Early Works Part 2 The Hybrid-Worlder version 1

The Hybrid-Worlder

The original version is a 29,900 word long novella about a helmsman off an interstellar ship (a starfarer or “sarfeer”) on leave on the small moon/space port of Yisvaalr. He meets up with a sarfeer off a rival ship and they encounter a deadly alien – the hybrid-worlder as they make their way back to port. Don’t remember much more about this version.

As I mentioned in the intro to this series, I just found a second, later version where I trimmed 8,000 words off it, but I’m not sure I ever pitched that story to the magazines, since I only have the originally typed manuscript, not a xeroxed copy, as we called it in those days.

The story is based on the tea clippers of the 1850 & 60’s. Back in those days, level-headed Scottish businessmen – ship owners – built ships to carry the new season’s tea from China to England. A number of them tried to build the fastest sailing ships that could be designed for the trade, fitted them out like yachts, and manned them with the hardest driving captains and crews, no expense spared. They would all gather in several Chinese ports, wait for the tea to arrive, load it as fast as possible, and then race down the South China Sea, across the Indian Ocean and up the Atlantic, to London, half a world away. The tea from the first clipper that arrived first usually commanded a premium price, but that hardly justified the expense of these ships. Steamers and the Suez Canal put an end to this romantic era of sailing. In this story xanifa is tea, Kantea-on in China, and Aero Day is London, and the ships in the trade were fierce rivals, driven for all they were worth.

This story starts out in my usual leisurely style. No doubt too leisurely – which I probably realized since the second version starts out a bit different. I was, however, trying to create a mood, something I still strive to do, but perhaps more economically these days. Or not.

Style-wise, I don’t think I’ve changed much over the last 35 years plus, though hopefully I’ve gotten a little more fluid in my writing. One of the limits of my talents is evident in the narrator – who changes name and background, but little else. I can’t, nor do I try all that hard, to create a narrator who is very different from me in outlook, anyway, – just (very) greatly idealized. Rhyl Dunbar, or Rhyldunbar as he’s know in this version, could easily be Wil Litang, (or Sandy Say, Hugh Gallagher).

But enough talk. Here’s the opening scene of the Hybrid-Worlder from 1979.

THE HYBRID-WORLDER

Being an Account of One Downside Watch on Yisvaalr

(1)

At last I was clear of the hectic press of my shipboard duties. Not that it mattered. Barely a tri- watch remained of our stay in Aero Day orbit and dream of a down—side watch fit for a prominent place in memoirs seemed dead beyond recall.

Fifteen tri-watches ago when the Aero Day system—pilot stepped aboard the SHADOW OF DREAMS, saluted the Skipper, and officially welcomed us to Great Aero Day our prospects for an extended feu de joie amongst the dives of Yisvaalr’s Starfarers’ Quarter were, as yet, undimmed. A tri- watch later, they'd been cruelly dashed.

And we had sorely needed a taste of dirt.

In the 844 tri-watches since leaving Sansifa orbit – almost three Aero Dayian years ago – we had sailed over 19, 000 light – years, calling on only five worlds long enough to hand1e our cargoes and, perhaps, fit in a tri-watch downside. We were, thus, weary of the shipboard routine, tired of the long passages betwix distant worlds, and cold in spirit from living too long in the wane light of stars. We needed ground beneath our feet, the warmth of a sun on our face. And the many distractions of a roaring sarfeer’s town.

Aero Day to be all this. Aero to be the long lay-over while SHADOW the received a thorough refit. And we. Her gallant company, with a dangerously large amount of back wages in our inner pockets were prepared to face the task ahead of us unflinchingly, determined to roll back to the ship, when the time came, without a credit to our name.

For me, I couldn't have chosen a finer world than Aero Day for in the days of youth – more ago than I care to number – I'd shipped out of Yisvaalr, the portal moon of Aero Day world, as an apprentice aboard the Kantea-on clipper TARKIA. I knew Yisvaalr from pole to pole, her sarfeers’ quarter alley by alley, and despite long my absence, I was certain to turn up rnany an ol’shipmate of mine from those brave old days. This vision of a down-side leave fit for heroes substained me when all else failed.

But it proved – shortly after reaching Aero Day – to have been a mirage.

We had barely settled into our berthing orbit in the bustling anchorage around Aero Day world, when the Skipper received a signal from a certain Captain Arinroon of the Kantea—on clipper MINERY VAR. It seems that the Skipper and this Captain Arinroon had, in their youths shipped out as apprentices together – and before I had even broken out my down-side kit – they’d arranged for our two ships to leave Aero Day orbit in company and race out to Kantea—on.

