose. She approached the viewer, her stomach tightening into knots. “I believe we will only have twenty seconds. Perhaps twenty-five, before the release of heat. The energies and arrangements are unfamiliar.”

  Mug whistled. “Twenty seconds. Celestia, how much heat can your hull handle, if that’s not too personal a question?”

  “I am rated for three thousand of your degrees,” the ship replied. “However. The initial heat and pressure wave generated from the event may well cause massive structural damage. Also, I cannot guarantee my shielding will prove adequate when exposed to such unusual emissions.”

  “Oh, good,” Mug replied. “For a moment I was worried we might survive this.”

  Donchen stood and moved to stand near Meralda. “The auxiliary port. The one we used to leave. We know it works. It is what? Six miles distant? Seven?”

  “Seven point four miles,” Celestia said. “Three seconds of travel time.”

  “Three seconds?” Meralda ran the numbers in her head. “We’ll be flattened to jelly.”

  Celestia and Mr. Gliff chuckled. “Oh, you’ll want to be strapped in, you will,” said Mr. Gliff. “But Celestia’s gravity field will compensate. We’ve done worse, haven’t we, lass?”

  “We have.”

  Donchen smiled. “As I recall, cycling through the port took about a minute. I’m not quite sure how long it took us to be completely enveloped by the Hub’s substance – does anyone have a clear memory of that?”

  “I certainly do,” Mug said. “All that metal flowing around us like water? Thirty seconds. I counted every one.”

  “So,” Meralda said. “We fire. Three seconds to the port. We dive. Thirty seconds to be enveloped by the Hub, and presumably protected. Which means we face as much as seven seconds of exposure to the blast. With luck, less. But either way, it’s a risk.”

  The flight deck was silent for a long moment.

  “I vote we take the chance,” Donchen said. “We’ll never have an opportunity for such an easy victory.”

  “We’re voting now? Who said we were voting?” Mug buzzed in agitation about the bridge.

  “I concur,” Mrs. Primsbite said. “The risk of leaving these terrible Mag free among such powerful artifacts is unacceptable.”

  “I say let’s blow up everything,” said Meralda’s mother. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “Your plan has merit,” Skoof added. “I believe it is the best course if the Mage’s claims concerning the derelict are correct. I shall survive in any case, so my vote should perhaps not count.”

  All eyes turned to Mug. “Oh no,” he said, drawing to a hover. “You’re not getting me to agree to all this. Making baby suns, flying into metal decks at ridiculous speeds – I vote no, and I hope your ghosts all remember that quite clearly as we shuffle off these mortal coils at, what? Eight thousand, eight hundred, and eighty miles an hour?”

  “It’s settled then,” Meralda said. “Celestia. Do you need to make any preparations, before we attempt this?”

  “I could use a half hour to re-align my maneuvering thrusters, and flash the beam emitters. After that, my state of readiness will not be improved by further delay.”

  Meralda’s mother sprang to her feet. “I’m having a drink, then. In my borrowed quarters. And a nice hot bath.” She winked at Mr. Gliff. “It’s a huge tub, you know.”

  “Mother!” Meralda snapped.

  “You two should slip off somewhere as well,” said her mother, grinning impishly. “Just in case. Oh, close your mouth, dear, you’ll inhale something foreign.” With that, her mother swept from the bridge, laughing.

  “I’ll assist Celestia. Here on the bridge.” Mr. Gliff’s face remained a bright red. “I’m no master helmsman, but I know the basics.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gliff.” Meralda shot a look at Mrs. Primsbite, who was trying with little success to suppress her guffaws behind her hand. “What can we do?”

  “Well, someone needs to go down to engineering and turn a few knobs,” replied the elderly man. “I’ll talk you through it.”

  “I’ll go,” Meralda said.

  “Better if there’s two, ma’am, unless you’ve got three hands.”

  “We’ll let you know when we get there,” Donchen said. “Shall we?”

  Mug rolled all of his eyes. “I’ll just stay here.”

  Meralda marched off the flight deck, Donchen at her side.

  * * *

  “That’s it?” Meralda asked. “We’re done?”

  “The thrusters are in perfect alignment.” Mr. Gliff’s voice replied, through the speaker on the engineering panel. “Jimmy and Shuba couldn’t have done any better. Celestia says she needs a bit to get the beam cannons flashed. Bridge out.”

  Alone in the cramped engineering room, Meralda and Donchen both slumped in their chairs.

  “Well,” said Donchen, at last. “I’d hoped for a lavish wedding, followed by a protracted honeymoon.”

  “Hush.” Meralda leaned against him, and he slipped his arm around her. “This will work. I promise you. It will work.” Even to herself, her words sounded forced and insincere.

  Donchen just shrugged. “Do you know what I fear far more than dying in a sudden blast of unimaginable heat?”

  “Poorly-fitting shirts?”

  “Losing you,” he said, stroking her hair. “But if we die together – well, that I can accept. We’ve had some grand adventures, haven’t we?”

