Viator

He woke to the absence of wind, of all sound, the port enclosing a circle of pewter morning light, and, sitting up, rubbing his eyes, he registered the absence of Aralyn. The cabin door stood ajar. He felt a pang in his chest, knowing that he had frightened her away, but immediately thereafter felt relieved and hoped she had gone. He splashed water on his face, changed into fresh underwear, a clean shirt, a little worried that there was no sound, no groaning metal—not that the sound was continuous, it was intermittent, Viator forging ahead, then storing up more energy, forging ahead again, shattering the barrier in stages, but lately, more often than not, he woke to the groaning and he worried that Viator might have run out of energy, that they would be stuck and how much would that suck?, fuck, fuck, fuck…He straightened out his thoughts from the skid they’d been in and saluted his image in the mirror, Bon soir, mon capitan!, and went briskly along the passageway to the mess. Which was a mess, coincidentally. His maps strewn about the floor and the outer door wide open, doubtless left so by Aralyn in her haste, letting in the wind. He bent a knee, prepared to start picking them up, but an animal chill touched the back of his neck and he straightened, suspecting that something was wrong. He stepped out onto the deck. The air was warmer, the icicles were beading at their tips, the snow underfoot was mushy, melting, and it was difficult to read the tracks, but there looked to be two sets of footprints leading to the stern. A soft grunting came to his ears. Perhaps some other animal wandered away from the Iron Shore. Wilander grew cautious in his approach, edging along the bulkhead. The grunting stopped. He paused, listening, and when it did not resume, he eased forward again, more of the stern coming into view, more yet, still more, and finally he spotted a gray-haired man standing facing the aft rail some thirty feet away, buckling his belt. Nygaard? Aralyn was there as well, creeping away along the rail until Nygaard barked at her, slapped her, raised his hand, threatening another slap, and she cowered. Wilander took in her chastened attitude and Nygaard’s masterful pose. He gave a cry, a feeble thing, it sounded as if he’d been shot in the lung, and charged, tripped, went sprawling on the icy deck. Aralyn broke for the starboard, passing from view, and Nygaard made a scuttling run forward, his face registering a comical degree of panic; then he retreated and flung himself over the rail.