To be set to sail with the MINERY VAR, we had to clear Aero Day in a rush. Down—side watches were at a premium, as all hands labored watch on watch to clear the SHADOW’s container-holds of her Aero Day cargo, conduct a hasty refit, and scare up any stray cargo for Kantea-on.

To add to our worries, it soon became evident that there was a lot more riding on this race than we had bargained for. For we had – or more correctly; the Skipper had – challenged the current holder of the 'Gilded Comet', which is to say; we had arranged to race the fastest clipper in the whole of the Kantea-on fleet.

The carriage of dried leaf of the xanifa tree from Kantea-on to Aero Day is one of those rare celestial trades in which merchant ships are actually raced Against each other. Each Kantea-on season the best picking of xanifa is lightered up to the fastest celestial clippers a’waiting in orbit and once loaded, they're driven for all they are worth to Aero Day, where the xanifa—drinking populace impatiently a'waits the new season’s crop. Waiting for them also, is the vast sporting. population of Aero Day who take a great interest (financial and otherwise) in the fortunes of their favorite Kantea-on clipper. Thus. a vast amount of Aero Dayian credits change hands on the day the first xanifa clipper arrives from Kantea-on vith the new crop of xanifa, and again, when the of the new crop arrives and the ship making the fastest passage of the season is awarded the Gilded Comet.

Outbound passages. on the other hand, are taken a bit more easy – though scratch races between two or more ships are not uncommon. Normally, however, they don’t stir the widespread interest the homebound race does unless it happens to be between the current holder of the Gilded Comet and legendary champion. say, for instance, between the MINERY VAR and the SHADOW OF DREAMS.

Aye some 300 Aero Dayian years ago, the SHADOW was, indeed, the premiere celestial clipper in the Kantea—on trade. She carried the Gilded Comet for thirty—nine of her fifty—two passages in the trade. It was only after the death of her famous designer-skipper, Inzar-Rode, that the SHADOW – captained by a less enterprising skipper – slipped back into the ranks and finally drifted from the Kantea—on Orbit altogether.

This pairing of the current and legendary champions quickly attracted a much wider circle of punters than the original wager between the crews of our two ships. It's become the sporting event of the outbound passages – sparking interest not only amongst the other sarfeers of the Kantea-on fleet, but even spreading to the sporting population of Aero Day. I understand that, for an outbound race, unprecedented sum of Aero Dayian currency is riding on the result of our race.

That, added to the fact our reputation, our ability to attract an early xanifa cargo on Kantea-on, and that SHADOW’s legend was on the line, and it is easy to understand why I was held a virtual prisoner in the SHADOW's chartroom commanded to plot the astest orbit to Kantea-on ever.

It took me almost all of our stay in Aero Day orbit to do so.

The stars and stellar debris presented no concern in plotting a course, for they'd hardly changed their relative positions since last entered in the log-memory some 300 years ago. I was quickly able to up-date them by getting hold of a recent Aero Day Survey chart. No, it was not the hazards of this universe that kept me poring over the charts for so much of our brief stay in Aero Day orbit.

It was the charts of the ultra spectra universe that I worried over for almost a fortnight. The energy of the ultraspectra universe, whose spectrum is defined to begin at a point where its energy and matter have absolutely no natural relationship between ‘our’ energy and matter, is much less concentrated than our own energy; being spread, at varying intensities, across the whole expanse that corresponds to our universe (it is said). By using hybrid-energy fields, celestial ships tap this ultraspectra energy to drive them at may times the speed of light. The intensity of the ultraspectra energy determines the speed of any given celestial ship and this intensity can, and does, change quite significantly in far less than 300 years.

The region of the ultraspectra universe corresponding to the 2, 000 light-years betwixt Aero Day and Kantea-on is notorious for its ‘unevenness’ of intensity, its slow fluctuations over the years, and its to make abrupt, unpredictable changes in ‘local’ energy levels of such magnitude and of such swiftness that they have been known to wreck celestial clippers caught unprepared.

The Aero Day Survey also charts the ultraspectra energy contour but given the constant changes, they can never be relied on absolutely. They are of some use, however, in divining just are the highest intensities are likely to be found for any given passage.

The best charts are those of the fastest clippers fact, the best charts make the fastest clippers. They are the ones built up over seasons of tacking back and forth to Kantea-on and Aero Day. They are most likely charts of the ultraspectra contour beyond the star lanes surveyed by tho Survey and they are fiercely secrets.

