Perry Rhodan Lemuria 1: Ark of the Stars (17 page)

"Can't you see I'm talking with Perry?"

"You can't do th—"

"Go back to your console! We need to be ready to defend against an attack at any moment!"

Pearl didn't move.

"That's an order."

Murmuring French-sounding curses, the first officer threw herself into the seat at her console. As a child, Pearl had learned that there had once been French-speaking inhabitants in the Province of Quebec, her family's country of origin. Their reputation had been a little quirky, but Pearl had liked that and as a teenager, she had learned a few fragments of the now extinct language. Mainly curses and salty expressions she could use as an officer on a prospecting ship.

"Now where were we?" Sharita asked, turning back to Rhodan. "Oh yes, the reinforcements. Alone, we don't have enough firepower. But we can fix that. One comm call from you and half the fleet of the League of Free Terrans will be here within a day."

Sharita was just over a meter-seventy tall and usually looked up at the other members of the crew. But now she was looking down on the seated Rhodan.
And she's enjoying it,
Alemaheyu thought.
Every second of it. She's got him right where she wants him.

"That's correct," Rhodan confirmed. "A comm call would be enough."

"Then what are you waiting for? We don't want to let our Akonian friends cherish their false hopes for too long."

Rhodan rose easily from the contour seat and said in a friendly tone, "You can wait for that comm message until the universe dies of entropy."

"What? But—"

"Have you forgotten why I'm on board? To make friendly contacts with the Akonians through unofficial channels."

Sharita stepped back. "But no one bought that line of bull you were spreading! That can't be the real reason you're with us!"

"I'm not the one spreading bull here!"

Alemaheyu could swear he saw Rhodan's eyes flash. Was the Immortal angry? The comm officer wouldn't have blamed him. He always maintained that anyone who didn't blow up at Sharita now and then couldn't be human.

"Let's assume I give in to your pressure," Rhodan went on, "and call in a fleet squadron. What would happen? The Akonians would slink away with their tail between their legs? I don't think so. We wouldn't do that even if an Akonian squadron materialized here a second from now, would we? If we left, it would only be to get backup. And it would go on like that. Each side would bring in more and more reinforcements until someone lost his nerve and fired." Rhodan took a step toward the commander. She didn't move, either from consternation or because she had decided to go through with what she had started. "Is that what you want, Sharita? A few thousand dead, political disavowals, and hatred that will take centuries to heal? And along with it the risk that this valuable Lemurian ship might be turned into a gas cloud in the heat of the battle?"

"No, no," Sharita shook her head vigorously. "I—"

It's consternation,
Alemaheyu decided.

"Dammit, all I want is for us to get what we're entitled to!"

"That's what I want, too."

"So why can't you think of anything better than to sit there and disagree with my suggestions?"

"Perhaps because you sat me down in this guest chair." Rhodan smiled. Conciliatory? Dangerous? "But that's in the past, right? I do have an idea how we can get what we're entitled to."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Out with it!"

Rhodan explained his idea.

"Hmm. I don't think they'll go for it ... " Lost in thought, the commander tugged down her uniform jacket out of habit. "But it's worth trying. Alemaheyu, connect me with the Akonian commander! I—"

"One moment," Rhodan interrupted her. "You are known as a woman with a pronounced sense of fairness. And as such, you would surely admit that I deserve a reward for my suggestion if it's successful. Right?"

"Well ... yes." Sharita sounded like a woman at the foot of a mountain watching an avalanche that she couldn't outrun rolling toward her.

"Don't worry. I'm a man of modest tastes. If this discovery results in financial gain, I'll divide my share among the crew of the
Palenque.
No, I'm only asking for one very small favor: I want to be on the team that's first to board the Lemurian ship."

Sharita's assent was drowned out by the crew's cheers for their generous benefactor.

What a sly fox!
Alemaheyu thought.
If I were an Akonian and found out who I was up against, I'd make sure I got out of here while I still could!

"Hurry up, Danque! Can't you move any faster, girl?" The voice came from all sides and echoed like thunder.

