The Broken Sphere (30 page)

Still, the
Spelljammer
had been here. It had passed close to Garrash itself, apparently sailing right through the fire ring. And, during its passage, the ship had sensed other vessels – if that’s what they were – moving within the ring itself.

That’s the last real clue I’ve seen, he told himself, the best lead I’ve got. He sighed.

He wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and headed aft, to where Dranigor sat on the helm. “Take us down,” he ordered quietly, “closer to the ring.”

*****

Standing on the afterdeck, Teldin imagined he could feel the heat of the fire ring on his face, just a baseless fancy, he knew. While the ring burned hot enough to ignite the squid ship like dry kindling, both Dranigor and Djan had reassured him that this heat didn’t radiate far through the vacuum of wildspace. If necessary, they’d told him, he could bring the
Boundless
within a league of the ring without undue risk, maybe even closer.

Let’s hope it won’t be necessary, he thought. Even from this distance – a league or so from the ring, a distance inconsequential in comparison to the width of the band of fire – the violence of the Garrash system was impressive, terrifying. The huge planet itself, more than an hour’s full-speed flight away, filled the sky. He could see the writhing, tortured surface of the atmosphere, churning and bubbling with heat, sometimes sending out great flames and prominences that soared many thousands of leagues above the surface before falling back. The comparison with the magical bolts rising from the surface of Nex were unavoidable, and every time another prominence started to climb into the heavens, fear squeezed his heart. Would this one fall back like the others? Or would it continue out into space, questing blindly for the ship, to send it down in fiery destruction?

He could see the great, dark circle – the weather pattern or whatever it was – near the distant limb of the planet. From this range, he could see that it wasn’t black, as he’d thought initially. It was just a darker red than the rest of the world, appearing black only in comparison to the brighter fires around it. The circle – which Djan had taken to calling the Great Storm – was actually a great cone, the half-elf had explained to him, easily large enough to swallow tens of thousands of worlds the size of Krynn, extending far down into the heart of the world. The Great Storm was much colder than the rest of the flaming atmosphere, so much colder that Djan had guessed a spelljammer might be able to descend some distance into it before bursting into flames.

The ring itself was a spectacle in its own right. From a distance it had seemed perfectly flat, but now Teldin could see that its surface churned, too, as though currents of unimaginable speed and ferocity were flowing through its liquid fire. Its light was largely yellow, but sometimes rivers or bubbles of flame burned at the surface in different colors – red, emerald green, even sometimes lightning blue. The result was an impression of barely contained violence.

The
Spelljammer
sailed through that? Teldin found himself wondering. And what about the other shapes – ships or whatever they were – he’d seen cruising within the ring? It boggled the imagination.

He turned away from the view, stared out into the star-specked blackness. Where are you? he asked mentally. Where?

“Ship ahoy!” Harriana’s voice echoed down from the repaired crow’s nest.

Her words jolted Teldin like an electric shock. The
Spelljammer!
“Where?” he yelled.

“Low off the stern, starboard,” the halfling called. “In the fire ring.”

Teldin sprinted to the aft rail on the starboard side and pivoted the ballista aside to give himself more room. He leaned over the rail, looking aft and down, past the broad spanker sail.

Yes, there it was, a darker shape moving within the liquid fire of the ring. Was it the
Spelljammer?

No, the configuration was all wrong. No manta shape, this, but a broad-based triangle with an extended, sharp apex. As he stared in shock and amazement, the apex emerged from the ring, liquid fire dripping off it. Metal, it looked like, finest steel polished to a mirror finish.

The rest of the – the thing – emerged into the vacuum, and he could see it clearly for the first time, a cylindrical body or hull, maybe a hundred feet long, maybe a little more, sprouting broad, knife-edged wings that spanned at least one hundred and fifty feet. The tips of the triangular wings bore sharp, forward-pointing spines or spears dozens of feet long. The whole thing seemed to be made of the same mirror-polished steel as the apex.

A ship made completely out of steel? Capable of surviving – and keeping its crew alive – in the depths of the fire ring?

Teldin sensed a presence next to him – Djan. “What in all the hells is it?” he whispered.

