The Stars Asunder: A New Novel of the Mageworlds (36 page)

Read The Stars Asunder: A New Novel of the Mageworlds Online

Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald

BOOK: The Stars Asunder: A New Novel of the Mageworlds
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Captain sus-Mevyan frowned at the unfamiliar console for a moment, then stabbed at one of the switches. Her action was rewarded by the faint crackle of an open communications line.
“Is everybody clear?” she asked.
The voice of the Chief Engineer came over the line. “All clear and ready, Captain.”
“Stand by to blow explosive bolts. Execute.”
The boarding tunnel fell clear and the two vessels separated.
“Stand by to fire distancing rockets. Execute.”
A twinkle of light exploded along the side of the
Rain
nearest them. In ponderous silence, the black ship drifted away, changing shape as it receded into the distance—from a flattened sphere to a disk to a pinpoint of light, shining at them in multiple images in the flatscreen displays.
Captain sus-Mevyan looked over at Arekhon. “You’re from the inner family. Would you do her the honor of giving the final word?”
Arekhon thought of protesting that he had no place in the fleet any longer, that he’d opted out of the family well before leaving Eraasi, but he knew that the legalities didn’t matter. He was a sus-Peledaen of the senior line—he had never denied his family or his ancestors—and he had used that position unashamedly to bring this voyage about. He stepped up to the console, into the range of the audio pickup.
“She was sus-Peledaen’s
Rain-on-Dark-Water,”
he said. “Now we release her from the family’s service and set her free.” The bridge was silent; he could hear the sound of his own breathing grow ragged for a moment before it steadied and he was able to continue. “Stand by to fire demo charges. Execute.”
A moment passed. The pinpoint of light grew larger. Like a bubble of metal with a yellow flame at its core it expanded. The flame faded to red, then went out. The bubble grew too faint to see.
“There,” Arekhon said to the prisoner. “You have seen; now, please, take us back to your world.”
“With pleasure,” she said. “And I hope they kill the lot of you.”
 
Year 1128 E. R.
 
ERAASI: DEMAIZEN OLD HALL
ENTIBORAN SPACE, STANDARD ORBIT GG-12:
SWIFT
PASSAGE FREIGHT CARRIER NUMBER FORTY-TWO
OCTAGON DIAMOND
 
S
ummertime at Demaizen Old Hall brought changeable weather. The sun that day had shone through most of the morning, but by mid-afternoon the sky had clouded over. Serazao cut sprigs of flowering tartgrass and put them in Garrod’s room, to give it cheer and a pleasant scent and color. Garrod’s state had not altered since coming back from the Void, though his body had dwindled through lack of action. Delath exercised him, moving his arms, helping him walk, but accomplished little more than slowing his steady decay.
Kief had been restless all day, walking to the door, then back to the workroom, scanning the empty hills. ’Rekhe and the rest of the Circle had been gone for over three years—far longer than anyone had anticipated, almost the limit of their supplies of fuel. Kief thought about the travelers often, remembering them in his workings and his private intentions, and feared for them, perhaps, more than did either Delath or Serazao. It was the fault of his stargazer’s training, he told himself, the cost of too much knowledge.
All the news these days was disturbing: Stories about the star-lords building warfleets, and men fighting battles in far off places. The Hall had everything it needed, either from the supplies in the pantry, or from the gardens; when Delath said that they shouldn’t go into town unless it became absolutely necessary, Kief and Serazao agreed. Kief remembered his brother in his workings, and asked the others to keep his intentions in mind as well, but even that much effort seemed pointless and tending to nothing.
Toward evening the sun dipped below the edge of the clouds, casting golden light on the peaks of the roof and adding a luster to the deep green of the trees along the walk. Kief was standing under the archway of the main door when he heard a growling sound coming from the distant highway. At first it seemed a like a far-off echo of thunder, though the clouds were wrong for a thunderstorm, but it kept up too long.
I don’t like this, not even a little
, he thought.
He backed up, turned, and walked into the hall, not quite running. He found Del in the kitchen, making soup—not as good as Narin’s, but good enough with condensed stock from the pantry and fresh vegetables from the garden.
Del looked up from chopping lorchen stalks and regarded Kief with a worried expression. “What’s the problem?”
“Something bad is coming. I can feel it.”
“I meditated today,” Del said thoughtfully. “I didn’t see anything like that. Only the patterns, growing brighter.”
Kief shrugged. “I’m worrying too much, maybe. It’s probably just the weather.”
“Or maybe not.” It was Serazao, just entering from the upper hall. “Garrod’s been restless all day too. Sometimes I think he’s on the verge of coming out of it and talking to me—I know he wants to talk. He’s asleep now, though, so I thought I’d slip away.”
The sun dipped behind the low clouds, and the kitchen grew darker. Rain began to patter against the windows.
“Ah,” said Kief. “It was the weather. That’s all.”
 
