The Broken Sphere (25 page)

At last he finished his explanations. He gestured around to the crew lining the deck rails – including Djan and Julia, both of whom quite obviously wanted to know just what was going on. They can wait until this is over with, he decided. “That’s the situation we find ourselves in,” he concluded. “The Mind of the World did this. Can the Mind of the World
undo
it? It’s up to you, I think.” And then he stepped back, reaching out with whatever extended perception the cloak saw fit to grant him at the moment.

If he’d been hoping to be able to detect a moment of decision, to sense the interaction between the two trilateral and the planetary mind, he was disappointed. He sensed nothing.

For a long moment, he thought nothing was happening. But then, in his peripheral vision, he saw movement.

From this spot, on the soft “grass” of the meadow, he could see through the great rent in the squid ship’s hull, into the bilges. The light from the speeding mini-suns shone down through the open cargo hatch, then through the hole blown in the cargo deck itself, illuminating the smashed keel. In the yellow-orange light Teldin saw the wood of the keel shift – saw it flex slightly, watched as the individual wood fibers interwove with one another, knitting themselves back together.

He felt the almost uncontrollable urge to recoil from the sight, to deny it, to refuse to accept that such things were possible. But with a titanic effort of will, he forced himself to watch the process through to its conclusion.

It didn’t take long. Within three or four minutes, Teldin found he couldn’t tell anymore where the breaks had been. Under even the closest scrutiny, the thick keel looked like one solid piece of wood again. He reached in through the hull breach, ran his hand over the smooth wood. Under his fingers, the only evidence of the damage was that certain regions were slightly warmer than others.

Major damage [satisfaction] undone. Ship [expectation] function with other damage?

Teldin turned to face the two trilateral. It was Speaks First who’d “spoken.” He glanced up at Djan, at the rail above. “It wants to know if we can fly with the other damage,” he relayed.

The half-elf shrugged dispiritedly. He hadn’t seen the miracle in the bilges, Teldin reminded himself. “The only thing that matters is the keel,” Djan replied. “We can fix everything else while we’re underway, but without that keel …”

“Be careful what you ask for. You might just get it,” Teldin said with a quick grin. Djan stared at him for a few moments as though the half-elf thought the captain had lost his mind. Then the first mate’s eyes widened with surprise, and he disappeared. Teldin heard his friend’s running footsteps thundering down the ladder into the cargo deck. With a smile, he turned back to the trilaterals.

“The other damage doesn’t matter,” he told Speaks First. “Thank you for our keel.”

The creature waved its tentacles – dismissively, the Cloakmaster thought.
Then Cloakmaster [certainty]
should from [impatience] World of the People,
it “said” firmly.
World of the People [decision] not for the Cloakmaster, Mind of the World [detachment] not for the Cloakmaster.
And with that, the two creatures strode away for the edge of the forest.

‘What was all that about?” Julia called down to him.

The Cloakmaster shrugged. “I think we’ve just been dismissed.”

From within the hull, he heard Djan’s yell of astonishment and joy as the half-elf saw the mended keel.

Teldin stood on the afterdeck of the
Boundless.
Julia and Djan were still leaning on the rails of the grounded ship, staring at the periphery of the meadow. Since the departure of Speaks First and Message Bearer, nobody had seen any sign of the trilaterals. It’s almost as if they’ve decided the Incomplete animals” are off-limits, the Cloakmaster mused. Certainly, the creatures seemed to have no curiosity about Teldin and the others, or what they’d do now that the ship’s keel was fixed. That, perhaps, was the most alien thing about them, he mused. Virtually every other race he’d ever encountered had some touch of what his grandfather had called “monkey curiosity.”

“A mending spell,” Djan breathed for the dozenth time, amazement still sounding in his voice. “A mending spell, that’s all it was that fixed the keel. Rudimentary magic, the kind of thing any wizard’s apprentice learns in his first year of training. But the
scale,
a whole ship’s keel …” He shook his head. “If we could find some way to harness this Mind —”

“No,” he cut himself off sharply. “Forget I said that. I don’t want anything to do with those … those
things,
and the sooner we’re back in space, the better.”

