Terror squeezed my heart like a predator’s jaws as I fell through the thoroughfare wall. The mist swirled and changed shape, and I actualized. I could smell soil. I spread my wings, catching myself and gliding through a dust cloud. The dust cloud parted, revealing a sky of moving, spinning, careening grassy islands in a starry night expanse. I ducked when a rock flew at my face, then another. I flew around islands and darted around spinning rocks and dust clouds. Maneuvering so made me lose my breath. I was tired and out of shape. Sweat matted down the fur behind under my mask and jacket. I tucked my wings and darted as another rock flew at my head. I opened my wings and landed on the green, grassy face of one of the larger islands, heaving to catch my breath. A sound caught my ear, far off at first but closing in on where I was standing. It sounded like heavy rain on a tin roof. Louder and louder it got. Then I could see it, like a brown curtain on the horizon. It was no rain shower. I looked left, right, and all around for a place to hide or something to shield myself with, but there was nothing, so I ran. I flapped my wings, trying to take off again, but it was too late. An asteroid shower rained down. The stones were tiny at first, peppering my mask, wings, head, and shoulders, then grew larger. They fell like a torrent, and I lost visibility. A rock smacked my head and by body went limp. My senses black.

  * * *

  When I woke up, the skipper stood over me, grimacing with his empty eye sockets. He raised his cold stone fists. The rock fell, bashing in my face.

  I woke up with a horrifying start.

  “He’s not one of those ratting canids, is he?” I heard something squeak.

  Greasy little paws were all over me. My eyes adjusted in a way I felt the realm spinning.

  “Easy, pup,” someone said. “Easy now. You’ve had quite a crash.”

  “Who are you?” I said. “Where am I?”

  “Give him back his mask,” someone said.

  They placed my mask on my face, and the world stopped spinning. My eyesight cleared, and my sense of smell returned. I was lying on the deck of a ship among hundreds of bald-tail rodents, no more than a cubit tall, all around.

  “Get him a drink,” someone said.

  “You’re safe aboard the Tipsy,” the little skipper in a blue coat said. “We found you lying limp on the face of one of them asteroids and tractored you aboard.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  I winced as pain shot through my right wing like a lightning bolt.

  “It looks broken,” one of them said.

  A rodent returned with a wooden mug and held it up like a cask.

  “This will help,” he said. “Sip it slowly.”

  I sipped the foamy, cold ale.

  “Where am I?” I said.

  “You’re in the realm of Loston Port,” the skipper said before taking a long puff of his cigarette.

  I saw rodents all over the decks, scurrying about every rigging and bulkhead. They were small for voyagers, with disheveled brown, black, white, or gray fur and long, but they were dirty.

  “See him below and tend to his wounds,” the skipper said.

  Several scurried up to me and placed a rope in each of my hands.

  “Hold tight, mate,” one said.

  I held the rope, and they heaved, hauling me to my feet. The ship rocked to the side, and I lost balance. The rodents held the rope and moved to the side, pulling me in the opposite direction, righting my stance, and helping me stay afoot until I found my legs. A couple of them escorted me below decks and wrapped me in a wool blanket. They served me a steaming bowl of fish chowder. I could not recall the last time I ate. The bowl was replaced with a full one as soon as I’d finished, and the ale in my mug was topped off whenever I took a sip.

  “I beg pardon,” I said. “Have you any water?”

  The two rodents waiting on me looked at one another, confused.

  “Why?” one of them said.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know that ale will quench my thirst.”

  “You want water to drink?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay, I’ll see if I can find some.”

  The rodent was gone for a while. He returned with an old dusty cask, small enough for the two of them to carry. He brought a clean mug and filled it with off-colored water. I took the mug and gulped it whole, ignoring its tepid flavor.

  “You’re a weird thing,” the rodent said, refilling the mug.

  I gulped the water down again, and he refilled it a third time.

  “Where did you say you were from?”

