Hoist Sail for the Heliopause and Home
Andrew Plotkin
@party IF Competition 2010 aliens commercial cover art exploration far-future gender-neutral protagonist guided maze I7 source available linear maze nautical navigation puzzle no score parser science fiction scoreless SF space space travel spaceship spaceship setting travel treasure hunt Xyzzy Awards 2010 XYZZY Best Writing
A far-future story of discovery.
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Myrmidal is the queen of the bright worlds, and you've walked her million cities beneath her sky and beyond it. Myrmidal laughs and Myrmidal dances; they say no one weeps on Myrmidal, except for moments on the stage.

But even on Myrmidal the sun rises and sets, and the music grows tinny and harsh when you weary of dancing. Your best stories and your best lies draw the same fond laughter. This morning you decide to rise to the docks, and rouse your Horizon of Night from her sleep, and raise her sails. Somewhere are worlds you have never seen. And if your friends miss you at the dance, they can tell you so when you return.

The Horizon of Night is a sweet tiny sailer; you have missed her more than you remembered. Now she comes alive for you. The keel hums with power; the monomolecular sails are reefed and ready. The compass spins to the touch of the Galaxy's magnetic currents. You have only to weigh anchor, and leave Myrmidal behind.
About yourself
You are an improved model.
You examine Horizon
The Horizon of Night is just the right size for a ship -- big enough to be comfortable, not so large as to be lonely. She gleams in the light of Myrmidal's sun; but her sails are furled.
You enter the ship
You go aboard Horizon. Her airlock closes with a familiar hiss.
You look at the compass
The compass rests in its bath of liquid helium. Subtle magnetic fields stir between the stars, a sailor knows, and the compass shifts on their breath.
You look at keel
The keel runs the Horizon's length, its rhodomagnetic core and axis.
You examine the anchor
Your anchor is a disk of whirling strange matter. It's dug deeply into the bent space-time of Myrmidal's planetary orbit, holding the Horizon's keel in its frame.
Look around
The Horizon of Night is a sweet tiny sailer. The keel hums with power; the monomolecular sails are reefed and ready. The compass spins to the touch of the Galaxy's magnetic currents. You have only to weigh anchor, and leave Myrmidal behind.
You weigh the anchor
The anchor precesses.

Horizon shakes, waking the speed which has slept these past years. Myrmidal's magnetic halo bucks her keel high; high and out through the rings of city and industry and careless Myrmidal society. When the anchor falls into place along the keel, Horizon rings bell-clear, and the sky is black.

You are circling the outer fringe of Myrmidal's system, where your keel's rhodomagnetics balance the solar winds. You pass snow-miners and farfactories, humming cheerfully in their work.

Already the quiet is a relief. But this is still civilization, and this star has nothing for you.
You examine the ship
The Horizon of Night gleams in the light of Myrmidal's sun; but her sails are furled.
Open sails
The sails begin to unfurl. They catch sunlight. The Horizon of Night shifts gladly around her keel, and slides into interstellar space.

The bright worlds fade behind you.

Somewhere out there, you sense, are treasures worthy of your attention.

You spread the sails wider. The ship accelerates.

Stars thin around you as you leave the bright worlds behind. Nebulae drift past.

You won't get far into the unknown at this rate.
You unfurl the sails
You stretch the sails to their fullest spread. The Horizon of Night leans forward eagerly, and springs out into the void.

The bright worlds are far behind Horizon now. Darkness clots thickly between the stars, out here.
You examine the stars
The stars are infinite.
Wait
Horizon speeds silently through the Reaches.

You speed through the void. Darkness clots thickly between the stars.

A petite golden star catches your eye.
You look at the golden star
It's common enough for a star of its spectral class. However, you hear a faint jangling from its direction, in the long-wave band.
You listen to the star
You are detecting a faint, musical jangling from the petite golden star's vicinity.
Lower sails
You begin bringing in the sails. But Horizon's velocity is too great; you whip past the star in a shallow hyperbola, and are flung away into the void. The petite golden star disappears behind you.