The MINERY VAR, with her proven charts, had a great advantage over us.

Still, we had Captain Inzar-Rode's old charts, the ones he won thirty—nine 'Comets' with. And though the ultraspectra contour has been 300 years a’changing, a close study of these long secret charts with their proven orbit-tracks was not without interest. These, coupled with own, rather more recent experience in the Kantea-on Orbit aboard the Gilded Comet winning TARKYA, and the fragments of information gathered by my ship mates from sarfeers of other ships who had money riding on us, gave me something to work on. I vas able to plot, what I feel to be, a very promising orbit to Kantea-on. Nothing certain, mind you, for the orbit is based on guesses as to the ultraspectra contour we’11 find, but certain enough to inspire confidence that rnake it an embarrassingly close race for the MINERY VAR.

I finished plotting this hot orbit late in the second-to-the-last tri-watch of our stay in Aero Day orbit. Though worn and weary, I stumbled out of the chartroom in search of the Skipper.

I found him in the ship's office. where he met request for a two—watch down—side leave with a brisk "No."

"We’re too close to sailing to let you loose. Your place is here, aboard ship, not drunk in some dive," was his specious defense of his denial of my request.

Perhaps a lesser sort of sarfeer might have contented himself with a few choice curses, a sullen glower, and then, with a resigned shrug, shuffled off to his cabin for a well earned and much needed two-watch nap. But not I.

With 844 tri-watches of shipboard routine, starship-moss meals, and the last fortnight of slaving over the glowing 3-D charts behind me, I as in a dangerous mood. Even so, it only after I had darkly hinted that if I was not allowed leave off-ship, I – if I were the Skipper – would be rather nervous when walking the dark companionways about ship alone, that he relented allowed me and a score of shipmates down-side to Yisvaalr for a “watch-and-no-more.”

Within a quarter-watch I had gathered the select few and was hurling the Skipper's 30-meter gig through the teeming roadstead and down through the thin shell of Yisvaalr atmosphere with – perhaps – even more than my customary recklessness.

(2)

Within the Knyme-sooh. the air heavy and aromatic with the flavors of Chantson Yea. I sat alone in a booth deep within the indigo shadows of the non—-Chantsom Yeaian level. Overhead. three tiers of balconies circled the dining hall of the Krvme-sooh. From lighting panels set four stories the brilliant sapphire-colored Chantson Yeaian sunlight dimly reached me, filtered through the foliage of the Jungle-garden that rose up through the core of the hall like a frozen fountain. Seated around the glittering boughs of the square or Chnntsom jungle, at low tables along the three levels of were the tough survivors, the courtiers and cavaliers, of the exiled court of the old regime of Chantsom Yea. In the make-believe sunlight of home they dined talked, reminisced arn, I imagine, still plotted their return to Chantsom Yea.

Less than a quarter-watch before, I had thumped down the 30—meter gig on the tarmac of our mooring bay – to the exaggerated sigh of relief from my passengers. Cracking the hatch; I led the shaken of shipmates out of the still glowing gig onto the vast, gently curving expanse Of the Smallcraft Field of the Commercial Port of Aero Day that encompasses the Northern pole of Yisvaalr. Foresaking the moving walkways under the field as being too slow, I struck out at a fast trot for the distant ring of administrative buildings that lay beyond the orderly rows of ships’ boats and launches. I plunged through Customs – deaf to the terse comments of port officials regarding the finer points of handling a gig in a crowded roadstead – and charted a waiting air-cab for the Knyme-sooh.

The Knyme-so lies beyond the usual orbit of grounded sarfeers; almost half the moonlet from the riotous environs of Starfarers' Quarter. I had, however. come to frequent this Chantsom Yea World restaurant, and court-in-exile, in m early yearrs of starfaring the Kantea—on Orbit. Long cherished memories of its rare cuisine, its calm, aquatic gloom, and its almost legendary association with the brave ol 'days of my youth combined to draw me past the roaring Starfeers’ Quarter’s taverns, past its delightfully wicked pleasures, games, and boisterous camaraderie. I had determined to spend 'watch-and-no-more with a Chantsom Yeaian feast and the ghosts of youth.

Though it was midday in our sector of the Smallcraft field, the aurora-tinted night of Yisvaalr was just stealing over the Jaqut Inn Quarter when I alighted from the air-cab in front of the Knyme-sooh.