  I drank half of the third pint and wiped my muzzle.

  “The Loyal Trench,” I said. “By way of Weeping Wallows.”

  “Loyal Trench,” he said, stroking his whiskers. “I’ve heard of it but never been there.”

  “I hate Weeping Wallows,” the other said. “I’ve been there lots of times.”

  I gulped the rest of the third pint, and the rodent poured what was left of the cask.

  “I’m sorry for drinking all your water,” I said.

  “It’s okay. None of the crew ever drinks water.”

  I thought that odd. How could a crew work on nothing but ale?

  “What’s our heading?” I said.

  “We’ll return to Loston Port after the hold is full. Have you heard of it?”

  “There’s not a voyager alive who hasn’t heard of Loston Port. It’s one of the busiest ports in the Infinite Beyonds.”

  They found me a hammock and strung it up inside a private quarter. The room was a closet to me but a berthing quarters to the rodents, housing a hundred of them from floor to ceiling. I relieved myself in the chamber pot, then flopped into the hammock. Considering my last two voyages, I was cautious of mind, but had no choice but to trust them. My body was broken, my mind gone, my energy depleted. I couldn’t have flown another furlong if my life depended on it. If they were going to kill me in my sleep, then that would just have to be the end of me. I hung my broken wing over the side, pulled up the blanket, and fell into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  The rock stalked my dreams. I woke several times that night thinking he was there, listening and waiting.

  “How long was I out?” I said groggily to the rodents in the rafters looking down at me.

  “Two days,” another said, pushing a steaming cup of java across the deck.

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  The mug was warm in my hands when I picked it up. Every sip soothed my body as I stood up and slowly worked out the ache in my arms, back, and legs. The java paired well with another bowl of hot chowder.

  I finished breakfast and ambled down the creaky wooden corridor and the ladder to the main deck. I stepped through the hatch, getting my first good look around. The Tipsy’s decks and corridors were made of wood, but the ship’s hull was bottle-shaped and made of thick glass. The glass hull gave me a full view of the field of floating green islands.

  “One hundred and fifty cubits from the neck to the base,” the skipper said, scurrying up to me. “Good morning. Slept good?”

  “Aye, thank you. I am worried about my wing, though. I should get it mended as soon as possible.”

  “Well, we got no shaman on board and won’t make port until we finish refilling the livewell.”

  The skipper pointed his gnarly fingernail at the sky. Throughout the surrounding area were schools of fish swimming through the sky.

  “I’m a skilled voyager,” I said. “I grew up on a fishing ship. I can help you fill your livewell.”

  “Oh no, young pup. You’ve gotta rest. To the berthing with you, and we’ll see you to port safely. This is dangerous work, and I can’t fathom any more harm coming to you. I do apologize, however, considering the state you were in, I didn’t want to ask you this when we found you, but I must insist you lift your sleeves for me.”

  “Of course,” I said, pulling up my sleeves and showing him clean forearms. “Not my first voyage. I wouldn’t have expected any less.” The skipper nodded and smiled.

  Pinching, throbbing pain in my wing again, and I couldn’t fold it behind my back. I had to hold it up a bit to keep it from pinching. I recoiled worse after watching the crew employing backward fishing methods I’d never seen. It was a wonder they caught anything at all. The rodents tied nets to the ship’s frame and ran them out of the bottleneck. Then, the skipper would push on the flue-lever, driving the ship in reverse and dragging the net through a school.

  “All right, lads,” the first mate called. “Make ready to reel her in.”

  The crew grumbled and meandered to their stations. They formed a line and began pulling the net in by hand. It was painful to watch. They tripped over themselves, stumblebum and drunk. The net was nearly empty by the time they reeled it in.

  “Nice work, mates,” the skipper said, stumbling and raising his mug in a gesture of congratulations. “That’s the largest haul today.”

