- Chapter 10
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Chapter 10: Golen Space
The flight to the Ettebes system took ten days, shiptime. They stayed in the system for a total of four weeks, checking all possible sources and traveling from one planet to another within the system. They delivered mail shipments to Deirdre (Ettebes VI), and then to Centrix (a minor planet between the orbits of Deirdre and Ettebes V), and to one of the moons of Charos, and finally to Charos (Ettebes IV) itself. At each of these stops, Carlyle asked through both official and unofficial channels after his friends. At the first three ports he learned nothing except that the city Charos on planet Charos was considered the best place in the system to look for anyone of the wandering sort, or for any kind of information or rumor where either spacers or riggers were concerned.
Upon arriving at Charos itself, he learned from Guild sources that Legroeder had been on the planet ten weeks earlier but had left, bound for Deirdre. However, on Deirdre there had been no record of him. Either the records in one place or the other were faulty, or Legroeder had changed destinations en route. Of Janofer and Skan, there was no official word.
On advice of several Guildsmen, Carlyle looked further in the city. The most popular rigger bar in this port was not the Guild bar, as was customary in most places, but a place downtown called the Rogues, Thieves & Spacemen's Tavern. There Carlyle spoke with a shuttle spacer introduced to him by a peculiarly gregarious rigger. The spacer claimed to have met and known Janofer on the second moon of Deirdre. She had talked of leaving the system soon, but that had been many weeks ago. He didn't know where she'd planned to go, but he had a hunch that she might have had the Andros system in mind. Carlyle was skeptical of the story (Why no record of her with the Guild? Were there no accurate records kept in this star system?), but he had nothing else to go on. And: Andros. That rang a bell; hadn't Jolson back at Gladstone said something about Andros? But that was Skan he'd been talking about.
They stayed in Charos a few extra days. It was a colorful and brawling city—and Cephean liked the Rogues, Thieves & Spacemen's Tavern, probably for the large number of interesting aliens who frequented the bar. The cynthian seemed to enjoy watching the aliens and listening, while he himself showed off his riffmar and ignored various people's attempts to converse with him. Finally, though, Carlyle learned that there was carryage available to Andros II, and he committed them for departure.
The flight to Andros was rather long in lightyears but fast in terms of shipdays through the Flux. There was mainly barren space between the two systems—and long, steady currents in the Flux. They were in the Flux for only seven days, shiptime. While they flew, Carlyle conferred with Janofer and Skan, hoping for encouragement. They talked over the difficulties he was having, and the two suggested that perhaps it would be better if he abandoned his search. I'd love to see you again, Gev, you know that—but you have to think to your own life, said Janofer.
I couldn't consider it, Carlyle said adamantly. You're too important to me, and I want to fly with you—and that's all there is to it.
Well, Skan admitted, I do have similar feelings myself, and even though I think you're crazy, I'm glad you're doing this. And Janofer looked secretly delighted by both of them, despite her own remark.
But before he could ask them the most important question—where they were—they waved and departed from the net. And so it always went, in their conversations.
* * *
When Spillix arrived at Andros II, Carlyle found it an unspectacular planet in a spectacular parcel of space. Andros II was a dry world, rocky and sparsely vegetated. The spaceport sat on a huge bluff overlooking one of the small seas of the southern hemisphere, and the plain that bordered the sea was practically the planet's only developed arable land.
But the night sky was the world's main attraction, at least during the summer season. The night after their landing, Carlyle stood outside with Cephean and gazed up. The sky was dominated by the Wall of the Barrier Nebula—a broad, luminous plane that angled upward from the horizon and seemed to curve outward like a ribbon, away from the zenith. It was a gaseous-emission nebula, actually just one end of a nebula which reached far out into unexplored space. It glimmered with a pale cyan and red sheen, hovering like a ghostly stage curtain before the mysteries of the far regions of the galaxy. The dark track of a dust lane meandered across its face, obscuring a part of its glow; the dust lane extended beyond the far end of the Wall, smudging the view of stars there—in Golen space.
Golen space. They were virtually at the edge of it now, standing on a bluff on Andros II, looking up into a part of the night where the stars . . . well, they looked the same to the naked eye as stars in any other space, but they didn't feel the same to look at—and to Carlyle, to any rigger, it was the feeling which counted. He wondered how much of his uneasiness at the sight was due to years of rumor, and how much to a real intuitive sense of strangeness nearby. Beside him, Cephean was silent (but radiated disquiet). Was that Cephean's reflection of Carlyle's fear, or was it Cephean's own rigger-intuition?
