Nightflyers. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

p>Nightflyers

      Copyright

      HarperVoyager

      An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

      1 London Bridge Street

      London SE1 9GF

      www.harpercollins.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

      Copyright © 1980, 1981 George R.R. Martin.

      First published in Binary Star 5 (Dell, 1981). A shorter version of this story originally appeared in Analog, April 1980, copyright © 1980 by the Condé Nast Publications, Inc.

      Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

      Cover artwork © Netflix, Inc. 2018. Used with permission. All rights reserved

      George R.R. Martin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

      A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

      Source ISBN: 9780008296117

      Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008298470

      Version: 2018-12-01

      Praise for A Song of Ice and Fire:

      ‘When times are tough, there is no better distraction than these magical tales’

Guardian

      ‘Martin has not only raised the bar for writers of epic fantasy but pushed and stretched the boundaries of the novel itself’

The Times

      ‘Fantasy fiction’s equivalent to The Wire’

Telegraph

      ‘Complex storylines, fascinating characters, great dialogue, perfect pacing, and the willingness to kill off even his major characters’

LA Times

      ‘Mr Martin is a literary dervish, bursting with the wild vision of the very best tale tellers’

New York Times

      Dedication

      To Gardner Dozois Who fished me out of the slush pile and saved me from those Tubs o’ Fun

      Nightflyers

      When Jesus of Nazareth hung dying on his cross, the volcryn passed within a year of his agony, headed outward.

      When the Fire Wars raged on Earth, the volcryn sailed near Old Poseidon, where the seas were still unnamed and unfished. By the time the stardrive had transformed the Federated Nations of Earth into the Federal Empire, the volcryn had moved into the fringes of Hrangan space. The Hrangans never knew it. Like us they were children of the small bright worlds that circled their scattered suns, with little interest and less knowledge of the things that moved in the gulfs between.

      War flamed for a thousand years and the volcryn passed through it, unknowing and untouched, safe in a place where no fires could ever burn. Afterwards, the Federal Empire was shattered and gone, and the Hrangans vanished in the dark of the Collapse, but it was no darker for the volcryn.

      When Kleronomas took his survey ship out from Avalon, the volcryn came within ten light years of him. Kleronomas found many things, but he did not find the volcryn. Not then and not on his return to Avalon, a lifetime later.

      When I was a child of three Kleronomas was dust, as distant and dead as Jesus of Nazareth, and the volcryn passed close to Daronne. That season all the Crey sensitives grew strange and sat staring at the stars with luminous, flickering eyes.

      When I was grown, the volcryn had sailed beyond Tara, past the range of even the Crey, still heading outward.

      And now I am old and growing older and the volcryn will soon pierce the Tempter’s Veil where it hangs like a black mist between the stars. And we follow, we follow. Through the dark gulfs where no one goes, through the emptiness, through the silence that goes on and on, my Nightflyer and I give chase.

* * *

      They made their way slowly down the length of the transparent tube that linked the orbital docks to the waiting starship ahead, pulling themselves hand over through weightlessness.

      Melantha Jhirl, the only one among them who did not seem clumsy and ill-at-ease in free fall, paused briefly to look at the dappled globe of Avalon below, a stately vastness in jade and amber. She smiled and moved swiftly down the tube, passing her companions with an easy grace. They had boarded starships before, all of them, but never like this. Most ships docked flush against the station, but the craft that Karoly d’Branin had chartered for his mission was too large, and too singular in design. It loomed ahead; three small eggs side-by-side, two larger spheres beneath and at right angles, the cylinder of the driveroom between, lengths of tube connecting it all. The ship was white and austere.

      Melantha Jhirl was the first one through the airlock. The others straggled up one by one until they had all boarded; five women and four men, each an Academy scholar, their backgrounds as diverse as their fields of study. The frail young telepath, Thale Lasamer, was the last to enter. He glanced about nervously as the others chatted and waited for the entry procedure to be completed. “We’re being watched,” he said.

      The outer door was closed behind them, the tube had fallen away; now the inner door slid open. “Welcome to my Nightflyer,” said a mellow voice from within.

      But there was no one there.

      Melantha Jhirl stepped into the corridor. “Hello,” she said, looking about quizzically. Karoly d’Branin followed her.

      “Hello,” the mellow voice replied. It was coming from a communicator grill beneath a darkened viewscreen. “This is Royd Eris, master of the Nightflyer. I’m pleased to see you again, Karoly, and pleased to welcome the rest of you.”

      “Where are you?” someone demanded.

      “In my quarters, which occupy half of this life-support sphere,” the voice of Royd Eris replied amiably. “The other half is comprised of a lounge-library-kitchen, two sanitary stations, one double cabin, and a rather small single. The rest of you will have to rig sleepwebs in the cargo spheres, I’m afraid. The Nightflyer was designed as a trader, not a passenger vessel. However, I’ve opened all the appropriate passageways and locks, so the holds have air and heat and water. I thought you’d find it more comfortable that way. Your equipment and computer system have been stowed in the holds, but there is still plenty of space, I assure you. I suggest you settle in, and then meet in the lounge for a meal.”

      “Will you join us?” asked the psipsych, a querulous hatchet-faced woman named Agatha Marij-Black.

      “In a fashion,” Royd Eris said, “in a fashion.”

* * *

      The ghost appeared at the banquet.

      They found the lounge easily enough, after they had rigged their sleepwebs and arranged their personal belongings around