  That must have been the most undisciplined, inefficient line work I’d ever seen. The lines were tied as though a child had been working the riggings. One voyager stumbled, then purged onto the deck. The crew celebrated boisterously and clapped him on the back like he had won a race.

  “I must insist you allow me to help you,” I told the skipper. “I’ll get no sleep with my wing throbbing the way it is.”

  “You’re in pain, lad?” he said, handing me his mug.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’d rather help get the ship under way if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Oh no,” slurred the skipper. “You gotta rest.”

  I watched the crew struggle through two more nettings before I ignored the skipper’s orders and went to work. Even if he had the heart to flog me, I knew his arm was as meek as the rest of his body, and he was so drunk his whip would never find its target.

  “Net up, lads!” the skipper said.

  The crew grumbled as they moved into their positions, lazy and sluggish. They started tying the net lines to the frame again. A few hundred of them pushed a balled-up net through the bottleneck.

  “Stop,” I said, stepping over them and ripping off the lines tied to the frame. I retied the lines onto the cleats beneath the capstan with proper knots.

  “What you using them cleat hitches and slipknots for?” the rodent beside me hiccuped.

  “You know these riggings?” I said.

  “Aye, I know what slipknots is.”

  “Then why aren’t you using them?”

  “Bah,” the rodent belched. “You don’t need them fancy knots. Not unless you’re some kind of fancy boy. You a fancy boy?” Hiccup. “Mate?”

  “Mechanisms!” I said. “You’re up!”

  Five mechanisms stepped forward from the aft quarter. The skipper said nothing. I moved to the helm and gripped the wheel with my left and the throttle lever with my right.

  “Shove off,” I said.

  “You ain’t in charge here,” the first mate said.

  The crew, eager to lighten their load, watched as the mechanisms raised their metal hands and pushed the net through the bottleneck with their levitation beams. The net popped out of the bottleneck and burst opened like a sail. I steered the ship into position, threw her into reverse, and pulled the entire school into the net. The mechanisms pushed stray fish into the net with their levitation beams.

  “Prepare to reel!” I said.

  The rodent crew looked back at me, confused and scratching their heads.

  “Reel using the capstan!” I said.

  The crew loaded wooden pegs into the slots on the capstan and began to push the gear around. The net squeezed through the bottleneck, and its wiggling contents spilled into the livewell without losses.

  “You are a voyager indeed,” the skipper beamed. “I don’t remember the last time we netted such a payoff. We’re going to be rich!”

  “You run your numbers, and we’ll bring them in for the rest of the shift,” I said.

  “You’re hired!” the skipper said, reaching up to shake my hand. “You’ll be first mate from now on.”

  The mechanisms bent and slumped against the bulkheads, falling asleep.

  “You see?” the first mate said. “You see what he done, skipper? We ain’t got the gas to keep running them mechanisms all day long.”

  “No,” I said. “But you have enough crew to keep them wound up, right?”

  Rodents scurried to the mechanisms and wound the tension rods on their backs. The mechanisms stood back up, ready for orders. The skipper held his finger up, searching through a blur of drunkenness.

  “You,” he said. “You’re fired.”

  “You there,” I said, pointing at a rodent sitting on his haunches. “Step to it! We’re making another reel.”

  The day was long, maddened by the throb in my wing. They’d drop lines and tasks to retreat to their cups. Another one picked up the slack to finish the job but then stopped to grab a sip of his mug before slipping and falling in a pool of vomit. The deck was as filthy.

  “Let’s get a swab going,” I said.

  They grumbled at me.

  “Now!” I barked. “Stow the bellyaching!”

  I stepped over scurrying rodents to the swab crate. I grabbed buckets of holystone and rags, strolled up to where the former first mate sat drowning his self-pity, and dropped them.

  “Motivate these voyagers, or I’ll flog you senseless,” I said, pointing at a group of them sitting against the bulkhead.

  He must have known I was serious because the rodents went right to work cleaning the deck, though it took the better part of the afternoon. By the time they finished, the planks looked no different, but the livewell was brimming over, so it made no difference.