  “We have.” Meralda sighed, suddenly exhausted, but finding an unexpected calm deep within her heart. “We’ve seen the void. Traveled far. Fought monsters. Danced amid the stars.”

  “We will dance amid them again. One way or another.” He turned, and Meralda felt soft lips on hers.

  Soft music, alien but melodic, began to waft from the walls.

  “Better hurry it up down there,” Mug said, from the panel. “Celestia says she’s nearly done flashing the whatevers. If you want to wait a week or
three, I’m sure that can be arranged. Wait. We have a captain aboard, don’t we? The Hang gentleman? He could perform a marriage ceremony. Of course, that’ll take weeks of planning, and—”

  Meralda gave the intercom switch a savage slap, and Mug’s voice fell silent.

  “Mr. Mug,” Donchen said, removing his arms from around Meralda, “is not invited to the honeymoon.”

  “Emphatically not.” Meralda stood. “Well. Let’s get this done, shall we?”

  “I shall prepare us a marvelous supper. Right after we save the world.”

  Together, in silence, they made their way back to the bridge.

  30

  Mr. Gliff threw a switch. At once, a klaxon began to sound, and red lamps flared to life all about the ship.

  “General quarters,” Mr. Gliff said. His voice echoed. “Prepare for high-thrust maneuvers. That means strap down and hold on.”

  Donchen repeated his instructions in Hang.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” Mrs. Primsbite tugged at her straps and grinned.

  “It’s daft,” Meralda’s mother replied. “But what isn’t, really? I am worried about Mr. Reardon, all alone in that awful box. Are you sure he will be safe there?”

  “Safe as houses,” Mr. Gliff answered. “Now. I won’t be flying this little junket. Needs a ship’s brain, and we’re none of us ships. Celestia, you have the con.”

  “Acknowledged. All persons are secured.”

  “I don’t see the jabberwock,” Meralda said quickly. “Where is she?”

  “On the promenade deck,” Celestia said. “As usual.”

  “Don’t mind her, lass.” Mr. Gliff mopped his face with a handkerchief. “I reckon she’s tough enough to take a tumble.”

  Mug muttered something under his breath. His birdcage was strapped to a console, and he could only see the viewer by raising his six blue eyes.

  “Say something inspiring, Meralda,” said her mother. “It’s that sort of occasion.”

  “Let’s go home,” Meralda said. “Celestia.” She squeezed Donchen’s hand, and then closed her eyes. “Do it.”

  Celestia leaped. Meralda ignored the sudden weight that first slammed her back against her chair, and then tried to yank her out of it. Instead, she focused on her Sight, but by the time she managed to find the wreck, Celestia was already speeding away. Meralda only got a brief glimpse of the energies around the squat wreck. They convulsed, then gathered, then shrank until they vanished inside the craft’s hull.

  She opened her eyes.

  The viewscreen showed only the debris field falling rapidly away. There was a flash, and then a spark on the horizon that swelled until it filled the viewer with pure white light.

  Celestia rocked, punched by a giant’s fist. “Pressure wave,” Celestia said. “Twice the predicted intensity. Compensating.”

  Lights went red all over the bridge.

  Meralda watched the hull temperature indicator as it climbed. “Hull to ninety percent of maximum,” Celestia reported. “Ninety-two.”

  The screen went black.

  “Closing physical shields,” said the ship. “Ninety-four percent.”

  “I love you, Mistress. I’m not mad, even if I told you so,” Mug shouted.

  “I love you too, Mug.”

  “I do hope the Mag appreciate their new sun,” Donchen said. “Even if they only enjoy it only briefly.”

  “Ninety-five percent,” said Celestia. “Four seconds to port.”

  Mug counted each second down. At “one,” Meralda was sure she would be thrown through her restraints and out of the chair, but they held. Suddenly the sensation of being pulled became one of being pushed as Celestia began her descent.

  “Ninety-seven percent,” the ship said. “Ouch.”

  Celestia’s hull shook. A roaring filled her, deafening and deep, as though the sky itself were breaking. Then came a sudden profound silence and the cessation of gravity.

  “We are enveloped by Hub metal,” announced Celestia. “Pardon the interruption of gravity. I have reduced all systems to minimal levels as we spill heat.”

  “We made it,” said Miss Bekin. “Hurrah! When can I get out of these straps? I wish to see to Mr. Reardon.”

  “A moment, please,” Mr. Gliff said. “Let’s see some stars before we start popping any corks. Celestia, any damage to report?”

  “Assessment underway.”

  “I’m beginning to wilt,” Mug said. “Not that anyone cares.”

  “Minor damage to external sensors. I’ll need a new paint job,” said the ship. “And I’ll want to inspect my drives before we take hyper. But at the moment, I appear to be intact.”

  “You did it, Meralda,” Donchen whispered. “You defeated a vast army by creating a sun. Remind me to be cautious, in the future, where releasing livestock into your bedroom is concerned.”