If Golen space is where we're going, Carlyle thought, we could slip right up alongside the Wall, straight as an arrow, and off. Off the Wall and straight into . . . the heart of madness.
Why would they have gone in there? For what conceivable reason?
He shook his head. He needed to imagine, yes—but he had to control it.
Gev, have you found where you're heading yet?
Stupid question—even coming from Janofer, who ought to know better. Of course he didn't know where he was going; he didn't know where they were. But he had a terrible feeling.
You'll be careful, won't you—if you go out there?
He stared into space and shivered suddenly. "Let's go," he said to Cephean. As they turned he heard Janofer calling, asking him to tell her please that he'd be careful. Later, he thought angrily. Talk to me later.
Never, in all the years he had known her, had he cut off Janofer like that—and he hated himself for it.
They went inside the spaceport Haven, and Carlyle went asking for information, as usual. His initial inquiries yielded nothing, however, and he decided to wait until morning to do anything further. He was weary—not of the day's activities but of the search itself, or of the seeming futility of it. And when he said good night to Cephean and closed the sliding door between their quarters, he wondered if he really had the right to drag Cephean on an endless, fruitless chase.
But his weariness vanished early the next morning when he was awakened by his phone. The caller was a rigger, but seemed afraid to give his name. "I overheard you asking around last night—and I don't mean you to think I was eavesdropping, but if I can help you I thought it would be better for me to call than just to keep quiet. So you don't mind, do you? If—"
"Please," Carlyle interrupted, shaking himself awake. "Do you know something?"
"Well, I heard you mention the name of a rigger you were trying to find, and since you said you'd been all over trying to locate her—"
Her!
"—I thought since I did know something about her—well, at first I wasn't going to say anything, since it's none of my business—but then I figured—"
"What do you know about her? Do you mean Janofer?"
"What?"
Carlyle shouted, "Janofer! Is her name Janofer?"
"Well, yes, of course. That's who you were asking about, wasn't it?" The man sounded hurt.
"Yes. Please—what do you know about her?" Carlyle was about to explode, talking to this little pictureless phone in his room.
"Well, I can't actually tell you anything about her myself." Carlyle's heart dropped. But the man added, "What you need to do is go downtown to a technics wholesale place, name of Gabriel Merck. M-e-r-c-k. Just ask for Merck's. They'll be able to tell you."
"What?" Carlyle asked anxiously. "Why?"
"They'll know. You just ask for Merck's. And then you go see Gabe himself. I've got to go now—"
"Wait! Can you tell me anything—?" But he was talking to a dead phone. He slammed the desktop and paced the room. He stopped pacing and put his hands on his hips and stared at a hole in the wall near the door where the composition panel was flaking apart. The hole had a crumbly edge, with partition space showing inside. Carlyle longed to grab the edge of that hole and rip out another chunk of paneling, and to rip and keep ripping until he had torn a hole large enough to climb through. He could feel the sensation in his fingertips: the strain of pulling against the compressed, grainy material—the sudden give, and the handful of dust and chunks of crumbled material spilling to the floor.
Instead of doing that, he went and got Cephean. Then he called the Guild service desk. "How do I get to Merck's?" he asked. "Gabriel Merck's—a technics place?" Three minutes later, he had his directions. He told Cephean to wait for him, and he went out looking for a cab.
The cab ride took thirty minutes. It was a human-operated aircar, and the driver had some difficulty in finding certain key streets in the wholesale district; but eventually he stopped at the correct address. "Please wait," Carlyle asked. As he stepped toward the building at Merck's address—there was no name sign—the cab pulled away with a swoosh.
Carlyle held his breath angrily, then exhaled and went into the building. He cautiously stepped around a seemingly built-in obstacle in the doorway, a tall mechanical device of uncertain function. A light on the device glowed as he passed. The dimly lit shop was crowded in front and seemed to extend for a considerable distance to the rear. Carlyle saw a movement among the vertical warehouse racks. He hesitated and then called out, "Mr. Merck? Gabe Merck?" There was no answer, but he saw a movement again in the rear, something shadowy moving back and forth across a darker shadow. "Mr. Merck!" he called.
His eyes were beginning to adapt to the gloom. The place barely had a storefront; crated and uncrated technics products were stacked high on both sides. The counter was unusually low, and open in the middle. A glow from one corner far to the rear suggested a work area. "Mr. Merck!" he called anxiously. He wondered if his "tip" had been a practical joke.
