Phoenix by S. F. Said
‘After everything that happened?’ said the Captain. ‘After everything they did to us? If you think that, then you’re a fool, Professor.’
‘Ozymandias!’ said Mystica sharply. ‘He is our guest—’
‘And he is proposing a course of action that could destroy us all.’
There was silence for a moment. Deadlock. The Captain and the Professor stared at each other, totally still. The air itself grew taut and tense between them. Lucky watched, heart in his mouth, waiting to see who would blink first.
‘What happened to you, Captain?’ said Professor Byzantine at last. ‘You used to be the most fearless pilot in the galaxy. It was only your courage that saved Frollix and Bixa from the Dark Matter bombs, all those years ago.’
Frollix and Bixa flinched at his words. But Nox just kept staring at the Professor, his eyes burning.
‘The safety of my crew is my sole concern,’ he said. ‘I will not allow this foolishness to endanger them.’
‘Ozymandias Nox!’ blazed Mystica, her eyes flaring like the sun, her voice so grand all of a sudden that even the Captain’s authority was eclipsed. ‘We are Startalkers, and the stars themselves are in danger. This is no time for safety. Set a course for the Spacewall!’
Nox blinked. He seemed to shrink a little. ‘But Mystica—’
‘The decision,’ she said, ‘is made.’ She took a decisive step forward, across the threshold, into the main cabin. Around her, the vidpics of the Twelve Astraeus shimmered and shone, haloing her with light. Then she turned, and held a hand out to the Captain. ‘Of course,’ she said, more softly, ‘you are still the master of this ship, and the finest navigator in the galaxy. I would far rather it was you who took us across the Wall than anyone. But please understand, my dear: we are going there, whether you come with us or not.’
The Captain pulled away from her, eyes clenched shut. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘I wish you weren’t a Startalker, Mystica Grandax.’ He shook his great head in sorrow. ‘Oh, what’s the point?’ he muttered as he walked away, towards the cockpit. ‘What does it matter what I think? It doesn’t matter, does it? It doesn’t matter any more.’
And then he was gone. Everyone breathed out again.
Mystica sighed deeply. Her eyes stopped blazing, and her hands started to shake. ‘I am sorry about that,’ she said. ‘The Captain is not himself . . . and he has not been, ever since those terrible times.’
‘He is not wrong to fear what lies beyond the Wall,’ said Professor Byzantine, as they followed her through the archway into the cabin. ‘Everything we hope for is out there – but so is everything we dread. And if your father is somewhere in the midst of that chaos, boy, then you need to know precisely where. So let us look at your astrolabe, and see if we can find you an answer.’
Chapter Eighteen
Lucky, Bixa, Frollix and Professor Byzantine sat around the table in the main cabin. Mystica stood at the stove, stirring a pot. A familiar smell was coming from it. That strange mixture of gunpowder, chocolate and spice: this was its source. She dipped a spoon into the pot and ladled some thick, dark liquid out into small cups. Everyone got one.
‘Ah, Xoco,’ sighed the Professor. ‘How I’ve missed this.’
Lucky warmed his hands on his cup, and sniffed the drink inside, savouring its aroma. ‘Is it some kind of chocolate?’ he asked.
Bixa snorted. ‘If you water it down with milk and sugar, ’cos it’s too strong for you – then, yeah, it’d be something like chocolate. But this is Xoco: the real deal.’
Lucky took a cautious sip. The Xoco tasted smoky, fiery, sweet and strong. It was more complex and intoxicating than any chocolate he knew, and left a warm bright aftertaste that sparkled on his tongue. The sensation was so pleasurable, he felt his muscles relaxing, his insides warming, his whole body filling with satisfaction.
As he drank it down, he pulled out the astrolabe, and placed it on the table. He touched his fingertips to the cool black metal—
‘One moment,’ said Professor Byzantine. ‘Before you attempt to use that device again, may I ask if you fully understand its operations?’
‘Uh – not really,’ Lucky admitted. ‘I’ve only done it once.’