Wide sunless spaces stretch between distant stars, out here.
You look at the compass
The compass rests in its bath of liquid helium. Subtle magnetic fields stir between the stars, a sailor knows, and the compass shifts on their breath.
You wait awhile
Horizon moves silently through the Reaches.

Wide sunless spaces stretch between distant stars, out here.
You furl the sails
You trim the sails to a narrow edge. The ship slows to a sedate pace.

The bright worlds are far behind you now. Darkness clots thickly between the stars.

A blue star catches your interest.
You listen to the star
You are detecting a faint, musical jangling from the blue star's vicinity.
You go to star
You furl your sails, and descend into the blue star's outer system.

This blue star is circled by the usual assortment of barren rocks. However, a faint, long-wave jangling radiates from one fat gas giant.
You go to the gas giant
You drop the anchor. Horizon curves gracefully in to meet the gas giant in its orbit.

Horizon hangs within the cloud layers of the nameless gas giant. Mauve and violet bands of cloud slide past you.

Something iridescent drifts out from behind a cloud. You think of a bubble, and then a jellyfish. By the time the scale registers, others have followed: vast floating shapes, gaseous and shimmering, each a kilometer long.

Incomprehensible long-wave harmony rings through the clouds.
You look at the jellyfish
A flock of vast, gaseous jellyfish-beings move across the face of the world.

You notice sheets of iridescent tissue peeling from some of them and drifting away through the clouds.
You look at the tissue
You do not know why the floating beings shed this substance, but it drifts away from the flock in long, iridescent streamers. Each one twists slowly through the clouds, until it is lost from sight.
You get the tissue
You glide cautiously below the flock, and gather a sample of the shed tissue. Up close, it is more like cloth than a grown membrane, although it lacks the regularity of artificial fabric. In any case, the fibers are incredibly fine -- almost transparent.

You have seen nothing like it before. And you are certain that, within d'Accord, you are the first. You stow your prize in the hold.
Inventory
You have the iridescent cloth, safely stowed.
You examine the cloth
You have lengths of the iridescent tissue neatly packed in the hold. It is nearly weightless, but it catches the light in a way that even monomolecular cloth cannot match.
You weigh the anchor
This blue star is circled by the usual assortment of barren rocks. The alien signal fades as you circle outward from the gas giant.

This iridescent substance is an enthralling start to your journey. Even d'Accord technology cannot create all things, and a new form of matter may benefit lives across the bright worlds. If the stars before you are as rich in wonders as this, you will be a nine-days' wonder when you return home.
You eat the cloth
That's plainly inedible.
You unfurl the sails
You hoist the sails once again. Horizon swings outward from the blue star, into the spaces beyond.

Tendrils of dust encroach on these straits, hazing the stars. A stellar nebula looms ahead -- a fantastic web of blue, green, and violet vapor, stirred by internal currents.
You examine the nebula
A nebula is splashed colorfully across space, directly ahead. It looks promising.
Look around
Tendrils of dust encroach on these straits, hazing the stars. A stellar nebula looms ahead -- a fantastic web of blue, green, and violet vapor, stirred by internal currents.
You go to the nebula
You adjust the sails, and drift into the nebula.

Clouds of dust roil around you, confusing your sight. Slow, heavy stellar winds perturb the nebula; Horizon heaves uneasily as she wallows through the currents.
You look at the dust
The nebula is all around you. Surely there is something to discover in its depths.
You look around
Clouds of dust roil around you, confusing your sight. Slow, heavy stellar winds perturb the nebula; Horizon heaves uneasily as she wallows through the currents.
Lower sails
You don't want to strike your sails completely, not out here in the void. That would leave Horizon an aimless comet.
You drop the anchor
Out here? There's nowhere in sight to anchor.
You take the dust
The nebula is too vast and intangible to affect.
You raise the sails
You spread the sails, but Horizon only shakes more violently.