The storefront lights suddenly came up halfway. There was a hum and several clicks from the rear, and something came forward down one of the aisles. Carlyle stepped to the counter, feeling uneasy. The storekeeper emerged into the light. It, or he, was a cyborg. Riding in a hovering life-support system which boasted several manipulator arms was a Thangol, a humanoid with high, bony features and a mop of reddish brown hair around the back of its neck and over the back half of its skull. Or rather, it was the head and upper abdomen of a Thangol; the rest of his body was missing. He still possessed his right arm but only had a stump for his left.
"Gabriel Merck?" Carlyle asked.
"Yes," the Thangol answered in a gravelly whisper. Carlyle wondered if the whisper was a normal Thangoli tone. "Just one moment, if you please," said Merck. His cyborg body carried him humming around the end of an aisle.
Carlyle realized suddenly that Merck's voice had come from the mechanical unit, not from his lips.
Merck stopped near the end of a rack of shelves. He tilted his head back to look up, and his eyes searched the upper shelf. A leg suddenly telescoped from the bottom of his lower unit; Merck rose into the air on his hover unit, apparently balanced rather than supported by the leg. When he was at the level of the top shelf, he extended a mechanical arm and took a package in its grip. Then he descended, his leg retracting under him with a long sigh, and he hummed back around to where Carlyle was waiting. "Now then, may I help you?" he whispered. His mechanical arm held the package snugly against a shelf built into the front of his lower unit.
"Well, yes," said Carlyle. He hesitated. This was ridiculous. What would Janofer have had to do with a place like this? Unless . . . she had been injured somehow and—
Just because the shopkeeper's a cyborg doesn't mean his customers are!
"Yes," he said, trying to push the train of thought back into motion. "Have—you had a customer in here recently who was a rigger? A female human? Her name was Janofer Lief."
"A customer?" whispered the Thangol. "No, I do not recall a rigger being one of my customers."
Carlyle cleared his throat. "Well, perhaps not a customer, but here for some other reason."
The Thangol looked at him oddly.
"Perhaps you used the services of a rigger? Perhaps you own or lease a ship and arranged for riggers to fly it? Perhaps one or more of them visited here? Does any of this approach truth?" He was very tense, very nervous. Was he imagining a rise in hostility from the Thangol/cyborg?
"Yes," said the Thangol, "it is possible that I operate a ship for business reasons, and of course I would employ riggers such as yourself in flying the ship, if I had one. But the employment of riggers is customarily arranged by the RiggerGuild, is it not?"
"Customarily, yes," said Carlyle. "But there are exceptions. I don't mean to pry into your business practices at all—my only interest is in tracing a friend of mine, a rigger named Janofer Lief." Carefully he drew forth Janofer's holoprint and showed it to the Thangol. Merck studied it for a moment, holding it in his fleshy right hand. He returned it to Carlyle.
For a moment they exchanged stares. Then Carlyle prompted. "Do you recall seeing this woman?"
Merck rubbed the two thumbs of his right hand against the opposing three fingers. He studied the activity as though it belonged to the hand of another. "I can tell you that I might remember seeing someone who looked like her," he said finally.
Carlyle closed his eyes and took several slow breaths. He opened his eyes again. Normally he might be intimidated by the Thangol's appearance, by his cool reserve, by the fact that he could undoubtedly crush Carlyle with a single one of his mechanical hands. But Carlyle was tired of feeling intimidated. "Could you please be more specific?" he said quietly. "I am asking for my own personal information. Nevertheless, I am asking also as a good-standing member of the RiggerGuild. I had hoped that you would try to help me. As a member of the RiggerGuild."
The Thangol stared at him with both eyes wide and unblinking. Whether Merck interpreted Carlyle's statement as a threat or as formal protocol was not clear. But finally he whispered, "Yes, I think I can safely say that the female rigger you asked about was here."
"And did you engage her services? Or the services of Skan Sen, or Renwald Legroeder?" Carlyle showed the Thangol holoprints of the two men.
Merck waved his right hand. "No," he whispered hoarsely. "Neither of these two men."
"And the woman? Janofer Lief?"
The Thangol hesitated again. Carlyle lightly rubbed the rigger embroidering on his tunic, almost unconsciously. "Yes," said Merck at last. "I engaged her as a rigger on one of my ships."
"How long ago? Where were they bound?" Carlyle squinted, his anxieties multiplying.
"About two months ago."
"Local months?"
"Yes, local."
That was about a month and a half standard. "Where were they bound?" he said.
The Thangol stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Good day!" and turned to float back to the dark recesses of his shop.
"One minute!" Carlyle barked. He was astonished by his own tone of voice. The Thangol/cyborg turned slowly and looked at him. "I said, where were they bound?" He waited, glaring. How far an implied RiggerGuild threat would carry him here he didn't know. But he had nothing to lose.
