Perry Rhodan Lemuria 1: Ark of the Stars (11 page)

"The biggest profit waits for those with the courage to step off the beaten path," Rhodan advised. "Executing an ultra-light jump will take only a few minutes, and we won't stay more than a few minutes."

"Then why go there at all?"

"To be certain of what we've found. Maybe to find more information. But definitely to search for the mother ship."

"Mother ship?"

Pearl hoped her mouth wasn't hanging open as unattractively as Sharita's.

"The mother ship. Think about it! We've brought the wreck of a shuttle, a transfer craft, on board. Its engines could not have accelerated it to near light-speed; everything about its design is clearly intended for short-range flights. There's only one explanation: the shuttle must have gotten its velocity from the mother ship. And that ship must still be in the area of impact, unless it has hyperdrive capability. But I consider that extremely unlikely since we haven't found any trace of five-dimensional technology in the wreck."

Pearl and Sharita were silent, then they exchanged a long look. Pearl nodded almost imperceptibly. She hoped Sharita had enough self-control to follow her advice.

"Very well," Sharita said finally. She spoke slowly, as though she had to force out each syllable. "Your logic is convincing. We'll investigate." She looked into the lens of the humming microcamera floating nearby. "You heard me, people! We're going on a treasure hunt!"

She turned to Pearl. "Plot the trajectory of the wreck before we took it on board—we'll follow it. And not half a light-month, but four light-years."

"But that's much too far!" Pearl protested. What had gotten into Sharita this time? "That's almost a—"

"—hundred times. Exactly. Because of the high velocity, time ran a hundred times faster on the shuttle than for us. The fifteen days we're assuming are measured in subjective time on board the wreck."

Pearl felt herself turning red. "Oh. I didn't think of that."

"Don't worry about it," Sharita said. "That's what you have me for."

"Lemal?"

The Naahk of the
Nethack Achton
had to force himself to turn his attention away from the screen. He didn't appreciate being disturbed. Especially not when he was working on the Ship's chronicle.

"Yes? What is it?"

"The Tenoy have succeeded in capturing one of the traitors."

"Good."

Lemal Netwar bent over the screen once more. The work on the chronicle was difficult and tiring, but indispensable. Who would record the history of the
Nethack Achton
for future generations if not he? The Net, perhaps, but somehow he doubted a presentation by a group of linked computers would say much to human readers. In an attempt to present an accurate depiction of facts, the Net would support its account with graphs and statistics, possibly even letting the numbers speak for themselves with no text at all. Lemal Netwar was not interested in that kind of truth. His account was based on human qualities—and for him, chief among them seemed to be forgetfulness. It seemed to him that he found it harder to remember with each passing year.

And to remember, he needed quiet.

"Lemal?"

He suppressed a curse. "Yes, what is it? Have you caught more?"

"No, not yet," the Net replied. "But it won't be much longer. The interrogation will begin very soon."

The interrogation. The Naahk had managed to drive it out of his mind. "I know that."

"Don't you want to be present? The last time ... "

The last time was long ago!
he wanted to shout. This interrogation, many other difficult decisions ... they were the price of his rank. He had to pay that price or resign his rank along with everything that came with it. At the thought, his hand went automatically to the chain around his neck, and he knew he could never make that sacrifice. Lemal Netwar had too much to lose.

"I'm coming," he said.

The Naahk left his rooms, something he did more and more infrequently. The older he grew, the more inclined to stay in his quarters he became. The Net took care of most routine business without his participation, and probably did it better than he would have—at least, truer to the spirit of the Ship and less prone to error. For the few critical decisions that required his involvement, he had learned that he could make them just as easily inside his quarters. He had even convinced himself that making judgments from the isolation of his quarters was better. Distance between him and those whose fates he determined allowed him to be more objective.

There was one additional and immediate reason why Netwar left his quarters only reluctantly: it was unbearably painful.

