The Fugitive Worlds Page 10

  "Instead of mooning around here like a maiden with the colic," he continued, "you should be checking the loading and balance of your ship."

  "Lieutenant Correvalte is dealing with all that," Toller replied indifferently. "And probably making a better fist of it than I would."

  Kettoran pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes, creating a prism of shade from which he regarded Toller with concern. "Listen, my boy, I know it is none of my business, but this infatuation with the Countess Vantara bodes ill for your career."

  "Thank you for the advice." Toller deeply resented the elderly man's words, but he had too much respect for Kettoran to hint at his anger other than by mild sarcasm. "I'll keep your good counsel in mind."

  Kettoran gave him a small, sad smile. "Believe me, son, before you know it, these days which seem so interminable and so full of pain will be nothing more than faint memories. Not only that—they will seem joyous in comparison to what is to come. You are foolish not to make the most of them."

  Something in Kettoran's voice affected Toller, drawing his thoughts away from his own circumstances. "This hardly seems credible," he said, claiming the right to intimacy he had earned on the interplanetary crossing. "I never expected to hear Trye Kettoran talk like an old man."

  "And I never expected to be an old man—that was a fate exclusively reserved for others. Ponder on what I am telling you, son. And don't be a fool." Commissioner Kettoran squeezed Toller's shoulder with a thin hand, then turned and walked away towards the eastern flank of the Great Palace. His gait seemed to lack something of its usual jauntiness.

  Toller stared after the commissioner for a moment, frowning. "Sir," he called out, prompted by a sudden unease, "is all well with you?"

  Appearing not to hear, Kettoran continued on his way and was soon lost to view. Toller, now troubled by premonitions about the commissioner's well-being, somehow felt obliged to pay more heed to the advice he had just been given. He began making conscientious efforts to follow what was undoubtedly good philosophical counsel—after all, he was young and healthy and all his life lay before him—but each time he ordered himself to feel cheerful the only result was an obstinate upsurge of his misery. Something within him was antagonistic to reason.

  He returned to his ship and went on board, supervising the departure arrangements with a gloomy inattentiveness which he knew was bound to communicate itself to the crew. Lieutenant Correvalte responded by becoming even more wooden and correct in his manner. The voyage was expected to take about sixty days, assuming no mishaps were to occur, and the gondola was a very small space for eight men to be cooped in for that length of time. The psychological strain would be considerable even under ideal conditions, and with a commander who was making it clear from the outset that he had no stomach for the mission there could be problems with morale and discipline.

  Eventually all the formalities were completed, and the signal for departure came when a trumpet sounded on board the lead ship. The four vessels took off in unison, their jets sending flat billows of sound rolling out across the parks which surrounded the Five Palaces and into the sunlit environs of Ro-Atabri. Toller stood at the rail, hand on the hilt of his sword, leaving the control of the ship to Correvalte, and stared out at the sprawling expanse of the old city. The sun was high in the sky, nearing Overland, and the gondola was completely contained within the shadow of its elliptical gasbag, making the scenery beyond look exceptionally bright and sharply defined. Traditional Kolcorronian architectural styles made extensive use of orange and yellow bricks laid in complex diamond patterns, with dressings of red sandstone at corners and edges, and from a low altitude the city was a glittering mosaic which shimmered confusingly on the eye. Trees at different stages of their lives provided islands of extra color which ranged from pale green to copper and brown.

  The ships made a partial circuit of the base and took a north-eastern course, seeking the trade winds which would help conserve power crystals during the voyage. Local surveys had indicated that there would be no shortage of mature brakka trees along the route, but broaching their combustion chambers to obtain the green and purple crystals would have been a time-consuming business, and it was intended that the little fleet should complete the circumnavigation using only its on-board supplies.