  The pain in my wing intensified as the day wore on. We needed to make port with as much haste as possible. I’d have tossed the skipper out the hatch and commandeered the ship if that was what it took, but I couldn’t do so in good conscience. He had saved my life and been kind. I would repay him in full by managing the crew with all my skill at the helm. Besides, I had no idea how to reach a port in a spinning island labyrinth.

  “Make port!” the skipper finally said. “We’re on our way.”

  Most of the crew went below decks, save for a couple posted on the lookout. I accompanied the skipper, who sat at the helm, wheel in one hand, cup in the other. Floating islands spun through the sky around us, narrowly missing the glass hull as the skipper piloted the ship. He maneuvered the ship by intuition, as the compass needle shot from one end to the other, down and up, and then was stuck in one position for a moment before spinning inside its face.

  “I don’t need maps and orbucullums to tell me where I’m going,” he said.

  “How do you know where you’re going?”

  “I know the way, good and true.”

  To the crew’s delight, I had a couple pints to idle the time spent watching asteroids shoot at the ship’s glass hull. But one never found its mark. I had to hand it to that skipper.

  “How long do you suppose it will take us to reach port?” I said.

  “We’ll get there,” he said. “Eventually. Headed in the right direction, I think.”

  My heart sank into my gut.

  “You know, skipper, It may benefit you to lock up the grog during business hours.”

  “Business hours? What’s that?”

  “The hours the crew spend working.”

  “Wouldn’t be much of a skipper if I did that,” he laughed.

  “Don’t you fear for the safety of the crew? This is dangerous work for a sober voyager.”

  “All the more reason to let them have a little drink. There ain’t no harm in it. It’s natural and healthy. Keeps one light and fit.”

  He wasn’t hearing what I had to say, and I was in no mood to argue.

  “I’ll retire then,” I said. “If you’ll not be needing me anymore.”

  “Very well. Take a rest. You did excellent work today. Most excellent!”

  I went below decks and was greeted with a bowl of chowder. I slurped it down, then hopped into my hammock for a long nap.

  * * *

  I woke up to a still, quiet ship. We made port! I almost couldn’t believe it. I hopped down from my hammock, put on my jacket, walked down the corridor to the skipper’s quarters, and knocked on the hatch.

  “Enter!” he said.

  I slid the hatch aside and stepped into a cabin lit by a single candle. The skipper’s face was weathered and puffy.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Aye,” he said, lying in his little hammock. “I’m sure you guessed the cargo is unloaded and the crew are at the tavern.”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ve commissioned the next float to depart tomorrow morning, first light,” he said, rolling over in his hammock. “Your purse is there.”

  I picked up the sack on the desk and started walking out before I remembered something far more valuable than the purse.

  “I beg pardon,” I said. “But I’m going to need a reference letter.”

  “What you need a reference letter for?”

  “For the next float, of course.”

  “Next float?” he said. “What be wrong with the ship you’re on?”

  “Nothing. But a simple job is not the voyage I have in mind. I’m on a quest.”

  “You don’t want to float with nobody else, do you?”

  “It’s been a pleasure, sir. But my wing won’t be mended by tomorrow. And my needs guide me to another realm.”

  “Your wing?” he spat. “You don’t need no wings on a ship. You’re better off severing the damn things and just being a voyager.”

  “You’d cut off your legs to be a voyager?”

  “Aye! To keep my keep and drink my drink, you bet I would.”

  “You’re a fool, then.”

  The skipper’s face bloated like an overflowing commode.

  “I had a feeling you’d be too lazy to float on with us, so I drew up a letter just in case. The envelope is on the desk. Take it, and don’t dare come back groveling at me for another job.”

  I took the envelope and the sack and left. I wanted to say something hurtful, but my wing was of much greater concern at that point than my ego.

  ********

  Would you quit a job on the glass spaceship? Let us know in the comments!