Barrington Bayley - Star Winds

After a while of apprehensive waiting those on deck began to wonder why the ship had not yet been burst asunder by the monster left swelling down below. There was conferring with Captain Zhorga under the air balloon. He decided instantly to investigate.

Since most were loath to join the expedition between-decks, Rachad found it easy to attach himself to the party. Zhorga and Clabert went first, ready with pistols. The others carried sabers, alert to chop at tentacles.

There was no need. The monster had grown to the size of a pony, and then died. Its tentacles were scattered forlornly about the mess-deck, and were already beginning to corrode and shrivel, looking like dead wood.

As they removed their helmets they were met by a new smell that had added itself to the usual stench: a smell of rottenness, sweet and corrupt. Rachad prodded the creature with his blade. The flesh of it flaked away, like ancient paper.

“These beasts must be without substance,” Zhorga mumbled. “Blown up, merely, like paper balloons. But for what reason?”

Clumsily Rachad knelt and tore away a piece of tentacle. Even while he held it, he saw that it was crumbling, fading. Soon the whole creature would be nothing but dust.

“Homunculi,” he mused. “I should have thought of it before.”

He straightened. “Yes, that has to be it. The creatures are solid enough, Captain—for the brief time they live, that is. But they are not natural. They are, in fact, alchemical weapons left over from ancient wars.”

Bruge grimaced in perplexity. “Alchemical?”

Rachad nodded. “In ancient times it was known how to generate synthetic beings, such as small, manlike beings known as homunculi. Also bizarre beasts which were used in battle.”

“It makes sense,” Zhorga rumbled. “Space warfare was rife at one time, that’s well known. Strewing these eggs in the path of an enemy ship would be a good tactic. Presumably they lie dormant until a ship comes near and triggers them off, then they burst into life and attack in the manner we’ve witnessed.”

Rachad nodded gravely, pleased with his knowledge. Some of the semi-legendary lore he had heard from Gebeth was useful after all.

Bruge seemed doubtful. “Small threat if they are so easily disposed of,” he said.

“After all this time they must be almost exhausted of life force,” Rachad answered. “Long ago they would have been more formidable—though even then, creatures that grew at such an unnatural rate can’t have lived for more than a brief time. The type of matter they are made of is a product of alchemy, compounding fresh mass out of itself but quickly collapsing again.”

A grunt came from Patchman. “It’s lucky this one hadn’t the strength to reach its full size,” he observed, indicating the beast on the deck, “or we wouldn’t be talking together now.”

At this remark Zhorga nodded, and looked sternly at Rachad. “It’s a rule of space travel, young man, never to take anything onto the ship until you know with absolute certainty what it is.”

Rachad, his conceit damaged, hung his head, as far as he was able in his suit. He coughed.

“I don’t want to spread alarm,” he said, “but I spotted hundreds of space eggs floating not far from us. Even if they came close enough, though, I doubt if scarcely any of them would have the power to germinate.”

Despite his reassurances there were mutterings. The fear so recently banished reappeared. Zhorga turned to his followers.

“I’ll take a look at this myself. The six of us may have to arrange a special watch by the bombards for a while. But not a word of what you’ve just heard to anyone else, understand? The slobs we have crewing for us fall to pieces at the first hint of trouble.”

They nodded. And without another word the six began to chop up the disintegrating monster, ready to be carried above and cast over the side.

When his watch ended Clabert reported to Zhorga’s cabin. He found the Captain poring over the chart table, having just prepared a new heliocentric horoscope. Near to hand was Gebeth’s orrery, meticulously brought up to date.

As Clabert entered he lay down the pair of dividers with which he had been checking distances. “And what mood are the men in now?” he asked wryly.

“They do what they’re told,” Clabert told him in a low voice. “But then they don’t have much choice. There’s nothing they can do—it’s too late for them to think of turning back now.” He paused. “Patchman and Small have taken the second watch forward. The others are below.”

“Still pretty scared, eh?”

“Yes, in spite of having it proved that space monsters aren’t anything supernatural.”

Zhorga chuckled without humor. “And all cursing their captain, as usual!” Crew dissatisfaction rarely bothered him. He knew from experience that he could simply browbeat most men into obedience, and that was his method.

“They’d be more frightened still if they knew what I know,” he said somberly. “Come and take a look at this.”

His stubby finger pointed to a mark he had made on the chart. “Here’s where we are, halfway between the orbits of Earth and Mars. Here’s Mars… and you’ll see how close our path will shortly take us to the trailer here.”

Clabert drew in his breath. Every planet generated a type of vortex known as a trailer, which it dragged along with it some millions of miles downsun.

Directly behind a planet, the ether flow tended to be relatively smooth. Nevertheless there were latent tensions which eventually broke out in a series of flurries and rapids, culminating in the large and dangerous etheric whirlpool.

“I thought we were going to miss that by a good margin,” he grumbled.

“So we were—but my calculations are off, of course, due to early discrepancies. We could still change course to give it a wide berth—but then we’d risk never catching up with Mars.” Zhorga rattled his fingers nervously on the table. “No, we shall have to run the flurry, I’m afraid. Bit of a nuisance. Still, there’s no evident danger. Just means we’ll pass too damn close to the vortex for comfort, that’s all.”

Both men were silent for a while. Both knew all too well what being caught in an ether vortex meant. There was no way out of it, except by discarding all silk, which meant being left adrift without sail power. Toward the center the forces were so intense that ether silk was broken up, first to shreds, and then to dust. The eye of the vortex then carried that dust along with it forever. If the Wandering Queen should ever be fated to arrive there, she would probably find a good many old wrecks waiting for her company.

“This is for your information only,” Zhorga rumbled. “So you’ll know what to expect. We’ll have trouble on our hands if the others get to hear of it. They’ll want to change course.”

“What about Bruge and his clique? Shouldn’t they know?”

Zhorga shook his head. “The fewer the better. Keep your mouth shut.”

Gloomily he rose and clomped in his lead footweights to the rear of the cabin, where he peered out of the slanted casements. It was strange, he thought. Space seemed so changeless and impassive. It gave no hint of the invisible, raging power that was propelling his little ship onward, either to riches or destruction.

“Well look—it’s the fine young lad who wanted to feed us to the dragon!”

Ignoring Boogle’s taunt, Rachad divested himself of his suit, put out the powder in his backpack, and climbed onto his bunk. Others who were seated round the long table looked up with sullen interest as Boogle followed him, grimacing into his face.