‘And to be fair,’ said Mystica, ‘Ozymandias hardly gave him the best instructions.’
‘Very well,’ said the Professor, polishing his spectacles. ‘Then will you allow me to share some of our deepest secrets with you: our ancient knowledge of the stars, and their true nature?’
A shiver ran through Lucky – but so did a silent thrill. ‘I’ve always loved the stars,’ he said, taking another sip of Xoco.
‘Excellent,’ said the Professor. ‘So kindly tell me: what is a star?’
Lucky summoned up all the things he’d been taught at school, all the insights of Human science. ‘A star is a giant ball of burning gas—’ he began confidently.
‘Oh!’ groaned the Professor. He bit his whiskers. ‘Frollix! For heaven’s sake, tell him what a star is.’
‘Hey, don’t ask me!’ chuckled Frollix. He drained his Xoco in one great gulp, leaned back, and put his hooves up on the table. ‘I ain’t never gonna be a Startalker.’
‘Frollix!’ cried Mystica. ‘Not this nonsense again, and not in front of—’
‘Peace, Mystica,’ said the Professor. ‘He is still young. Remember what we were like at his age? Fear not, Frollix. One day, you shall have my powers – and my phoenix. A phoenix always accompanies the Startalker of the Past, you know.’
‘Baa-zeekeeee!’ chortled the little bird, as if dismissing the idea.
‘Yeah, right!’ said Frollix, equally dismissive. ‘I mean, look at me!’ He grinned. ‘I’m nothing like you, Prof.’
‘There are many ways of being a Startalker,’ replied Professor Byzantine. ‘Mystica has her way, I have mine – and I dare say you and Bixa will have yours.’
Frollix laughed this idea off, but Bixa seemed intrigued. ‘So you think a Startalker could be someone who likes fighting?’ she asked. ‘A warrior?’
‘Why not?’ said the Professor. ‘I think you can be anything you wish to be.’
Bixa’s eyes went wide, and her needles lit up. ‘Well . . . if you ask me, I’d say a star is the place where everything comes from. It’s the origin. The beginning.’
‘Bravo, Bixa!’ said the Professor, applauding her. ‘You see, Lucky, everything in the universe is made of atoms and elements that were created in the hearts of stars, billions of years ago. Even our own bodies. You are entirely made of stardust, and so is everyone else and, indeed, every single thing that exists. And because it all came from the same source, it is all connected. Connected by Dark Matter. Do you see?’
Lucky glanced again at the astrolabe. The twelve symbols around its circumference were beginning to glimmer with light. ‘What is Dark Matter, anyway?’ he asked.
‘The invisible force that holds the universe together,’ replied the Professor. He threw his arms out wide and fluttered his fingertips. ‘You cannot see it, but it is everywhere. If you destroy it – as a Dark Matter bomb does – then you break the connections that hold things together. But if you embrace it: why, then you can do anything. With a Dark Matter drive, you can follow those connections – and because they span such vast distances, you can travel faster than light. Thus we call it the speed of dark.’ He pointed triumphantly at Lucky’s astrolabe. ‘That object is a guide to those connections; a device that makes Dark Matter visible. Do you see it now?’
Lucky gaped at the Professor; most of his words had washed right over his head. ‘Uh . . . I’m not sure,’ he said.
‘Then tell me: did you notice lines of silver light when you were in the astrolabe?’
‘Yes!’ Lucky’s heart thumped painfully. The memory of those infinite swirling lines still scared him.
‘Those lines,’ said the Professor, ‘represent Dark Matter connections. They show the invisible threads that hold the universe together. To follow the connect
‘I don’t know, Professor,’ said Lucky. ‘It was scary.’
‘Infinity is a fearsome sight, for those unaccustomed to it. But I assure you, there is nothing to fear. If you panic, merely think of something that matters to you, something that makes you happy, as you did in my market stall. Precisely the same kind of self-control is needed to operate an astrolabe.’
