Lawrence Watt-Evans - Out of This World

He had never really thought of stars on a clear night as “twinkling,” despite the popular descriptions-not the way Christmas lights twinkled, or those spinning mirror balls. Stars didn’t blink on and off, or anything even remotely similar to blinking.

He had to admit, however, that in comparison with the steady, sharp brilliance he saw now, stars back on Earth were dim, fidgety things. The intense points of light beyond the port looked quite unstarlike in their stability, their unchanging blaze.

Tearing his gaze away, he turned his attention back to the others. Nancy was bent over, bouncing her hands, stiff-armed, on the cot’s mattress to show Rachel that the cot was sturdy enough to hold her.

“We’re moving,” Pel said.

Nancy looked up, startled; first she looked at Pel’s face, and then past him at the porthole.

“Oh,” she said.

“You stay here,” Pel said. “I’m going back to the lounge.”

Nancy nodded.

* * * *

The stars of the Galactic Empire, Raven noted, did not shine as the stars of home, but instead with a clear, hard light that was not particularly pleasant to look upon. He closed the little drapery.

A ship that sailed above the sky, and yet they disdained all talk of magic. Incomprehensible, these Imperials. The reports he had received had never fully conveyed their strangeness.

Consider, he thought to himself, that their lord Governor’s palace, just departed, was built of bare stone, ugly and harsh-not even a fine stone like marble, nor any polished thing, but that unpleasant substance they called “concrete.” Consider that it was, insofar as he had seen, furnished in the rudest fashion, almost unadorned, and lit everywhere in harsh and discomforting manner.

And then compare this vessel upon which they now rode, this mere transport, that by rights might be cramped and malodorous, bare of all luxuries, as had been every ship Raven had heretofore sailed upon.

Instead, though the chambers were small, it was rich in comforts, with the finest of fabrics and woods, with polished brasses and the warm glow of artificial fires. There was no rocking or sway, no stench; the ceilings rose well clear of even Stoddard’s head. The beds were fine and soft.

What sort of people were these, who made their vehicles finer than the homes of their lords?

It was wisely said that men devote their most thoughts to that which is to them most important, and lavish the most care upon that they value most highly. Did then the Imperials place the transport of goods more highly than the administration of their colonies? An it were so, it spoke ill of them.

Or might it be perhaps that attention was paid to such craft as this because the distances in this realm were so great that more time was spent upon the journey than at the end thereof? This passage was to be nine days, which was no great time-but was this place just departed the most far-flung of the Imperial possessions?

It was all a mystery; indeed, the minds of all those around him, save his own handful of faithful allies, were as inscrutable as cats. Further, worrying at such a knot did nothing to aid him in all that mattered, to wit, the defeat of Shadow and the liberation of Stormcrack Keep.

He would, he swore, worry it no more. He flung himself upon the bed and closed his eyes, resolved to rest whilst the opportunity availed itself.

* * * *

Pel made his way back up the passageway, moving carefully-somehow, the knowledge that the ship was under way made the floor seem less steady than it had a few moments earlier.

He reached the lounge without incident. Amy and Susan were there, on one of the sofas, and Smith was leaning against a wall nearby, chatting with them-and trying to pick Amy up, Pel decided. A white-jacketed, brown-haired man Pel didn’t recognize was standing quietly in one corner, observing.

Maybe he had designs on Susan, Pel mused, and was waiting for Smith and Amy to leave. He was presumably a crewman-another steward, perhaps.

Pel wandered in his direction, and the steward, or whatever he was, spotted his approach and quirked his eyebrows upward questioningly.

“Hi,” Pel said.

“Hello,” the other replied. “Was there something you wanted, sir?”

“I was wondering about our departure.” He deliberately phrased this question with a certain ambiguity.

“It went quite smoothly, sir-all things considered. Captain Gifford piloted the ship himself.”

Pel nodded.

“Are there any, um… viewports?”

“Yes, sir, of course-isn’t there a port in your stateroom?”

Pel admitted there was. “But what I wanted,” he explained, “was to get a look back at the planet.”

The steward pursed his lips thoughtfully, then pulled a gold pocket-watch from his jacket and glanced at it.

“Come with me, sir,” he said, as he put the watch away.

Pel followed as the steward led the way aft, explaining, “You won’t be able to see much, sir; that military officer, Captain Cahn, has insisted on maximum acceleration, so we’ve already come a long way.”

Pel nodded. He wasn’t all that interested in seeing the close-up details, but he did want a look at the planet. He had never seen a planet from space.

He had never been in space before.

He was now, though. He supposed he should be impressed, or awed, or something, but he wasn’t. Somehow, the mere fact that he was on a real starship, flying through outer space, didn’t seem all that mind-boggling any more.

Maybe, he thought wryly, he was all boggled out. The shock at Grummetty’s appearance, at Raven, at the crew of the Ruthless , at stepping through into Raven’s world, at the attack of the monsters, at finding himself on some strange planet he’d never heard of-he was having real trouble being boggled any more.

The steward opened a door, and the two of them stepped into the aft salon.

Though still compact, it was a good deal more elaborate than the forward lounge; the crystal chandelier was the most obvious exemplar. The room was decorated in several shades of green, with gold and silver trim, and was inhabited by perhaps a dozen people, most of whom Pel did not recognize.

Before Pel had had a chance to look at any of the details, however, a familiar voice cried, “Ah, two more figments of my imagination!”

“Ted?” Pel turned, and saw his lawyer grinning maniacally at him.

“This one,” Ted announced to everyone present, “is a simulacrum of a client of mine, one Pellinore Brown, freelance marketing consultant. It was he who supposedly got me involved in all this.”

Pel glanced at the steward, who discreetly shrugged.

“He’s been trying to tell us,” an elegant redhead in a green evening gown explained, “that we’re all just part of a dream he’s having. I haven’t decided if he’s serious or not, and if he is serious, I haven’t decided if he’s crazy or just confused.”

“Ted,” Pel said, “what are you talking about?”

Ted leaned forward, still grinning. “I’m talking ,” he said, “about this interminable, boring, complicated dream I’m having. I’ve never had one quite like this before-at least, not that I can remember. This one just seems to go on and on.”

“Have you been drinking?” Pel asked, uneasily.

“I don’t know,” Ted replied. “Have I? I really don’t remember just when I went to sleep. Maybe I was drinking. That might have something to do with it.”

“No,” Pel said, “I meant here, now.”

“In the dream? No, I haven’t been dreaming about booze, oh figment of mine. Odd thing to ask-are you a subconscious worry that I might wind up an alcoholic, maybe? I’ve heard that alcoholics dream about booze, but as far as I recall, I’ve never done that. Maybe I’ve been suppressing it, eh? Maybe you’re some little bit of my mind trying to break through a wall of denial and suppression, to warn me off the sauce before it’s too late. But hell, figment, it’s nowhere near that late, is it?”