The half-elf shook his head. His face was pale, his eyes wide with wonder, or perhaps fear. “I don’t know,” he answered slowly, “I’ve never seen, never heard of, anything like that before. I can’t even guess what race could build a ship like that.”

The broad-winged metal ship moved slowly, cruising parallel to the rippled surface of the ring. Although he couldn’t see any portholes – and there definitely couldn’t be any open decks! – Teldin imagined he could feel the vessel’s crew scrutinizing the squid ship. Then, smoothly, the metal ship’s bow lifted, pointing directly toward the
Boundless,
and it began to accelerate.

“Battle stations!” Djan screamed. “Man all weapons!”

Feet pounded the decks as the crew hurried to obey. Teldin moved farther forward, getting out of the way of the gunners who began to prepare the twin ballistae.

The first mate turned to Teldin. “Captain …?”

“Bring us around,” the Cloakmaster answered after a moment’s thought. “Bring the bow toward it.”

Djan paused, then nodded and relayed the order through the speaking tube to the helmsman. Teldin could understand the first mate’s hesitation. Normally, aligning the bow with an approaching vessel would allow the squid ship’s main weapon – its forward catapult – to come to bear, but it would limit the ship’s maneuverability if it needed to escape. The half-elf had realized, however, that the Cloakmaster’s unusual control over the
Boundless
 – through the ultimate helm – would compensate for that disadvantage.

“And get Beth-Abz up on deck,” Teldin added, “just in case.”

The bearing to the knife-edged metal ship began to change as the squid ship’s bow came around. As Teldin watched, the strange vessel maneuvered, too – much smoother than he’d seen any other ship change course – to keep its own bow pointing directly at the
Boundless.
It continued its acceleration for a few seconds, then settled down on a fast – though not incontrovertibly aggressive – approach course.

Djan had brought the Cloakmaster’s spyglass to bear on the vessel. Now he lowered it, his expression one of profound puzzlement. “No obvious weapons,” he said quietly. “And no portholes, no hatches, no way of getting in or seeing out.” He shook his head. I’ve never seen anything even vaguely like this.”

Teldin stared at the strange ship. Now no more than half a league off, it had started to decelerate again, slowing its silent approach. Its mirror finish reflected the yellow light of the fire ring and the ruddy red of the planet below. It gleamed in the firelight, occasionally flashing with almost intolerable brightness as the light reflected off facets on its surface.

What are you? Teldin thought fiercely. What?

Then, suddenly, thoughts and images blasted into his mind. He clutched at his head with both hands, as though to keep his skull from splitting under their ferocious impact. His stomach knotted, and he almost doubled over with the pain of it.

What am I?
The voice, echoing in his brain, carried a sense of almost ludicrous surprise.
What am I? I am.

Through the bolts of agony that still lanced through his body, Teldin felt Djan’s supporting hand on his shoulder. He looked into his friend’s concerned face. “What is it?” the half-elf asked. “What’s wrong?”

Teldin took a deep breath, tried to force his pounding heart to slow. “It’s talking to me,” he whispered.

“What is?”

Only as the words emerged from his lips did Teldin recognize the truth. “The ship.” He pointed with a trembling finger. “That ship.”

The titanic voice boomed again into his brain.
What are
you? it asked.
Come closer, so I can see
 
– hear
 
– sense you better.

“The ship,” Teldin breathed again. “It’s alive, but that means it’s not a ship.”

“What?” Djan shook his head in disbelief. “What?”

“I’m bringing us in closer,” the Cloakmaster told him, struggling to keep his voice firm and under control.

“You’re doing what?”

“Bringing us closer,” Teldin repeated. “Get Dranigor to release the helm.”

He could see conflicting emotions warring across his friend’s face. Concern, fear, denial … But, then, finally, he saw Djan’s expression settle into one of acceptance. Without another word to the Cloakmaster, he crossed to the speaking tube and issued the order to the helmsman.

Teldin extended his will, focused it through the ultimate helm, and exerted it upon the ship. The
Boundless
started to move, slowly, toward the metal object.