You are lost in clouds of dust. The stellar winds are thick and turgid here. Horizon heaves uneasily as she moves across the currents.

Your sails are too taut for this dense environment, you realize.
You examine the sails
The sails are spread.
You loosen the sails
You loosen the sails to catch the thick dust-currents. Horizon pitches once; but then the sails billow and fill, and she comes to hand. You steer her inwards, shifting deftly with the nebula's roiling, until the clouds part before you.

Horizon circles the rim of a vast, empty bubble -- a void swept clear by the bright-beating pulsar at its heart. Hot radiation sleets around you, most intensely in the pulsar's whirling beams.
You examine the pulsar
A pulsar is the core of a dead star -- its bulk long since blasted away, dispersed to the dust that surrounds this place. The tiny dense remnant has not yet cooled, after these aeons. It blazes hot and clear, and casts two polar beams in wild spirals as it whirls.
You examine the beams
The radiation in this space is a pure hot high-energy blaze -- very different from the dust-thick currents out in the nebula. The pulsar's beams whirl around the bubble in a spiralling sweep. (48.327 rotations per second, whispers the compass.)
You go to the pulsar
A close approach to such an energetic dead star would kill you, despite Horizon's protection.
You enter the beam
That's what sails are for.
You raise the sails
You raise the sails, fighting to angle their lax fabric against the pulsar-light. Horizon accelerates skittishly until it hurtles around the edge of the bubble. But speed will do you no favors once you are embroiled in the dust.
Tighten sails
You tighten sail somewhat. It helps; the sails begin to thrum in the clear, hot energy-flow. But it is not enough.
Inventory
You have the iridescent cloth, safely stowed.
You put cloth on the sails
The iridescent cloth is invaluable, and you have perfectly good sails already.
You examine the anchor
Your anchor is a disk of whirling strange matter. It's secured by the keel, edge-on so that it slips without drag through space-time.
Tighten sails
You tighten the sails, taut as you can pull them, and steer into the pulsar's beam. The sails sing in the pure clear high-energy stream; the Horizon of Night thrums, blazes, and flings herself out through the veils of dust.

You are streaking along a narrow passage, an open lane through the nebula's streams of dust. Far behind you, the pulsar illuminates your sails every .02 seconds or so.

A small blue-white star stands out in this empty zone.
You go to star
You vector for the star. But Horizon's velocity is too great; you whip past the star in a shallow hyperbola, and are flung away into the void.

Slow, thick stellar winds perturb the nebula. You are lost in clouds of gas. Horizon heaves frighteningly as she crashes through the currents.

You will have to loosen sail to gain control.
You loosen the sail
You partially relax the sails, and Horizon begins to ease.

Clouds of gas swirl. The winds are turgid and heavy, here in the nebula; Horizon heaves uneasily as she crashes through the currents.

You will have to loosen sail to gain control.
Lower sails
You lower the loose sails, and slow. Horizon still handles unevenly, even at this speed.
Tighten sails
You tighten sail somewhat. It helps; the sails begin to thrum in the clear, hot energy-flow. But it is not enough.
You continue
You tighten the sails, taut as you can pull them, and steer into the pulsar's beam. The sails sing in the pure clear high-energy stream; the Horizon of Night thrums, blazes, and flings herself out through the veils of dust.

You are diving along a narrow passage, an open lane through the nebula's streams of dust. Far behind you, the pulsar illuminates your sails every .02 seconds or so.

A small blue-white star stands out in this empty zone.
Lower sails
You furl your sails, and descend into the blue-white star's outer system.

This blue-white sun has no planets, only a broad ring of asteroidal trash. One planetoid seems touched with an unusual glow.
You examine the planetoid
The planetoid seems laced with a faint glow, even on its dark side.
You go to the planetoid
You drop the anchor; Horizon swings slowly into the asteroid belt. You maneuver towards the odd planetoid.

