The Worlds of the Sheaf

Escape - Part 2

     The second node also blew, which the engineer laughed about, but when the third one went he began to become visibly perturbed.

     "Not the power streams," he muttered. "Maybe the intermix ratio." A moment later he was inside a third alcove, reaching inside with a long, spindly tool that hummed and emitted flashing sparks of light.

     "How many spares have we got?" asked Tager Yee, beginning to look worried.

     "Plenty," replied the engineer confidently, but a few minutes later there were five blown energy distribution nodes sitting in a line on the wooden scaffold bench the felisians had erected to stand and work on, their crystal purity marred by streaks of darkness running through their angular limbs. Murrla was also beginning to look worried now and sent his commander out to fetch some more. "Don't worry," he assured the felisians. "There's plenty stored in the building. The Masters believed in carrying plenty of spares."

     "Can you make more when you run out?" asked Thomas, staring at the blown components with unease.

     "No," replied the engineer, "but don't worry, we've got plenty. Enough to last for years and years."

     "But one day they will run out," pointed out the wizard, "and when they do, your silver ships won't fly any more, and there must be other components that can't be replaced. Back on Veglia, I saw your people cannibalising one ship to repair another. What happens when you can't do that any more?"

     Murrla grinned unconcernedly. "It was never our intention to become a spacefaring race," he explained. "We're only going into space to find out what happened to the Masters, whether they're ever likely to come back and whether there're any other civilisations out there that might be a threat to us. If, one day, we're able to conclude that we're not likely to be invaded again, we'll happily abandon the machines of the Masters and return to our true way of life. The life of the hunter. Small tribes, roaming free, relying only on our own teeth and claws to catch our prey. As we used to be, before the Masters came. All we require is that the ships last that long. After that, we will have no further use for them."

     A look of dreamy, almost religious fervour had come over his face as he said this, a look Thomas had seen before on priests extolling the virtues of their deities and which Matthew associated with servicemen long away from their loved ones. This, clearly, was the dream of their race. Their version of the blissful afterlife promised by most of the Gods, the difference being that they hoped to achieve it in this life, not the next. Thomas would have been willing to bet, though, that if they had some idea of an afterlife, it would be much the same.

     Tager Yee returned a few moments later with a small metal box which he opened to reveal two dozen power distribution nodes. Murrla quickly burned out another half dozen of them, but the next flickered for several minutes before going dark and the engineer grinned with delight. "Got it now," he said triumphantly. "It's the soliton collimator. Too many spikes in the waveform." He made another adjustment, removed the dud node and entered another. "This time," he promised. "This time, you'll see."

     This time the flicker was less pronounced and the glow was markedly duller, but as they watched the glass spider brightened and Murrla clapped his hands with glee. Patterns of colour ran along the bare metal walls of the cabin, settling down, to the delight and relief of the occupants, to the familiar configuration of a functioning silver ship. The power distribution node continued to flicker now and then, but Murrla was content to declare a victory and closed the alcove door with a triumphant flourish. "Told you," he smirked with satisfaction.

     "Well done," said the commander, although there was a trace of doubt on his face that suggested he was as unhappy with that remaining flicker as the Tharians were. What would happen if the power failed while they were a few hundred feet above the ground? Thomas swore that, if they made it back to Tharia, he would never get aboard a silver ship again. Never in a thousand years!