  Toller gave an involuntary sigh as Ro-Atabri began to slide into the distance aft of his ship, its various features flattening into horizontal bands. The voyage, with all its promised tedium and privation, had begun in earnest, and it was time for him to face up to that fact. He became aware of Baten Steenameert, newly promoted to the rank of air-sergeant, eyeing him as he passed on his way to the lower deck. Steenameert's pink face was carefully impassive, but Toller knew his recent moodiness had had its effect on the youngster, who had developed an intense loyalty to him since they had left their home world. Toller halted him by raising a hand.

  "There is no need for you to fret," he said. "I have no intention of hurling myself over the side."

  Steenameert looked puzzled. "Sir?"

  "Don't play the innocent with me, young fellow." Toller was only two years older than the sergeant, but he spoke in the same kind of fatherly tones that Trye Kettoran often used to him, consciously trying to borrow some of the commissioner's steadiness and stoicism. "I've become the butt of quite a few jests around the base, haven't I? The word has gone about that I'm so besotted with a certain lady that I scarcely know night from day."

  The bloom on Steenameert's smooth cheeks deepened and he lowered his voice so as not to be overheard by Correvalte who was nearby at the airship's controls. "Sir, if anybody dared speak ill of you in my presence I would. ..."

  "You will not be required to do battle on my behalf," Toller said firmly, addressing his wayward inner self as much as anybody else, then saw that Steenameert's attention had been drawn elsewhere.

  The sergeant spoke quickly, before Toller could frame a question. "Sir, I think we are receiving a message."

  Toller looked aft in the direction of Ro-Atabri and saw that a point of intense brilliance was winking amid the complex layered bands of the city. He immediately began deciphering the sunwriter code and felt a peculiar thrill, an icy mingling of excitement and apprehension, as he realized that the beamed message concerned him.

  By the time Toller got back to base the balloon of the skyship was fully inflated and the craft was straining at its anchor link, ready to depart for Overland. It was swaying a little within the three timber walls of the towering enclosure, like a vast sentient creature which was becoming impatient with its enforced inactivity. A further indication of the urgency of the situation was that Sky-commodore Sholdde was waiting for Toller by the enclosure instead of in his office.

  He nodded ungraciously, obviously in a foul temper, as Toller—flanked by Correvalte and Steenameert— approached him at a quick march and saluted. He ran his fingers through his cropped iron-grey hair and scowled at Toller.

  "Captain Maraquine," he said, "this is a cursed inconvenience. I've already been deprived of one airship captain —and now I have to find another."

  "Lieutenant Correvalte is perfectly capable of taking my place on the round-the-world flight, sir," Toller replied. "I have no hesitation in recommending him for an immediate field promotion."

  "Is that so?" Sholdde turned a hard-eyed, critical gaze on Correvalte and the look of gratification which had appeared on the lieutenant's face quickly faded.

  "Sir," Toller said, "is Commissioner Kettoran very ill?"

  "He looks to me like he's already dead," Sholdde said indifferently. "Why did he particularly ask for you to fly him home?"

  "I don't know, sir."

  "I can't understand it either. It seems a strange choice to me. You haven't exactly distinguished yourself on this mission, Maraquine. I kept waiting for you to trip over that antiquated piece of iron you insist on wearing."

  Toller unconsciously touched the haft of his sword and he felt his face grow warm. The commodore was subjecting
him to unnecessary ignominy by giving him a dressing down in the presence of lesser ranks. The most Toller could do to register a protest was to hint that he viewed Sholdde's remarks as a waste of valuable time.

  "Sir, if the commissioner looks as poorly as you say. . . ."

  "All right, all right, begone with you." Sholdde glanced briefly at Steenameert. "Has this man become a Maraquine family retainer, part of your personal entourage?"

  "Sir, Corporal Steenameert is a first-class skyman and his services would be invaluable to me on—"

  "Take him!" Sholdde turned and strode away without any kind of salute, an action which could only be interpreted as another direct insult.

  So that's it, Toller thought, alerted by the commodore's reference to the "Maraquine family". My grandfather was the most famed warrior in Kolcorronian history; my father is one of the most brilliant and most powerful men alive—and even the likes of Sholdde resent me for it. Is that because they believe I secretly make use of family influence? Or is it because, by overtly not making use of it, I proclaim a special kind of egotism? Or can it be that I shame or annoy them by refusing to grasp opportunities for which they would give. . . ?