 
The Void-transit was a short one this time, barely long enough for the faint queasiness of transition to subside before it was time for emergence. When they came out, the displays on the bridge showed images of a marbled, temperate globe: A tracery of clouds; glittering ice caps; wide blue oceans and brown-and-green continents.
The crew of sus-Peledaen’s
Rain-on-Dark-Water,
now of
Forty-two
, watched the new world grow closer. The Entiboran ship put itself into high orbit with the same efficiency as it had taken itself through the Void, and began transmitting a signal. Arekhon, waiting on
Forty-two’
s bridge with Captain sus-Mevyan, hoped that the signal wasn’t a pre-set message giving somebody orders to shoot them on sight.
Enough time passed for Arekhon to stop worrying about an armed attack and begin worrying instead about being ignored. Finally, the communications link crackled open, and a faint voice began speaking in Entiboran. Arekhon moved closer to the console, straining both mind and hearing to make sense of the alien, signal-distorted words.
“
Swift Passage Freight Carrier Number Forty-two
, this is Inspace Control. State the nature of your emergency.”
Arekhon glanced over at Captain sus-Mevyan. At her curt nod of permission, he spoke to the audio pickup. “We have assumed standard orbit GG-12”—at least, if GG-12 was the orbit set into the Return Home—”by the command of Grand Councillor Demazze.”
There was a brief pause. “
Swift Passage Freight Carrier Number Forty-two
, we have received your message. Please stand by for instructions.”
The link crackled shut. The wait that followed lasted long enough for Arekhon to start getting nervous again. Then the link came back on.
“Swift Passage Freight Carrier Number Forty-two
, prepare to transfer your crew to deep-space passenger vessel
Octagon Diamond
. Previously designated personnel will remain aboard
Forty-two
and await a shuttle to the surface.”
Sus-Mevyan looked at Arekhon curiously. “‘Previously designated personnel’?” she asked as soon as the link had closed. “Who are they?”
“Lord Garrod,” he said. “Pilot-Principal Inadi. And me. For negotiations, I suppose—we’re about the only ones who speak the language well enough to hold a conversation.”
“That mysterious letter of yours again?”
He nodded. “I don’t understand it either. But we’ve tried doing things our own way and gotten nowhere.”
 