‘He’s not very good at self-control,’ grunted Bixa. ‘I’ve been trying to teach him to control his body with Astral Martial Arts, but it’s useless. He never gets any better. I don’t see how thinking about something happy could help . . .’
Lucky couldn’t respond. He was staring at the ground, ears warm, face flushing – because it was Bixa herself that he’d thought of in the market stall.
She peered at him suspiciously. ‘What did you think of, anyway?’ she demanded.
Every part of him blushed. ‘Oh, just some . . . stuff . . .’ he mumbled.
‘Whatever it is,’ said the Professor, ‘it will help. Hold onto it as you would to life itself. And take your time. Start with something simple. Ask the astrolabe to show you routes to the nearest planet, for example, before asking about your father. Are you ready?’
Lucky took a deep breath, and summoned all his courage. He held the black metal disc in his hands, and concentrated.
The dials began to move. The wheels began to spin. Once again, he felt that sensation of limitless power thrumming beneath his fingertips.
The astrolabe picked up speed, pulsing like some starry dynamo, shimmering and shining with light as never before –
– and then Lucky went into the astrolabe again.
He couldn’t see the cabin any more. He couldn’t see the Professor and Mystica, or Frollix and Bixa.
What he saw instead was space. Infinite black space, studded with stars. Each one a giant sun, burning with impossible energies, with power enough to destroy whole worlds – or create them.
They filled him with awe. And though it hurt his eyes to look directly at them, he felt compelled to stare into their scorching faces once again. As he gazed at them, they seemed to gaze right back at him. He felt a vast, unfathomable intelligence streaming out from them, radiating in every direction. As if he was in the presence of great spirits, omniscient, omnipotent.
And he was flying among them in that astral body. So close he could even taste the stars, burning in space. Smoky, fiery, sweet and strong: their flavours sparkled on his tongue like Xoco, intoxicating.
Focus! he told himself fiercely. Don’t get distracted! He braced himself, and then he asked the question. Astrolabe: please show me routes to the nearest planet?
A line of blazing silver light shot out from one of the stars. Then another line – and another – and now more and more lines were shooting out of more and more stars, joining up into spirals and webs, swirling away in every direction, to infinity, so fast it made Lucky’s head spin and his stomach lurch.
Even now he knew what they were, these lines of light terrified him. They wouldn’t stop branching out, again and again, making endless dizzying patterns that he couldn’t keep up with, disorientating him, hurting his head and making him giddy . . .
I can’t think straight, he thought. I can’t breathe—
No! Don’t panic! He forced himself to think of Bixa, though the panic was rising, higher and higher.
And at the thought of her – sticking her tongue out, threatening to kick his ass, calling him a moonbrain – he couldn’t help but smile. And as he smiled, the panic eased, and fell away.
It’s working! he thought. How strange . . .
Lucky made himself look at the lines of silver light again. He chose one of them at random, and ignored all the others. He concentrated all his attention on this single line, and moved his astral body along it.
Infinite pathways opened up around him. Everywhere he looked, he saw all the directions he could go: every single one, spanning the stars in a dizzying rush of information.
It was so hard to hold it together, but he forced himself to keep moving.
And as he moved, gradually, the infinite spiralling view started to seem more familiar, less dizzying. He didn’t feel so scared of it any more.
I can do this! he thought, picking up speed. He leaped across to another line of light, and followed that one through space for a while. He guessed he was barely skimming the surface of its potential, but for the first time, he knew he was using the astrolabe properly.
For now he was becoming aware of a silvery sound, surrounding him with waves of power. The very same sound he’d dreamed about. Right here in the astrolabe, he could hear the stars singing: vast, echoing, galactic, oceanic; the harmonies ringing out as they called to him through space.
Lucky focused his mind, and reached out to the song of the stars. It seemed to grow even stronger and nearer, as if the astrolabe was amplifying it. And then, at long last, he began to hear the words coming through, loud and clear.
And oh – it was wonderful! The idea that these great spirits not only accepted his presence, but wanted to help him – it sent a shiver of joy through his whole being.