  A prolonged blast on the skyship's burner, echoing in the huge cavity of the balloon, interrupted Toller's reverie. He touched Correvalte's shoulder in farewell, ran with Steenameert to the gondola and climbed over the side. The ground crew sergeant who was at the burner controls, keeping the ship in readiness, saluted and nodded towards the passenger compartment.

  Toller went to the chest-high cane partition and looked over it. Commissioner Kettoran was lying on a pallet and, in spite of the heat, was covered with a quilt. His long face was extremely pale, with lines of age and weariness graven into it, but his eyes were alert. He winked when he saw Toller and twitched a thin hand in an attempted greeting.

  "Are you travelling alone, sir?" Toller said with concern. "No physician?"

  A scornful expression briefly animated Kettoran's features. "Those blood-letters will never get their hands on me."

  "But if you are ill. . . ."

  "The doctor who could cure my complaint has yet to be born," Kettoran said, almost with satisfaction. "I suffer from nothing less than a dearth of time. Speaking of which, young Maraquine, I was under the impression you also were anxious to make a speedy return to Overland."

  Toller mumbled an apology and turned to the sergeant, who immediately moved away from the burner controls and clambered over the gondola's side. Pausing for a few seconds on the outside ledge, he explained to Steenameert where all necessary provisions, including skysuits, had been stored. As soon as he had dropped out of sight Toller fed a plentiful charge of hot gas into the pliable dome of the balloon above him and pulled the anchor link.

  The skyship surged upwards, its acceleration enhanced by the lift created as the curved upper surface of the balloon moved into the current of air flowing over the enclosure. Well aware that the extra buoyancy would be cancelled as soon as the balloon fully entered the westerly airstream and began to move with it, Toller kept the burner going. The skyship—in spite of being so much below its maximum operating weight—performed a queasy slow-motion shimmy as it adapted to the changing aerial environment, causing Steenameert to clutch theatrically at his stomach. From Commissioner Kettoran, hidden behind his wicker partition, came a moan of complaint.

  For the second time in less than an hour the sprawling panorama of Ro-Atabri began to recede from Toller, but now it was retreating downwards. I can scarcely believe that all this is happening to me, he thought dreamily, almost stupefied by the flux of circumstance. Only minutes earlier he had been racked by fears that he would never see Vantara Dervonai again—now he was on his way to her, keeping an appointment which had been specially arranged for him by the forces of destiny.

  Soon I will be able to see Vantara again, he told himself. For once, things are working out in my favor.

  Toller had not eaten anything for a day, and had taken only a few sips of water, barely enough to replace the bodily moisture lost by exhaling into the arid air of the middle passage. Toilet facilities on a skyship were necessarily primitive and unpleasant to use at the best of times, but in weightless conditions the disadvantages—including the sheer indignity—were so great that most people chose to suspend their natural functions as completely as possible for a day on either side of turnover. The system worked reasonably well for a healthy adult, but Commissioner Kettoran had begun the voyage in a severely weakened state, and now—much to Toller's concern—appeared to be using up the last dregs of his strength merely to stay alive.

  "You can take those slops away from me," Kettoran said in a grouchy whisper. "I refuse to be suckled like a babe at my time of life—especially from a revolting dug like that."

  Toller unhappily fingered the conical bag of luke-warm soup he had been proffering. "This will do you good."

  "You sound just like my mother."

  "Is that a reason for not taking sustenance?"

  "Don't try to be clever, young Maraquine." Kettoran's breath issued in white clouds from a small opening in the mound of quilts in which he had ensconced himself.