Teldin turned, surprised at his friend’s vehemence. Although he, too, wanted to get clear of Nex – and intended to, as soon as the crew had the ship spaceworthy again – he didn’t have any particular negative feelings toward the trilaterals. “Why’s that?” he asked.

“It’s this whole ‘Mind of the World’ thing,” Djan replied. He shrugged apologetically, visibly forcing himself to calm down. “This whole business of the world-mind cherishing and protecting the People. It scares me.”

Julia had turned to regard the half-elf as well. “What’s wrong with it?” she asked. She grinned. “I wouldn’t mind a little cherishing from time to time.”

“But what does that cherishing
mean?”
Djan asked. “Doesn’t it mean that the People get their every need met? Maybe even before they realize they’ve got a need. Remember what Teldin said about that rat creature bringing Message Bearer a fruit’”

Teldin nodded slowly. He thought he knew where the half-elf was going with this.

Julia obviously hadn’t guessed yet, however. “So what’s wrong with that’” she repeated blankly.

“It’s stagnation,” Djan answered, his voice cold. “That’s what’s wrong with it. The People are living in this …” – he struggled for words – “this terrestrial paradise. The Mind protects them from anything that might threaten them. The Mind gives them food whenever they need it, probably gives them warmth. Maybe reassurance, too, I don’t know.

“So what’s left for them to strive for?” he demanded. “What goals are they pursuing? Name me one thing they need and want that’s just a little bit out of their reach, that they have to struggle to achieve. There’s nothing, is there?”

Neither Teldin nor Julia had an answer for him.

“And that’s stagnation,” Djan concluded more quietly. “They’re not progressing, they’re not advancing. They’re just there.” He turned to the Cloakmaster. “Teldin, you think they evolved from some species – the equivalent of a monkey, perhaps – the Juna left behind, don’t you?”

Teldin nodded wordlessly.

“So they evolved, the People,” the half-elf went on. “They evolved to the point where the Mind of the World decided that they were no longer animals, that they were different from the rat-things, and the birds, and who knows what else. That’s when the Mind started to ‘cherish’ them.

“And at that moment, evolution stopped.” Djan sighed. “If we could travel a thousand years into the past, I’m convinced we’d find the People living exactly the same way. And a thousand years into the future, the same thing: nothing would be changed.

“If the People ever had a destiny as a race,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper, “I think the Mind has made sure they’ll never reach it. All from the highest of motives, of course.” He looked steadily at Teldin, then Julia. “And
that’s
what bothers me.”

*****

Teldin watched the mini-suns crisscrossing the sky overhead and felt the fear in his chest. One of those things almost got us once, he thought, and that was on the way down, when we could use the planet’s gravity to give us more speed. Can we evade them on the way up?

He knew his tension was shared by the rest of the crew; he could feel it in the air around him like the sense of waiting before a thunderstorm breaks. But they weren’t talking about it – not in his hearing, anyway – and it didn’t seem to be interfering with their work as they readied the ship for space. Maybe the fear’s a good thing, the Cloakmaster mused. If it makes somebody jump just that bit faster, it might help keep us alive.

He abandoned his scrutiny of the sky as he heard Djan join him on the sterncastle. “Are we ready?” he asked.

The first mate nodded. “She’s as ready as she’ll ever be,” he announced, patting the
Boundless’s
rail.

“The keel?”

Djan spread his hands. “As good as new, as far as I can tell. Better, even. I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about on that score.”

Teldin saw his friend shoot a quick glance at the speeding mini-suns. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he admitted. “And I think we’re reasonably safe. The world-mind tried to destroy us in case our arrival turned out to be a threat to the People, right? Well, what threat could our departure be? You’d think the Mind would be glad to see the last of us.”

That’s what
you
think and what
I
think,” the half-elf said darkly. “But what does
it
think? That’s what matters.” He paused. “How fast can you take us out of here?”

“Fast,” Teldin replied simply.

“Then I think you should do it.”

The Cloakmaster nodded. It made sense. “Let’s get underway,” he suggested.