The Naahk's residence was situated near the long axis around which the
Nethack Achton
rotated in order to generate artificial gravity. Gravity increased with distance from the axis. The Inner Deck, which lay closest to the axis, had a third of the Homeland's gravity. In the Naahk's quarters, which hung like a spider's ensnared prey in a web of cable connections almost in the center of the Ship, that level sank to a tenth. Just enough for things to stay in place but exerting no undue pressure on his joints.

The elevator that connected the Naahk's residence with the Inner Deck began moving. Since the cable was seldom used, it now groaned loudly. Netwar idly imagined that the strain of moving affected the cable in the same way moving affected his joints.

Netwar moaned as pain stabbed his knees and hips. He tried to stand perfectly still to deny the pain a target, but either he failed to remain motionless or the disease had reached a new stage of intensity.

As the Naahk, Netwar commanded the skills of the best doctors on the Ship, but they couldn't help him. They could only give a name to his suffering: arthritis. The doctors couldn't prevent the accelerating deterioration of his joints; they couldn't even slow it down. All Netwar could do was accept his disease as a necessary evil that went along with his rank and hope that he would be freed from it sooner rather than later.

Through the transparent plastic floor of the elevator cabin, Netwar saw people waiting for him. Several Tenoy, but no officers—no one from the higher ranks of the administration, not even a Tenarch.

Why get their hands dirty, when others would do it for them?

He pulled himself together as the cabin approached the Inner Deck. Just before the elevator glided to a stop, he injected himself with pain medicine, his hand clenching the injection gun in his pocket.

The pain disappeared at once, replaced by a feeling of elation for which Netwar knew from experience he would pay dearly. The injection freed him from pain for several hours: the problem with eliminating it was that he ordinarily used the pain to regulate his movements. By paying attention to his level of discomfort, he could avoid actions that would aggravate his condition. Without the pain to guide him, he almost certainly gave the deterioration of his joints a push, and in the long term twisted the screw of his pain one turn higher.

The Tenoy bowed to him mutely, their eyes fixed firmly on the chain around his neck. This was perhaps the most significant moment of their lives: they were meeting the Naahk in person! Perhaps their emotion was so great that they would be able to repress the memory of the screams they would soon be hearing. Netwar already knew that he would not be able to do that. These screams would join the many others that tore him out of his sleep at night.

The Tenoy had brought an electric three-wheeled vehicle, and now politely indicated for him to sit on the wide padded seat. The Naahk refused. If he only had a few dearly purchased hours left to use his body, he didn't want to waste them by sitting, even if doing so would have been easier on his joints. More importantly, refusing the ride would reinforce his status. The Tenoy would tell every detail of their meeting with the Naahk, including, of course, his modesty.

They started out. The walk led them through the steel landscape of the Inner Deck. Netwar knew that most metach came to this section of the Ship only reluctantly. They missed the green that defined the Middle and Outer decks, but most of all they felt oppressed by the close quarters. The Inner Deck had such a small diameter that there could be no illusion of a sky. If one raised his head, he saw the opposite side of the deck, on which the machinery complexes and people hung upside down, attached to the floor by centrifugal force. After all these years, even the Naahk found it hard to shake off the feeling of being about to fall toward the ceiling.

But Netwar didn't look up. He concentrated entirely on the miracle of his legs carrying him forward with the effortlessness and strength of a young man.

The walk lasted almost half an hour. Too long for the Tenoy, who felt increasingly uneasy in the presence of the silent, mysterious Naahk; too short for Netwar, who wanted to enjoy his fleeting illusion of health and was reluctant to reach their destination.

It couldn't be avoided. The small group arrived at a low-roofed shed constructed of plastic slats. "Here we are, Naahk," one of the Tenoy said, unnecessarily.

Netwar stared at the shed; there were dozens like it on the Inner Deck. They provided storage for spare parts for the
Nethack Achton's
machinery, which was concentrated in the protected interior of the Ship. Light shone through the age-deformed slats; one shadow moved slowly, a second lay not moving at all.

They will hear every word,
Netwar thought.
Every scream.

The door of the shed opened. A man with gaunt features stepped out.