  “We are moving,” said Celestia. “An aperture is forming. It opens to vacuum.” The viewscreen came to life.

  Above them, a gargantuan slab of Hub-metal moved. The void lay just beyond it, and the stars, shining like a billion brilliant diamonds strewn across a lake of ink.

  The opening grew slowly. As it widened, Celestia rose, until the grey walls around her vanished, leaving her alone on the vast grey face of the Hub.

  “I just received a message, on the frequency of your signal, Mage,” Skoof said.

  “The wheel?”

  “I believe so. It was brief. It said ‘Safe journeys.’ I tried to re-establish contact, but there has been no response. Nor do I expect one.”

  Meralda nodded and joined the rest in gazing up and out at the stars.

  “Which one is ours?” Mug asked.

  “It’s on the other side of the Hub,” said Meralda. “We’ll see it soon enough. Celestia, what was the last temperature you were able to confirm?”

  “Climbing towards 3000 degrees as the Hub closed around us. Nothing inside could have survived.”

  Meralda did not reply. Instead, she sighed, and only then realized she had weight again.

  She unlatched the crisscrossing belts that held her fast. “Let’s go find that infernal object that was the source of all this misery. We’ve brought more than just cannons this time.”

  “Already checked,” Mr. Gliff said. “Nothing there. Not a speck. Looks like the wheel won.” He leaned back, ran his fingers through his hair. “I have got a mind to put my shoes on some grass, I have. See how my great-great-great grandchildren are doing.”

  Donchen freed himself and stood. “This calls for a celebration. I shall be in the galley. We will have a proper meal – no, a feast!”

  “I’ll fetch Mr. Reardon and join you,” Meralda’s mother said. “Mrs. Primsbite? Will you join me? I’m sure there is some cooking sherry hidden away somewhere.”

  “I believe I shall.” Mrs. Primsbite rose but paused by Meralda’s seat. “I knew you’d get us home.”

  “If someone would get me loose, I’ll go wake Bruce,” Mug piped. “Then I’ll get my columns ready. ‘Dispatches From the Void,’ by Mugglesworth Ovis. It’s circulation gold, I tell you. Let the Crier top this!”

  Mr. Gliff turned. “Orders, Captain?”

  “Our world is mostly ocean,” Meralda replied. “I surmise it will be blue.”

  The ship laughed. “I believe I can find it.” Though there was no sensation of motion, the Hub slid quickly past, as though yanked aside by an invisible string.

  The sun came into view, bright and glorious. “Reducing visual intensity,” said Celestia, and the image on the screen dimmed until Meralda could see it as a bright white disc.

  “There,” Celestia said. The viewscreen filled with diagrams, and then it moved again, fixing on a bright blue disc streaked with clouds. Meralda studied it and shivered.

  “The Realms.” Meralda pointed. “I can see them. I can see home.”

  “Are you sure?” Mug asked. “It looks so tiny. We’ve got to find a grander planet.”

  Mr. Gliff studied the diagrams
on the screen and chuckled. “We won’t even need to take hyper. Better hurry with your feast, Mr. Donchen. We’ll be landing before bedtime.”

  “Hello!” Mug shouted. “Still taped to this bloody panel!”

  Skoof moved to free Mug’s cage. His silver limbs sliced through the gray tape, and Mug flew free.

  “Well don’t just stand there gawking,” Mug said. “Some of us have jobs to get back to.”

  31

  Meralda sped through Tirlin’s narrow streets, pushing her shiny red motorcar’s purring engine to its limit on the straightaways.

  Shouts and whistles sounded in her wake. She laughed, pushed her goggles down tight, and negotiated a sharp turn with a squeal of tires.

  Beside her, Donchen’s scarf flapped in the wind. He laughed like a madman, urging her on.

  A white-gloved traffic master stepped into the intersection ahead, blew three sharp blasts on his whistle, and put his hands up, motioning for Meralda to stop.

  “Dare you,” Donchen shouted.

  Meralda nearly did it. She almost jumped the curb and sped on, but there were tables, chairs, and lunchtime diners on the sidewalk. She slammed on her brake and came to a screeching halt a few feet from the wide-eyed traffic master.

  Meralda took her car out of gear but raced the engine. Furious, the traffic master whipped out his ticket-pad and stomped to her car, pen in hand.

  “I know who you are, Mage. But these reckless displays of—”

  A shadow raced down the street. With the crack of mighty wings, Bruce the dragon dipped low and soared past overhead. His wingtips were barely above the water-tanks and chimneys, sending flocks of pigeons scattering. The traffic master’s pen vanished.

  “Just please reduce your speed, Mage,” said the traffic master, with an awkward tip of his hat.

  “Of course. I promise.”

  “Have a good day, then.” The traffic master stalked off. A moment later Mug’s cage appeared, pursued by a pair of crows.

  “Morning, Mistress, Donchen.” Mug spiraled down to her car. The crows landed on her door, where they eyed the car’s interior. “Out terrorizing traffic cops again?”