 
Octagon Diamond
was enormous.
Forty-two
was pocket-sized by comparison. Not even the lost
Rain-on-Dark-Water
had been so big.
Transfer to the
Diamond
, accordingly, was slow and cumbersome. The tunnel connecting
Forty-two
with the larger ship was a flexible zero-gravity tube; pressure-suited crew members, towing their bundles of personal effects, made the awkward journey along its length in a long, floating line.
Once the transfer was completed, the
Octagon Diamond
disconnected from
Forty-two
and assumed an orbit not far away—at least, not far away as things went in space. The three Eraasians still aboard
Forty-two
donned their pressure suits and waited for the promised shuttle.
Elaeli was carrying the helmet of her suit in the crook of one arm. She ran her free hand through her hair. “You know, I hope we’re not doing something really stupid.”
“So do I,” Arekhon said. “But I don’t think we have much choice. We’re a long way from home in an unfamiliar ship, and if these people take offense and decide to stop us we may never get back.”
“Have you seen the
eiran
here?” Garrod asked.
“I haven’t had the time for a proper meditation,” he admitted. In the aftermath of the bloody takeover of
Forty-two
, he’d also lacked the inclination. That would have to change soon, he supposed. “Or the opportunity, with the ship so crowded.”
“You should make the opportunity,” Garrod said. “Someone, somewhere near here, is taking the lines in hand. There is order—not much of it, I grant you—coming out of all this chaos.”
“Our mysterious friend, do you think?” asked Elaeli.
“Mysterious, certainly. And powerful, if he has ships like the
Diamond
at his disposal to give away. Friendly …”
Arekhon shrugged. “Who knows? So far, at least, he doesn’t seem to wish us ill.”
A hooting sound over the ship’s audio broke into their conversation—
Forty-two’
s warning that the shuttle was making ready to approach the lock. Arekhon put on his helmet and sealed his pressure suit for the transfer.
No need this time for a clumsy swim through a transfer tube; the shuttle turned out to be small enough to mate with the outer port directly. Changing ships was a matter of climbing a ladder that extended itself from
Forty-two
’s transfer lock into that of the shuttle—more of the automatic machinery that had made it possible to run the ship with such a small crew.
The shuttle itself was scarcely more than a passenger pod, unenhanced by local gravity or any other amenities. The main compartment held several objects which Arekhon recognized as acceleration couches, though of unfamiliar design. He took the nearest one, and indicated to Garrod and Elaeli that they should make their choice of the others.
Forty-two’
s ladder retracted, and the hatch cycled shut. The sound of another hatch opening somewhere inside the shuttle made Arekhon look around, and he saw that two men—two people, at any rate—had emerged from the forward compartment. They wore tight, quilted blue livery over all of their bodies, from boots to gloves, and helmets like round, mirrored blue globes.
Moving easily in the zero gravity, they approached the couches and adjusted the webbing that secured Arekhon and the other two passengers on their couches. Again, the purpose of the webbing was obvious, but the design was not like that of the homeworlds: Couches here had a central strap running down the center of the occupant’s body, with webbing stretching to either side at the shoulder, chest, hips, thighs, and ankles. When all of the webbing was in place, the passengers were effectively immobilized.
If somebody wanted to do us harm, Arekhon reflected, here and now would be an excellent opportunity. No need to take any action; just leave the inconvenient visitors tied up on the couches and go away.
The two Entiborans returned to the forward compartment, and Arekhon heard the mechanical sound of the closing hatch. Then all at once the bottom dropped out, and Arekhon felt his stomach heading for his windpipe as the shuttle accelerated downward.
They’re in a hurry
, he thought, as the blood rushed to his head and his vision blurred.
And they don’t believe in coddling the passengers.
Abruptly the pressure reversed, so that he felt many times heavier than his natural weight, and a low moaning vibration filled the craft, even through the padding and restraints. Side forces pressed him first one way against the restraining ties and then the other. The motion ceased and the weight became even, not the artificial pull of a ship in space, but real planet-bound gravity.
The lights flickered once, then returned, burning more brightly and evenly than before. Silence replaced the sounds of motors and engines, and even the hum of the ventilators.
The door sounded a moment later, and the two blue-clad Entiborans returned to help the three passengers out of their couches. The Entiborans didn’t speak, but indicated by signs and gestures that it was now possible to remove the pressure suits, though they made no move to take off their own.
Arekhon unsuited and sat up, rubbing his shoulders to return the circulation to them. Opposite the lock where
Rain-on-Dark-Water’
s crew had debarked, a section of the shuttle’s deck had swung down to form a ramp. Beyond the ramp, external lights glowed—not the natural light of a star, but the artificial light of electricity flowing through carbon rods. It was hard to tell from within the shuttle, but Arekhon thought that it was night outside.
The two Entiborans withdrew again to the forward compartment, still without speaking. Garrod swung his legs over the side of his couch and nodded toward the lowered ramp.
“The message seems fairly clear,” he said. “We go that way. I can already vouch for the gravity and atmosphere being well within homeworld tolerance.”
The ground at the bottom of the ramp was black and hard and wet. The light came from spotlights mounted on tall poles. Beyond the protecting overhang of the vessel, a heavy rain was slanting down, the falling drops turning golden in the artificial light. A figure was approaching, a tall man silhouetted against the spotlights’ glare.
When the man arrived, Arekhon saw that he wore a rain garment of some kind, a sleeveless rectangle of green fabric worn surcoat-wise, with a hood in the center enclosing his face and yellow hair. In one hand he carried a walking-staff almost as tall as he was; with the other, he held out to the travelers three packets made of the same slick cloth as his surcoat. Unfolded, the packets proved to be rainwear similar to his own.
Elaeli smiled at the man as she pulled on her surcoat and drew up the hood. “Thank you,” she said in the local tongue. “I hate getting my hair wet.”

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