As Djan hurried about the ship, making sure all crew members were at their stations and ready for what might be a rough ride, Teldin breathed deeply and let himself relax. His breathing slowed, and he could feel the cloak’s presence. Gently he let his awareness expand to encompass the whole ship.

He could feel the
Boundless
wounds, the breaches in the hull that they’d repair only once they were underway. The damage was serious, but he was confident that it wasn’t ship-killing. What really mattered was the keel.

As his awareness touched it and spread throughout it, he felt the heavy keel tingling with the remnants of the powerful magic that had repaired it. Djan was right, he sensed, the keel was as good as new, as strong as it had been when the squid ship had first been built. He felt his anxiety lessen another notch.

Blossom was on the ship’s main helm; he could feel her presence, her expanded perception overlapping his. Her duty throughout the departure was to keep a lookout around the vessel, to watch for any mini-suns that seemed to be taking an interest in them, and to spot any magical manifestations on the planet’s surface. She was
not
to exert any control over the ship itself, though – Teldin had been adamant about that – unless she knew for a fact that the Cloakmaster had somehow been incapacitated. The risk of conflicting “orders” slowing the ship down at a crucial point was too great otherwise.

Julia swung up the ladder to the afterdeck, carrying her sextant. She flashed him a quick smile as she set up the instrument, steadying it on the stern rail. “Just taking some final readings,” she explained.

He nodded wordlessly. The positions and movements of the mini-suns weren’t going to be so crucial during the ascent – that’s what he’d told himself, at least. On the approach to the planet, the plan had been to keep the ship’s speed relatively low as it passed through the region of the fire bodies, to minimize the danger of plunging into the atmosphere at a velocity high enough to destroy the ship – not that that plan had worked all too well anyway, he thought wryly.

That constraint wasn’t important now. Teldin figured he could lift the ship as fast as the cloak would let him, confident that the air resistance would only decrease with altitude, until the
Boundless
emerged into the vacuum of wildspace. By the time the vessel was at an altitude at which the mini-suns could conceivably threaten it, it would be traveling so fast that nothing could keep pace with it.

“Ready,” Julia announced, setting her sextant aside. “We’ve got a window directly overhead.”

Teldin nodded wordlessly. Tension still gripped his chest and throat, but as always he found his communion with the cloak kept the stress tolerable, almost as if it were affecting someone else. He looked forward to where Djan stood on the foredeck. The first mate waved and gave him a thumbs-up gesture.

It was time to go. Teldin felt the power of the cloak grow around him, flow
through
him. Light flared, a nimbus of bright pink that seemed to shine right through his bones. He felt the ship around him like an extension of his body, an extension of his will. As responsive as thought itself, the large squid ship lifted clear of the ground.

Teldin held the vessel at an altitude of fifty feet or so over the meadow, as he repeated his mental “inspection.” Now that it was airborne, the stresses on the ship’s hull and keel were slightly different. The staved-in planking of the hull had shifted slightly – nothing critical, he decided – but the keel felt as solid as a rock. Gently at first, he put the ship into a climb, feeling out its maneuverability, ready to respond instantly to any instability or other hint of problems. With his wraparound awareness, he saw the verdant forest drop away below him.

The ship was steady, responding instantly to his mental commands. He let the speed build up slowly, as he simultaneously brought up the bow. Again the torn planking of the hull complained, but again he judged it to be nothing dire. Ever more confident with the ship’s solidity, he pushed the
Boundless
to the maximum speed he felt was safe within the atmosphere. Rigging creaked and sang in the wind that penetrated the vessel’s air envelope, an audible counterpoint to the tension that still gripped his heart. He brought the bow up even farther. The contrast between what his sense of balance and what his eyes told him became profound. While he felt as though he were standing upright on a horizontal surface, the horizon of the planet was canted at an angle of sixty degrees or more as the squid ship hurtled toward the freedom of space.

Julia was back at the sextant, tracking the mini-suns once more. “No change,” she announced quietly. “The window’s still open.”

Teldin nodded. He could feel the resistance of Nex’s atmosphere lessening, and he added a touch more speed. The ship was now flying faster than a dragon, faster than a swooping eagle. Soon, he knew, it would be traveling unimaginably faster still.