This is a dusty, cratered potato of a rock just like billions of others... except for the strange pale light which pools in the deepest craters.
You look at light
The light seems fluid -- as if starlight had condensed on this lonely rock, and dripped down to puddle in the cracks and crevices. You know no chemistry which could explain such a phenomenon.
You take light
You venture out with several storage carboys. The liquid light registers no mass nor temperature, but it seems to respect the fused-quartz surface of the containers. You fill them, and stow your prize in the hold, where it gleams gently.
You weigh the anchor
This blue-white sun has no planets, only a broad ring of asteroidal trash. One planetoid seems touched with an unusual glow.

The fluid luminescence is unique in your memory and experience. The light, together with the iridescent cloth -- discoveries like these will assure your fame.
You raise the sails
You raise sail to pulsar-light. Horizon rides a long crest out through the nebula and into the star-clusters beyond.

This region is dominated by old, old stars -- the suns of the early universe, scant of life's rich elements. Perhaps they have nothing for you. But a fey mood is on you, and you determine to forge ahead until you have found something worthy of your time.
You wait
You allow the Horizon to move on.

You have passed into a starless bubble in the cluster. Solar winds howl through the space. The galactic spiral is spread in a long glorious arc below you.

You feel, more than hear, an eerie shift in the neutrino flux. It's not a signal... you think; but the natural white noise of neutrinos has modulated to a spectral opalescence. And the odd flux is coming from straight ahead, on the far side of the bubble.
You wait
At your slow speed, Horizon succumbs to the powerful solar winds of the bubble. She shifts off-course, into the halo reaches.

You trawl among the halo's ancient stars. You can no longer sense the eerie neutrino signal; but you are certain that it is somewhere nearby.
Wait
You allow the Horizon to move on.

You have entered a starless bubble in the cluster. Solar winds howl through the space.

You sense the eerie flux once again. It is coming from straight ahead, on the far side of the bubble. You're not sure you can reach it, in these crosscurrents.
You raise sails
You haul the sails higher. Horizon accelerates across the void, towards the source of the neutrino shift.

Stellar gas presses in on you, drawn together by who knows what confluence of nebular magnetism and solar winds.

The odd neutrino flux is coming from beyond the clouds. But your sails are shuddering. Controlling Horizon is difficult.
You loosen the sails
You relax the sails. They billow, catching the dense solar currents, and you steer Horizon into the cluster.

You have passed into a dense cluster of ancient stars. Murky currents swirl around you. Somewhere out of sight, you hear a nova-chain crackling away.

The odd neutrino flux is off to the side, tangled in the maze.
You examine the flux
The normal white hiss of the neutrino background -- the cosmic noise of burning stars -- has shifted, somewhere to the side. One flavor follows another in a delicate, shimmering opalescence. You know of no property of space which could cause such a thing.
Lower sails
You lower the sails, and steer carefully into the cluster.

New suns are condensing here -- an unusual phenomenon in these halo reaches. Their ultraviolet flares have swept this region free of the dust that birthed them.

The odd neutrino flux is coming from beyond the binary. But your sails are rippling.
Tighten sails
You tighten sail. Horizon shivers, catching the energetic radiation, and draws in on the neutrino source.

You have passed into a starless bubble in the cluster. Solar winds howl through the space. Somewhere out of sight you can hear a variable star thumping.

The odd neutrino flux is coming from straight ahead, on the far side of the bubble. You will have to accelerate to reach it across these currents.
Look around
New suns are condensing here -- an unusual phenomenon in these halo reaches. Their ultraviolet flares have swept this region free of the dust that birthed them.

The odd neutrino flux is coming from beyond the binary. But your sails are rippling loosely.
You look
New suns are condensing here -- an unusual phenomenon in these halo reaches. Their ultraviolet flares have swept this region free of the dust that birthed them.