Denetree needed a few seconds to realize the voice was talking to her.

You fuzzbrain!
she admonished herself.
You've been here almost two weeks and you still haven't gotten used to your new name!

"Be right there!" she called. She crawled more quickly through the narrow air shaft. Behind her scraped the tool and replacement parts that she pulled along on a cord fastened to her belt. She had left behind at a branching of the main shaft the backpack that the Kalpen, the "airmakers," normally used to carry their gear. This shaft was too narrow for her to crawl through with a pack on her back, even though it fit to her body like a second skin.

Sometimes, when Denetree became careless and failed to maintain the discipline that the Kalpen had taught her, the feeling that there wasn't even enough room to breathe overwhelmed her.

At times like that, only one thing helped: stay calm and breathe shallow and quick, so that her ribcage didn't press against the air shaft walls, and think of other things so that she was transported far away in her mind.

Denetree sometimes thought of Venron and the gleam in his eyes, and of the gleam of the stars and the endless space between them. That frightened her.

But she also sometimes thought of her camp bed—the Kalpen didn't have permanent quarters, instead moving continuously through the Ship, always following their never-ending work—and of simply dropping down and going to sleep, and not wasting any more thoughts on yesterday or tomorrow. That frightened her even more.

At times like that, the best thing was to close her eyes and crawl on. Feeling her way to the next leak in the airshafts or to the defective sensor that was denying critical air supply to a sector, concentrating on the task in front of her.

Denetree's searching fingers found an uneven area, then she was reaching into emptiness. In the weak light of the lamp on her forehead, she saw the dim outline of a hole. The batteries in the lamps had long exceeded their life expectancy, so the old-timers among the Kalpen had given up struggling with them. They didn't really need the lights anymore; the required hand movements had long become second nature for them.

"Tekker!" she called. "I think I've found the spot! A hole!"

"Very good, girl! There's a Metach'ton of fieldswine depending on that conduit. We don't want your old comrades to slog away at half strength, do we, girl?" Tekker's cackling echoed through the shafts.

Girl this and girl that. It had been like that since she arrived in the Kalpen Metach'ton. The metach barely had been able to hide their disappointment with the newcomer. A beginner—and they could hardly keep up with the emergencies as it was! That accursed traitor had thoroughly disrupted the Ship's oxygen balance. And now the newcomer turned out to be a fieldswine! Working in the fields had given Denetree a powerful body, which was the last thing she needed for working with the Kalpen. The airmakers were slim and sinewy, agile human snakes able to make repairs in the narrowest shafts.

Denetree pulled on the plastic cord and drew up the slender bag of parts to between her legs. When she stretched out her arms to their limits, she could barely touch it. The bag had twisted; the sealant she needed was between her feet.

Swearing, Denetree worked at turning the bundle centimeter by centimeter.

She heard Tekker's cackling again. "Very good, girl! Music makes work easier! You've learning something from old Tekker, haven't you?"

And then there was Tekker. He was by far the oldest member of the Metach'ton. How old he was, no one knew, but he looked so wrinkled and shaky that it seemed reasonable to fear that he might fall over at any moment and only a bag of rattling bones would remain.

Tekker practically never spoke Denetree's new name. For him she was only the girl. Period. Her demands that he call her by name didn't move him. "Get as old as I am first and then we'll see," was all he told her, and then disappeared into an airshaft with the agility of a monkey.

Denetree finally managed to reach the screen she needed and pulled it out. Her arms ached; she wished she could fall sleep right then and there, but it was impossible. Tekker wouldn't give her any peace. She unrolled the screen and tore off a piece to cover the hole. "Much too big," Tekker would have griped. "You're wasting supplies!" But she was a beginner! She pressed the piece against the shaft. As the materials comprising the shaft and the screen reacted to each other and melted together, a pungent smell hit her nose. She was in luck; often the screens were too old or not made to spec and the chemical reaction didn't work. In those cases, Denetree had to attach the screen by hand.