But it lasted only a moment. Because now, behind the songs of the stars, he started to hear something else coming through. Some kind of interference, like the crackle of static on a vidscreen, or the buzz of shifting frequencies on a comm. He heard snatches of other songs, very different. Fragments of strange sad songs, echoing across infinity.
Lucky had no idea where these other songs came from, or what their words meant. But they filled him with a sense of dread that was almost overwhelming.
He shut them out. Whatever they were, they were nothing to do with him. He turned his mind away from them, and back to the task at hand: finding his father.
He focused. Every ounce of determination.
Astrolabe, he asked it, please show me where my father is?
And then, before he could stop himself, he was hurtling along the lines of light through space – totally out of control, faster and faster, further and further – spiralling all the way to the edge of the map – then over the edge, and off the map, and—
‘No!’ he gasped as he fell out of the astrolabe – fell hard – and crashed to the ground.
Gravity smashed back into him, full force. He felt a grinding crunch as his mind snapped back into his body – his useless, clumsy body – not that perfect weightless body he’d just been in . . .
Lucky opened his eyes, and looked up. He was back in the Sunfire’s main cabin. Beside him on the floor, the astrolabe’s silver lights winked out. Its dials ground to a halt – and they had flipped inside out again. They had twisted and turned over, so they appeared to be pointing outside the astrolabe again.
He started to shake. He wanted to cry. Bazooka pecked at him gingerly, worry in her eyes.
‘Good heavens!’ said Mystica. ‘What happened?’
Lucky shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It worked fine when I asked about the nearest planet. I could hear the stars singing – I was moving along the lines, I was flying and everything. But then, when I asked about my father . . . I lost control. It threw me off the edge again.’
‘How perplexing.’ The Professor stroked his whiskers. ‘If it answered your first question, it is surely not broken . . . Perhaps it is telling you that your father is off the edge of its map? But its map covers the whole galaxy! I do not understand.’
‘Nor I,’ said Mystica. ‘And if two Startalkers cannot understand it – whatever can it mean?’
The Professor frowned at Lucky. ‘We will never know until you achieve full control,’ he said. ‘You must practise this, and you must master it before we reach the Spacewall. For it is not only the astrolabe that you need to master. If you cannot learn to control your power, it will flare up the first time you see a Shadow Guard at the Wall – and you will give yourself
Lucky hauled himself to his feet. ‘I don’t think I’m ever going to get it,’ he sighed.
The Professor’s eyes glittered. ‘You have the principle,’ he said. ‘All you need now is practice. Practice, practice, practice . . .’
Chapter Nineteen
Lucky practised hard as they flew on towards the Spacewall. Under the watchful eyes of Professor Byzantine and Bazooka, he spent every spare minute with the astrolabe, learning how to control it, plotting routes through space until he began to see stars and the connections between them even when his eyes were closed.
As his understanding expanded, he found himself able to stay in the astrolabe for longer and longer periods. He grew more accustomed to being in that astral body, dancing among the stars. He often thought he could hear them singing to him, songs that lifted his spirits with words of encouragement – even as he caught snatches of other songs; those strange sad songs whose meanings he could not fathom.
Yet whenever he asked the astrolabe about his father, it always gave him the same response: flinging him off the edge and out of the map. Always, he would lose control and come crashing back into his clumsy, gravity-bound body again. It was always painful.
Even more painful were the occasions when his power rose up inside him, and these now happened every day. The Professor tested it relentlessly. He would goad and provoke Lucky until he panicked, and then, inevitably, the power would rise. His hands would start to shine. Flames would spill out of him. It would take all his strength to pull it back inside him; and then he would feel utterly spent, exhausted, and in terrible pain.
The Professor never let him stop, though. ‘This is precisely the same as navigation,’ he’d say. ‘You are learning self-control: the key to both the astrolabe and your own power. Focus on what matters to you. It will give you something to hold onto; something to balance the fear. Stay calm and in control, and everything else will follow.’