Cephean, let me know immediately if you sense anything strange, anything 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 ghostly 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?
Cephean, we may be headed for some kind of trouble—but I don't know. We both have to be ready. Please don't leave the net. Please!
Cephean hummed, hoarsely.
All right, Cephean?
H-all righ-ss, Caharleel.
He watched for a clue to what this thing might be. It was not an artifact of his mind, he was sure, but he didn't know if that was good or bad. Now there was a thrumming sound, thrumming as of great ancient engines. A sound of formidable power. Growing. Coming closer.
Khanns we noss chahange, Caharleel?
Cephean whispered imploringly.
Carlyle thought hard.
No. I'm afraid we might lose our way if we change now, too suddenly.
He was tempted to send out a distress call on his fluxwave communicator, but he was afraid. This was Golen space. Sending out a cry could be like an injured fish thrashing in a shark-infested sea.
The ship was approaching
Spillix
now. The light against which it showed itself grew stronger, colder, and the ship's silhouette grew darker. The thrumming reached
Spillix
like a heartbeat, and there was a hiss now, and a mutter of voices, many voices. The voices, which were indecipherable, seemed to echo against the Wall on the right. And the Wall was changing, bulging outward ahead, its bulge full of flecks indicating possible turbulences, possible gravity wells. He had to steer left to stay clear of the Wall. Left, toward the mysterious ship.
He banked and hoped for a current to carry them swiftly ahead, more swiftly than the other ship. But his effort was in vain. If the steerers of the other vessel were deliberately seeking to intercept him, they knew where the currents ran and where shoals lay. His stomach felt as though it were crawling about inside him. His control of the net faltered.
The mutter of voices escalated in pitch and in volume.
Colors exploded about him in space. Drums boomed, boomed, reverberating.
The ocean was suddenly alive with scrambling life in a frenzy of feeding, with popping lights that glared and blinded against the turbidity of the night. It was hard to see the Wall, and the other ship was invisible against exploding paint splashes of color.
Spillix
trembled through her net, bucking. There was no question: they were under attack.
He had no idea what to do. Attack was a danger that riggers were not supposed to have to face. The voices growled and shouted at him.
Caharleel, hyor frenss!
cried Cephean.
What? What? Are they coming?
Did Cephean want him to bring them to life again?
H-no! Hyor frenss! Hi hhear hyor frenss!
Are you mad? Cephean, we've got to pull this one out ourselves!
The ship was buffeted; the voices shouted. And suddenly he knew what the cynthian was hissing at him about.
He heard Legroeder's voice in the babble from the attacking ship.
Legroeder!
Was this—? No.
No!
This was not a memory-fantasy; he knew the real voice of Legroeder. His friend was aboard that ship—and he knew now what kind of a ship it was. It was a Golen space raider. A pirate ship.
And it was closing fast. Coronas of light flamed around it, but the ship remained dark, black, swallowing its own light. Carlyle found himself staring as though hypnotized—staring—staring—and suddenly realized that
Spillix
's net was slipping from his control, was starting to bend around like a comet's tail and stretch outward toward the raider. Carlyle fought to hold the net tight.
Caharleel! Whass? H-why?
cried Cephean. (
Fear! Confusion! Anger!
spilled through the net in waves.) It was obvious that Cephean felt betrayed.
These people aren't friends—they're enemies!
Carlyle cried back.
I
don't know what Legroeder's doing there.
The marauder-ship's corona bloomed with tentacles of flame which reached outward and around, as though to encircle
Spillix.
The raiders obviously meant to grapple
Spillix
and haul her out of the Flux, to take her back into normal-space where she would be helpless to repel boarders.
Whatever else, he had to keep
Spillix
free of the grapples.
The ocean was filled with flashes of light refracting weirdly. Carlyle banked
Spillix
desperately hard to starboard and down, away from the marauders and into the stroboscopic glare.
Cephean—hard into the tail! Hard!
The cynthian kicked, giving the ship an extra lurch away from the enemy—but the momentum was not enough. The arms of the marauders' net curved closer. Carlyle streamlined his net still further in a futile effort to gather speed.