Tekker had driven her close to madness. "Do this, girl! Do that, girl! Aren't you good for anything, girl?" Never had he left her in peace, never had he been satisfied with anything she had done. Here the adhesive seam wasn't right, there a repair didn't look good. And if the visual appearance was fine, something else didn't suit him: the newly installed sensor was too loose or she had used the wrong component. After a week she was ready to turn herself in to the Ship voluntarily. Nothing, nothing could be worse than this hell, this endless squirming around in the guts of the Ship, eternally being ordered around and yelled at.

And then had come the day when she nearly died.

The pungent smell dissipated quickly, carried away by the constant air current that blew through the narrow gaps around Denetree's body. She stowed the rest of the screen and pulled out the spray sealant. The pressure gauge was low. Denetree swallowed a curse with some effort—not Tekker's cackle again!—and applied herself to building up the pressure with the mechanical pump unit.

On that day she had been on her way through the Middle Deck, deep within its twenty-meter thickness of steel. It was an emergency, Tekker had barked, as though there were anything for the Kalpen but emergencies. But this time, it probably really was. The Kalpen had abandoned their deliberate, relaxed approach to their work. Rather than working at their individual discretion, they followed Tekker's instructions without the usual chatter.

The general excitement had infected Denetree. She had enjoyed the change from the routine, even though that routine was barely a week old, as well as the fact that Tekker hardly had time to "girl" her. As a newcomer she was marginally useful in a situation like this, and when Tekker finally gave her an assignment, she suspected he was just making sure she wasn't in the way. That suspicion had hurt her pride a little, but she decided to make the best of it, crawled into the shaft Tekker had assigned to her, and tried to catch up on a little sleep.

Finally the indicator on the spray sealant showed sufficient pressure. Denetree allowed herself—and in particular her right arm, which throbbed painfully after the pumping—a little rest, then she held the spray nozzle over the screen. The spray caught in the screen and quickly thickened to a solid layer that sealed the leak. Until the next repair, as the Kalpen told each other with a wink, and then burst out laughing and enjoyed another glass of the illicit alcohol slipped to them by grateful metach—often as a gift even before they made the repair.

A sound had awakened Denetree. Not the pounding by the Kalpen that came from a distance, but a kind of pattering. As though tiny paws flitted along the shaft wall. Denetree raised herself and listened attentively. Were there really shaft rats, then? Denetree had thought the Kalpen were pulling her leg when they told her of the pests that nested in the shafts and how tasty they were when roasted over an illegal fire.

She had decided to lay back down when she caught a glimpse of a shadowy form. There really were shaft rats! What if she caught one? She, the slow, clumsy fieldswine! That would bring her respect and glory. Maybe Tekker would even stop calling her "girl!"

Denetree waited a few minutes, then she went over the connecting shaft with the material strength tester. In two places, the measuring device sounded. Denetree sprayed a second spurt of sealant on those spots.

The rat had been nimble. Denetree had difficulty tracking it. But in the brief time that she had been with the Kalpen, her hearing already had grown sharper. The pattering gave the rat away. Denetree had quickly forgotten everything around her. The emergency. The sharp-tongued Tekker, yes, even her brother. She had thought only about the rat and the triumph she would achieve in presenting it to the others. That she hadn't caught it yet didn't mean anything.
Who knows,
she had thought,
maybe the rat will lead me to its nest. Then we'll have a banquet!

She went over the connecting shaft with the strength tester. This time it didn't sound. The weak spot had been patched.

"Tekker!" Denetree called. "The leak is sealed!"

"Took long enough, girl!" came the answer.
"I
was starting to think the Ship would run into the end of the universe first. Now get your bottom back down here—we're waiting for you!"

As though insane, she had bent over and run through the main ventilation shafts of the Middle Deck, and then, when the rat turned off into a side shaft, she crawled.
If only Tekker could see me now,
she had thought.
He would be proud of me!

Then the shaft suddenly angled downwards. Denetree gave a wild cry of jubilation. That was even better! She would catch up with the rat by sliding without having to exert herself! Almost immediately she slid out of control, and in a second her slide had become a fall. Denetree screamed.