Filtered through the expanded perception of the helm, the metal ship-being’s mental voice didn’t seem as “loud” or overwhelming.
I can sense you better now,
it said, and again the words were tinged with surprise, this time alloyed with intense curiosity.
You are of a primitive form, your species, and you seem to be injured. Yet your voice is strong, your presence distinct. How can that be? I sense you suffer from the same infestation as those who have come before you. Explain this to me.

Teldin shook his head, confounded. The words were clear, but the meaning was the exact opposite. The statement about his species, his “primitive form” … Perhaps a creature of living metal might consider a human primitive. He could almost understand that. But what was that about injury? Teldin wasn’t injured. And he certainly wasn’t suffering from any kind of “infestation.”

Djan was by his side, his eyes full of questions.

“It’s speaking to me through the cloak,” Teldin explained quietly, “like the People did on Nex. It’s alive, Djan! It has a mind.” Like the
Spelljammer?
he asked himself.

He turned his attention back to the metal being. It had stopped and was now hanging in space less than a league ahead of the
Boundless.
Even though the “voice” currently wasn’t speaking, he could still sense puzzlement and curiosity through the mental link.

“I am Teldin Moore,” he said softly, focusing the meaning of his words through the cloak, “captain of the
Boundless Possibilities.”

And I am Zat, of the fire ribbon of Garrash,
the “ship” replied,
as are my fellows.
The voice paused.
‘Captain’? A strange designation. What does it mean? And what are these ‘boundless possibilities’ you refer to?

Teldin shook his head again. They were talking, he and this metallic creature, but he wasn’t convinced they were really communicating. “Captain,” he tried again, it means the person in command of the ship, the ship we name the
Boundless Possibilities.”

‘Ship.’
Puzzlement had turned to outright confusion in the mental voice.
Is that a place you refer to? The crystal sphere of your origin, perhaps?
it guessed tentatively.

“No.” Teldin forced himself to think things through. Obviously the cloak wasn’t translating as well as it usually did. Probably the mind of this great shiplike creature was too alien for easy communication. “The ship that we call the
Boundless Possibilities
is what you see directly in front of you,” he tried again. “I’m the captain of the ship. I am in command of the crew that runs it. I’m the one who makes the decisions, who tells the crew to set the sails, or steer the ship.” He paused, frustrated. “Don’t you see the ship?” he demanded.

Of course I see you,
the being – Zat – replied.
I see you, and I sense your mind, Teldin Moore. But I ask you again: what is this ‘ship’?

Teldin rubbed a trembling hand across his eyes. “I don’t know what in the hells it’s talking about,” he told Djan tiredly. “And it doesn’t know what I’m talking about. It can see the ship, and it ‘hears’ my thoughts, but …”

And then realization flooded through the Cloakmaster’s mind, it thinks it’s talking to the ship,” he said to Djan. “It thinks
I’m
the
ship.”
Of course, he told himself. The “injury” – that had to be the squid ship’s ram, torn away during its crash-landing on Nex, and never replaced because the materials weren’t available. And the “infestation” – didn’t that have to be the crew, and by extension, Teldin himself?

He grabbed the rail with both hands, poured all his concentration into the link with the huge creature. “Zat,” he said, “I am not what you see, or what you think you’re seeing.
I
am not what’s hanging in space before you. That’s what I call a ‘ship’.
I
am –
Teldin Moore
is – a human. There are twenty of us, each of us about” – he quickly calculated – “one
thirtieth
the size of the ship we’re aboard.

“We are all alive,” he pressed on forcefully, “we all have minds, like you do. The ship isn’t alive. It has no mind. It’s nothing more than” – he groped for words – “than a box of wood in which we live.”

A wordless blast of shock, tinged with horror, flooded through the telepathic link, powerful enough to make Teldin sway dizzily.
The infestation? Yet
 
… this is not possible. No. How can the tiny, scurrying things have minds, the parasites? No.
The last mental words carried a strong sense of denial, of refusal to accept something that went against cherished beliefs. But there was more to it than that, Teldin recognized: a hint of … could it be guilt? Why?

He put those questions aside for the moment. “Why would I lie to you?” he asked firmly. “What possible benefit could I gain?” He took a deep breath. “Look through my eyes, if you can,” he demanded. “Use my senses. See if I’m not telling you the truth.”