  "I was only trying to—"

  "My mother could make much better food than any of the cooks we ever employed," Kettoran mused, paying no heed to Toller. "We had a house on the west side of Greenmount —not far from where your grandfather lived, incidentally— and I can still remember riding up the hill, going into our precinct and knowing immediately, just by the aromas, whether or not my mother had chosen to prepare the evening meal. I went back there a few days after we landed in Ro-Atabri, but the entire district had been burnt out a long time ago . . . during the riots . . . gutted . . . hardly a building left intact. It was a mistake for me to go there—I should have preserved my memories."

  At the mention of his namesake Toller's interest picked up. "Did you ever see my grandfather in those days?"

  "Occasionally. It would have been hard not to see him— a fine figure of a man, he was—but I more often saw his brother, Lain . . . going back and forth between his house and the Lord Philosopher's official residence in Greenmount Peel."

  "What did my grand—?" Toller broke off, alarms clamoring silently in his mind, as there was a subtle but abrupt change in his environment. He rose to his feet, holding a transverse line to keep himself from drifting clear of the deck, and looked all about him. Steenameert, muffled in his skysuit, was strapped into his seat at the control station. He was firing the main jet in the steady rhythm needed to maintain the ship's ascent, and he appeared completely unperturbed. Everything seemed absolutely as normal in the square microcosm of the gondola, and beyond its rim the familiar patterns of stars and luminous whirls shone steadily in the dark blue sky.

  "Sir?" The swaddled, anonymous bulk of Steenameert moved slightly. "Is there something wrong?"

  Toller had to survey his surroundings again before he was able to identify the source of his unease. "The light! There was a change in the light! Didn't you notice?"

  "I must have had my eyes closed. But I still don't. . . ."

  "There was a drop in brightness—I'm sure of it—and yet we have more than an hour till nightfall." Baffled and disturbed, wishing he could have a direct view of the sun, Toller drew himself closer to the control station and looked up through the mouth of the balloon. The varnished linen of the envelope was dyed dark brown so that it would absorb heat from the sun, but it was to some extent translucent and he could see a geometrical design of panel seams and load tapes radiating from the crown, emphasizing the vastness of the flimsy dome. It was a sight he had seen many times, and on this occasion it looked exactly as it had always done. Steenameert also looked into the balloon, then lowered his gaze without comment.

  "I tell you something happened," Toller said, trying to keep any hint of uncertainty out of his voice. "Something happened. There was a change in the light... a shadow . . . something."

  "According to the height gauge w
e are somewhere close to the datum plane, sir," Steenameert said, obviously striving to be helpful. "Perhaps we have come up directly beneath the permanent stations and have touched their shadows."

  "That is virtually impossible—there is always a certain amount of drift." Toller frowned for a moment, coming to a decision. "Rotate the ship."

  "I ... I don't think I'm ready to handle an inversion."

  "I don't want it turned over yet. Just make a quarter-rotation so that we can see what's above us." Realizing he was still holding the food bag he tossed it towards the passenger compartment on a descending curve. It fouled a safety line, swung round it and floated out over the gondola's side, slowly tumbling as it went.

  Toller pulled himself to the rail, straining to see upwards, and waited impatiently while Steenameert fired one of the tiny lateral jets on the opposite side of the gondola. At first the jet appeared to be having no effect, except that the slim acceleration struts on each side of Toller emitted faint creaks; then, after what seemed an interminable wait, the whole universe began a ponderous downwards slide. The whorled disk of Land moved out of sight beneath Toller's feet, and above him—stealthily uncovered by the ship's balloon— there came into view a spectacle unlike anything he had ever seen.

  Half the sky was occupied by a vast circular sheet of white fire.

  The sun was slipping out of sight behind the eastern edge, and at that point the brilliance was intolerable, a locus of blinding radiance which sprayed billions of prismatic needles across the rest of the circle.

  There was a slight falling off in the intensity of light across the disk, but even at the side farthest from the sun it was enough to sting the eyes. To Toller the effect was akin to looking upwards from the depths of a sunlit frozen lake. He had expected to see Overland filling a large area of the heavens, but the planet was hidden behind the beautiful, inexplicable, impossible sheet of diamond-white light, through which rainbow colors raced and danced in clashing zigzag lines.