"Launt, what are you doing here? There is no need for a Tenarch at this proceeding."

"I want to speak with you, Naahk. Alone."

"Of course." Launt was the most intelligent of the Tenarchs, a capable administrator. And a courageous man. No other would have dared to speak to the Naahk so directly.

Netwar turned to the Tenoy. "Go! You have fulfilled your duty. I no longer require you."

Hesitantly, the Tenoy withdrew. Netwar hoped that they wouldn't linger in the vicinity out of a sense of duty. It was not necessary for them to overhear his conversation with the Tenarch. And certainly not for them to hear the screams.

"Speak!"

"I must make an unusual request, Lemal. Perhaps it is even outrageous. But I am compelled to ask." Launt cleared his throat. "I ask you to release them. The traitors, the woman inside this shed, all the others. They pose no danger to the Ship."

The request was unusual. But outrageous? Netwar considered. Yes, outrageous. The more so because it reflected his own desires. He didn't want to do what lay ahead of him, but that didn't change the fact that he had to do it. For the good of the Ship.

"Not to you, personally," the Naahk said. "And not today or tomorrow, that is true. But what would happen if we let them go unpunished? They would promise never to dream of the stars again. A worthless promise. The traitors can't give up their dreams. When it becomes clear that there is nothing to fear, others would join them. Within decades, order within the Ship would break down. And we can't allow that. We have to think in terms of centuries, even millennia."

Netwar did not speak the name the traitors had given themselves.
Star Seekers.
That name meant something to him a long time ago, so long ago that he often wondered if he had only imagined that time. Perhaps it was only an illusion he had created to justify himself. Launt's face flushed. "That is easy for you to say! You have—"

"On the contrary. It is an extremely difficult decision, precisely because I know exactly what I am talking about. We must deal with these traitors now."

Launt didn't move.

"Launt, you are one of my best Tenarchs. I don't want to lose you. Go now, and I will forget this incident!"

A vein throbbed in Launt's throat.

"Please go!"

The Tenarch trembled, but stepped out of the way. His head bowed, he disappeared between the machines of the Inner Deck without looking back at the Naahk.

Netwar took a deep breath and went into the shed. A single unshaded bulb threw harsh shadows around the room. The Pekoy greeted him with a silent bow. He wore a mask with slits for the eyes and mouth, and a round hole for the nostrils. Even Netwar didn't know whether the mask concealed a man or a woman. The Pekoy's heavy apron revealed nothing about the wearer's body shape.

The Net would know who was hidden behind the mask. If he asked, the Net would give him the answer: after all, he was the Naahk, but Netwar had never asked the Net for information about the Pekoy. Though he had questions—How did the Net select the Pekoy? Did the Pekoy (Netwar couldn't help it: he always pictured a male) exercise his office voluntarily? Out of a sense of duty toward the Ship and its mission? Or out of greed, for additional rations, his own house? And, perhaps the most important question: was it for the Pekoy as it was for him? Did the screams of his victims pursue him? Or did he go back to his Metach'ton afterward with the satisfied feeling of having done his job well? Some knowledge was easier to live without.

In the middle of the shed, a young woman lay on a work table improvised from a rigid plastic sheet set across two stacks of crates. The traitor. Sweat had clumped her chin-length hair in damp strands. Plastic cords tied her to the table at her ankles and wrists. A wide strap passed around her neck, preventing her from raising her head more than a centimeter or two without choking.

"Y-you're the Naahk?"

Netwar nodded.

"P-please ... help me. I didn't do anything bad." She spoke softly, and had to swallow more than once between words.

"I am here to help you."

Her clothes were torn. Not as a result of mistreatment—the Net would have informed him immediately if the Tenoy had overstepped their authority—but of the arrest. The woman had fiercely defended herself.

"Thank you," the woman whispered. "Thank you. Please tell him"—her eyes rolled toward the Pekoy, who stood silently at the head end of the table—"that he should let me go."

"I can't do that. I do not have that power."