The Thangol held his silence but moved half a meter closer. Carlyle slammed his hand upon the counter. "Where were they bound?" he demanded.
"Denison's Outpost," whispered the Thangol. He spun and hummed out of sight down the aisle.
The lights in the storefront dimmed. Clearly Carlyle was being invited to leave. He stood thinking for a moment, then went outside. The door clicked locked behind him, leaving him isolated on the deserted street.
It took him half an hour to get another aircab, but he had plenty of thinking to do while the time went by. Denison's Outpost, he thought, was somewhere in Golen space—but he wasn't sure exactly where. There was a Dennison's Hardship also, and a Denizen's Haven. And he couldn't remember which ones were located where. But he had a bad feeling.
* * *
When he returned and checked in the Guild navigational library, his fear was confirmed. Denison's Outpost was located deep in Golen space. That was why the Thangol had been so reluctant to talk. Whatever shipment he had been making to that planet—if he had told the truth—was at least partly illegal. Nearly all shipments into Golen space were partly or entirely illegal. Many of the planetary laws within that space were confused, contradictory, and repressive—and unevenly enforced. Illegal traffic proliferated: illicit drugs, high-energy weapons, psychoactive technics, slavery (both human and nonhuman), and "unsafeguarded" robots and organic computer cores—lacking certain restrictive programmings which would protect human operators. And with the illicit traffic went banditry, piracy, and other more uncertain dangers.
The nonreturn rate for ships entering Golen space was five times that in any other outworld section of space. It was for this reason that sixty standard years ago the RiggerGuild had called a broad strike, demanding protection in Golen space. It was the only Guild strike ever to have failed—not because the combined spacing authorities had not wanted to establish controls over Golen space, but because they had been unable to do so. In rescinding the strike, the Guild had declared Golen space a "protection-free" zone. Riggers flew there only at their own risk, by their own independent arrangements, and without benefit of the Guild's protective umbrella. Under no circumstances could a rigger be required, regardless of contract, to enter Golen space; and all riggers were strongly discouraged from doing so.
Yet some did. Always some did. Some for adventure, for escape, for reward; some for perverse reasons, to satisfy self-destructive urges; some for the feel of exploration, for bravado. The reasons were as varied as the individuals who went. Some were simple, some complex; some were good, some bad; some carried hopes of success, others carried none.
But why would Janofer have wanted to go? A rigger who could have chosen almost any crew, any ship, any destination—what attraction would those forbidding spaces have held for her? Had she felt that desperate, that despairing?
And what of Skan and Legroeder? Carlyle had information, however unreliable, tracing both men to Andros II. And Andros II was a natural jumping-off point for Golen space, though it was in and of itself a respectable enough port. But there seemed no way to be sure where they had gone. The Guild office advised Carlyle delicately that no records were maintained of riggers entering the protection-free zone. True, they could find no record of either man arriving at Andros II; but they had no record of Janofer's arrival, either, and Merck would hardly have admitted seeing her if she had not been on the planet. So the Guild's recordkeeping here was less than exemplary.
Perhaps all three were in Golen space.
"Cephean," Carlyle said, since he had decided for himself without even allowing debate, "will you fly with me in Golen space? It could be very dangerous."
"Sssssss," muttered Cephean. He flipped Odi into a somersault and stared at Carlyle with apparitional eyes. "H-all righ-ss."
"Good," said Carlyle. "We'll leave tonight. No cargo except light goods in case we have to barter."
Carlyle tried not to dwell on certain feelings of guilt about the ease with which he had persuaded Cephean. The cynthian almost certainly did not appreciate what it was he had agreed to. And neither, perhaps, did Carlyle.
* * *
The Wall of the Barrier Nebula loomed intimidatingly against one-half of the universe. As Spillix coasted out of the Andros system, Carlyle set his course as carefully as he could, considering how little he knew of this region. The Guild navigational references about Golen space had been sketchy. He decided to skim close to the plane of the Wall, or whatever its Flux equivalent would prove to be. Later they would turn outward to angle across to Denison's Outpost.
Golen space. Was he certain that he wanted to do this? He could be pursuing a phantom, a lie. But did he have any choice?
When he took Spillix down into the Flux, he decided to keep his navigational imagery similar to the actual normal-space view; this should render him less susceptible to surprise, to sudden change growing out of his own imagery. But it would slow their flight, since he could not use daring imagery to abridge their course or to speed them faster through the Flux. At present he just wanted the security provided by that huge, glowing nebula on his right.
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.
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