The odd neutrino flux is coming from beyond the binary. But your sails are rippling loosely, unable to resist the ultraviolet storm.
You unfurl the sails
You haul the sails higher. Horizon accelerates across the void, towards the source of the neutrino shift.

Here at the heart of the halo cluster, a brown dwarf star slowly gutters towards exhaustion.

The odd neutrino flux is coming from the vicinity of the dwarf star.
You go to the dwarf star
You furl your sails, and descend into the brown dwarf star's outer system.

The brown dwarf, you discover, is circled by a lone, frozen planet.
You go to the planet
You drop the anchor. Horizon glides in towards the dwarf star and its icy companion.

This planet might once have been a chilly wasteland. Now it is nothing but slabs of black ice, layered with the ancient snow that was once an atmosphere.

Or, no. Those protrusions of ice are too angular to be natural. They are monuments -- how old, you have no way of knowing. But sheltering beneath them are row upon row of engraved tablets.
You examine the tablets
You can make nothing of the engravings. You will have to bring them back to the linguists of d'Accord.

The tablets themselves have a vitreous shine. You realize, inspecting carefully, that they are pure helium -- frozen helium, a substance that should not exist on the surface of a world.
You get the tablets
You seal several of the tablets in layers of vacuum insulation -- and then layers on top of that. Moving as delicately as you can, you transport the bulky packages to your cryohold. A few tense moments reveal no sublimation of the frozen helium, to your relief.
You weigh the anchor
The ice-world shrinks behind you, as you rise to the edge of the brown dwarf's orbit.

Civilizations are fragile, and the relics of an unknown race -- a people who might have bloomed billions of years past, in the cold unlight of a dwarf star -- these tablets must be incalculably valuable. You are torn: should you come around, and begin the journey back to the bright worlds?

But so much remains out there for you to take. Just one more discovery. Perhaps two.
You raise the sail
You hoist the sails once again. Slowly, the infrared glow of the dwarf fills them, and Horizon moves out into the galactic halo.

A rare sight drifts into view, far ahead: a red supergiant guttering on the edge of catastrophe. It is a crimson, billowing cauldron of turbulent fire -- pulsing irregularly, choked with helium and carbon ash.
You go to star
You vector for the supergiant. Horizon's fast approach compresses its history. Carbon roils in the star's atmosphere; shock-waves roll in fast-forward across its surface.

By the time you see oxygen and argon boiling into the red star's corona, it is too late to turn aside. The light of fusing metals washes over Horizon, and the shockwave is only fractionally behind.
...

Lights appear on the control consoles, one by one. Horizon of Night is coming back to life. The walls around you are dim and radiation-scarred; you have no idea how long it's taken the ship to recover enough function to support you. But you are awake. You stretch in your couch, shudder, and take stock.

Outside is blackness, pure and opaque.
Inventory
You have the helium tablets, the liquid light, and the iridescent cloth, all safely stowed.
You look at the blackness
You are surrounded by blackness, pure and opaque. Whatever corner of space you've been flung into, it's dense enough to block all starlight. Only the vague thermal wash of microwaves reassures you that the universe is out there at all.
You raise the sails
You scan the spars, and then scan them again, but it is just as you expected: your sails are gone. The monomolecular lace was surely blasted apart in the first instant of the disaster.

But then, if the sails had held against the shockwave, you suppose you would have been swept into the next galaxy. Small blessings.
You look at the ship
Horizon of Night is wounded, but she lives. The hull is sound. The controls and the shipframe are more or less functional. But the sails are destroyed, and the compass must have cracked. Worse: her senses are quite dead. You will have to steer by eye; and there is nothing outside to see, at all.

Stowed in Horizon's hold are the helium tablets, the liquid light, and the iridescent cloth.
Port
Spaceships really only fly forwards.
Forwards
Your sails are gone; only ruined tatters of lace remain on the spars.
You examine the light
The hold contains several carboys of the pale liquid light. It seems to pulse faintly in its containers.
You open carboys
You lever the carboys out of the hold, crack the seals, and expose the liquid light to space.