I stood back and stared. After all the years, after all the passages; it the same old Knyme-sooh. Bounding down the few steps from street level, I pushed through the heavy doors waded into the murky depths of Chantsom Yea-in-exile.

I was greeted by its once-royal proprietor, Cybai Ky, himself – who, like his establishment, seemed unchanged. With surprisingly little prompting. he was able to recall me; one of those serious young apprentices that his old shiprnate, Hook, would sometimes bring in tow. Over a fine and rare feast we talked of old times. until, at last. Other duties claimed Cybai Ky’s attention.

I was alone, now, in the booth at the base of the jungle—garden. Well, not quite alone, for a winged-creature clung to the boughs of the jungle across the narrow aisle. Beguiling me with her many faceted eyes a’sparkling coyly, she, in return for the crumbs of meal, made clear, not unpleasant tones.

I took a sip from a steaming cup of fine. Isle of Adancy xanifa and set it back on the table before me. A brass—bound lantern stood at tho center of the table; its four thick lenses casting dim spears of amber light over the table-top, like a lighthouse on a dark reef in a sea of blue shadows – a reef still strewn with the hulks derelict vessels of the Chantsom feast.

I was at ease. Thoroughly content, filled to the load-line with a meal of ‘ta’zim-acue’ that tasted even better than vintage memories had promised, and topped off with a steaming pot of the finest xanifa. Finally I knew rest, and surruounded by old memories, I drifted into a deep reverie.

Tho place was made for dreaming – the azure light that managed to make its way down through the levels of jeweled foliage could barely tint blue the entwining tendrils of steam that twisted up from cup, and in fact, seemed to embrace, rather than chase away the gloom of my booth. Sitting back, absently watching the weaving threads of steam curl around and upwards into the blackness under the lowest of the Chentsom Yeaian-dining balconies, I became lost in twisting, overgrown lanes of memories. I sat while faces and scenes came back to me – all my old shipmates, the places, the dramas, the tastes, and emotions of those by-gone days of Yisvaalr and Kantea-on. They were distilled, somehow, with the passage of time and the layers of other memories into that smooth, melancholy flavor of romance, the spicy tang of adventure, and the haunting bouquet of remembered youth...

(3)

Out of my dreams – a great noise. a deafening crack which jerked me to consciousness and confusion.

The dishes danced. The lantern flickered. The very fabric of the building seemed to shiver with the concussion.

I spilled half a cup of hot xanifa on my lap and exploded in a chanty of Embarian curses.

Like litter before the landing blast of an Atmospheric-freighter, the scenes and figures of my reverie were scattered by the sudden, explosion-like crack.

As the echoes receded from the Knyme-sooh, they left the jungle garden hall in eerie silence. I held breath and cast a quick look at my jewel-eyed companion in the boughs. Her eyes held glints of shock and fright as she clutched her branch statue like. Apparently she understood the Embarian tongue.

As the silence I began to wonder if I, indeed, had heard the noise at all, or if perhaps, it was an ordinary sound magnified by dozing condition. Still, listening I no longer heard the subdued murmerings of the exiled Chantsom Yeaians seated aroundt he balconies above me. Silent was their chirping laughter, the rustling of their elegant home-world gowns the busy chatter of their dinner utensils. Nor did the strangely sung ballad of the Chatsom Yeaian singer steal out to me from the cabaret beyönd the curtained doorway behind me. And even the vague rumblings of the gaa jinga-gamblers from even deeper within the of backrooms, failed to reach me. through the oppressive silence.

It as if time, itself, was holding its breath. It held potent; like the frightenly expectant silence of your death but a moment old.

And before I could throw down a steadying slug of xanifa – what was left of it – it struck again – pushing against my chest like an invisible hand.

Small debris sprayed across the outer of table larger pieces went skidding and spinning by me down the narrow aisle.

The thunder clap was followed on its heels by a mighty, howling roar – made more frightening by the fact that my translator terminal, sensing it to be the utterance of some being, but finding no recognized word-pattern in the roaring howl; merely re—echoed it as a fierce, wordless challenge in head.

It struck, however. an icy reserve. Consciously, I drew a long breath and carefully put hard on the porcelain xanifa pot to stop its rattling dance to the table's edge. I slid along the bench to the jungle-bordered aisle as an unconscious twist of right my right wrist brought the cool slap of the needle-beam knife to my palm. My thumb found its control key even as I peered around the booth divider and caught sight of what stood looking into the Knyme-sooh through a gaping breach in its front wall where once a muunciin crystal window was.

It was huge.