A thin streamer of light spreads from Horizon's hold. It does little to shift the darkness... but another streamer rolls outward, and then more. Soon you can make out dust particles and shreds of debris -- a star's remains, now aggregated by chance or Horizon's own gravity into a swirling mass. Some aeon this might become a planet.

The light diffuses quickly, but your surroundings are illuminated now. You have a chance of getting clear of this space.
Look around
You are surrounded by thick, swirling debris. It is dangerous, but you might navigate it -- if you had a compass. And sails.
You put the cloth on the mast
You unroll the iridescent cloth from your hold, and begin fastening it to Horizon's spars.

The tissue seems strong and it plays well upon your lines. Even reefed, it rolls eagerly in the dust currents. After a timeless interval of labor, you have its full measure rigged and ready to unfurl.

But you notice a faint silver vapor subliming from the new sails. Apparently this material, light as it is, is not perfectly suited for space travel. Best you hurry.
You look at the compass
The compass housing is ridged with barely-healed scars. It must have cracked in the disaster; most of its superfluid helium has boiled away. If the ship had not managed this repair, the entire compass assembly might have been hopelessly quenched. No doubt the course-memory of your travels has been lost. But the mechanism itself looks sound.
Melt tablets
You can think of no other choice.

You fashion a capillary line from the last of your insulation, and connect it to the compass chamber. Carefully, you lower the line onto the first of the frozen helium tablets. The thermal gradient shifts; the priceless artifact begins to melt.

The arrangement works perfectly, of course. One by one, the tablets liquefy and are drawn up into the compass. By the time the last one is gone, the helium bath is full enough to function.
Look around
You are surrounded by thick, swirling debris. It is dangerous, but you are sure you can navigate it.
You unfurl the sails
You hoist the sails -- what has yet survived your touch -- and bring Horizon of Night under way.
...

You are not so far from Myrmidal, at this end of your wandering. You pass by suns on the way home; they do not hold your interest, not long enough to slow Horizon in its course. And there are the sails, to be sure. You leave a trail of vapor in your wake, as the iridescent fabric decays. Delay is no temptation now.

In the end, it is the touch of Myrmidal's solar wind that brushes the last shreds of sail away.

Horizon falls across the system, through the staticky noise of civilization, until the patrol tenders match your course and bring you in tow. They jibe your ill luck, and offer you the gossip of your centuries outward-gone. You swap them stories of treasures found; floating creatures and icy ruins; the sound a ship's sails make as they explode in supernova-light. The patrollers laugh and applaud a lie well-told. You leave it at that.
You raise the sails
You can't raise sail here! The docking environment is crowded with ships and equipment. Your sails would be destroyed immediately, and with a terrible mess.
You raise anchor
The anchor precesses.

Horizon shakes, waking the speed which has slept these past years. Myrmidal's magnetic halo bucks her keel high; high and out through the rings of city and industry and careless Myrmidal society. When the anchor falls into place along the keel, Horizon rings bell-clear, and the sky is black.

You are circling the outer fringe of Myrmidal's system, where your keel's rhodomagnetics balance the solar winds. You pass snow-miners and farfactories, humming cheerfully in their work.

Already the quiet is a relief. But this is still civilization, and this star has nothing for you.
You raise the sails
The sails begin to unfurl. They catch sunlight. The Horizon of Night shifts gladly around her keel, and slides into interstellar space.

Stars thin around you as you leave the bright worlds behind. A globular cluster drifts by.

Somewhere out there, you sense, are treasures worthy of your attention.
You continue
You stretch the sails to their fullest spread. The Horizon of Night leans forward eagerly, and springs out into the void.

The bright worlds are far behind Horizon now. Emptiness hangs wide between the stars, out here.
Warp 8
You recall, from a quixotic interest in antique blue-water sailing jargon, that "to warp" is to draw a sea-ship into dock by pulling on ropes. But it really isn't meaningful for starships.