Perry Rhodan Lemuria 1: Ark of the Stars (34 page)

The show program began with the inevitable duo of an Ertrusian (humanoid, copper-colored, two and a half meters tall, with Mohawk-style hair) and a Siganesian (humanoid, lime green, eleven centimeters tall). Terrans and Akonians alike applauded courteously. Maahkora was out in the boondocks, and as long as something was happening on stage, no one was inclined to be too critical.

Alemaheyu hardly paid any attention to the unmatched pair on the stage. He looked around and found Eniva ta Drorar. The Akonian woman gave him a friendly wave, pointed to the stage, and grinned encouragingly.

The Terran wished he could be as uninhibited as Eniva. He would have liked nothing better than to stand up and run away. Or pour so much beer into himself that couldn't even stagger to the stage. But there was no turning back.

And besides, someone had to break the ice.

Then it was time. While a shape-shifting Morphing Willie attempted to break through the audience's inhibitions by making himself into living caricatures of prominent politicians—among them Rhodan who, unrecognized in the audience, laughed louder than anyone else—the bar owner came to Alemaheyu's table and said quietly, "Okay, you're next."

Alemaheyu stood up and made his way through the tables to the side entrance to the stage. He felt as though thousands of eyes were boring into his back, and his sweat-drenched shirt stuck to his body. One of The Drunken Sailor's employees approached him. "Nervous, eh? Don't worry. I'll get you a new one!"

"A new what?" Alemaheyu asked, confused.

"Shirt. Yours is—"

The comm officer shook his head. "That's all right. It fits with what I have in mind."

The assistant shrugged. "It's up to you."

Alemaheyu tested The Drunken Sailor's syntron while the Morphing Willie finished its performance with an impersonation of the Arkonide Imperator Bostich stumbling over his ceremonial rapier during one of his beloved military parades.

The syntron checked out. The software he needed had been correctly initialized. Now there was only one risk factor remaining: Alemaheyu Kossa himself.

The polite applause for the Morphing Willie died out. Alemaheyu took a deep breath and stepped out onto the stage. The spotlight blinded him, making it impossible to see his audience. Eniva waved to him from the other side of the stage.

The comm officer unbuttoned his sweat-damp shirt, took it off, and rolled it up. Then he tied it around his forehead to keep his mane of hair out of his eyes.

Alemaheyu bowed. "Dear ... " He faltered. Dear
what?
Friends? Allies? Ex-archenemies? Rivals? He left the salutation unfinished. "This is a piece that some of you may already be familiar with. An old Terran folk song called 'All Along the Watchtower'."

He closed his eyes and concentrated on his fingertips. He had to
feel
the guitar in his hands.

Shouts came from the Terran side. "Show us, Alemaheyu! Give us your air guitar!"

Alemaheyu gave it to them.

His fingers, which up to now had only felt the air, now felt the strings of the air guitar as though they existed as physical objects. He drove the first tones screeching into The Drunken Sailor's main room.

Alemaheyu opened his eyes. The bar owner had dimmed the spotlight, so Alemaheyu could see the audience. The Terran half was already out of its seats. And the Akonians? Alemaheyu thought he could see some of them covertly tapping their feet in time with the music.

Good, they're getting warmed up. And now ... he gave Eniva the signal.

The Akonian walked slowly out on stage. Tiny antigrav projectors kept her styled hair in constant, snakelike motion. She bowed, opened her mouth, and soundlessly moved her lips.

The syntron caught her movements and converted them into song. Alemaheyu heard "Watchtower" as he had never heard it before. As a wonderfully rich, husky song. Overpoweringly feminine, overpoweringly passionate. The Akonian audience couldn't stay in its seats a moment longer. Men and women leaped up, spurring Eniva on, calling louder and louder, "Plejbek! Plejbek! Plejbek!"

Frenetic applause washed over Alemaheyu and Eniva. The Terrans clapped and howled while the Akonians stamped and howled.

"Encore! Encore! Encore!" came from all sides as they finished their first number.

It was an unnecessary request. Alemaheyu had no intention whatsoever of stopping. Not now. They alternated between Akonian and Terran songs, and eventually they began letting them flow together.

Terrans and Akonians danced everywhere: on the floor, on the tables, on the bar and a few who had brought their antigravs on the ceiling.

Only one area remained clear: the central aisle, the boundary between the two crews. No one dared to dance there, let alone cross it.

Alemaheyu, who after more than a dozen songs could barely stay upright, was beginning to think it would stay that way when something happened that astonished him more than the appearance of an entire fleet of Lemurian generation ships: Sharita stood up, unbuttoned her uniform jacket and hung it carefully over her chair. She took a few steps back, then ran forward and leapt onto the stage shouting a word that Alemaheyu couldn't quite understand: "Karaoke!"

Alemaheyu would learn what it meant that evening, which became a very long night. He and the crews of the
Palenque
and the
Las-Toór
staggered back to their ships in the gray dawn in small groups and pairs, bellowing the words to songs or engaged in quieter pursuits.

The comm officer was the last to return on board the
Palenque,
more exhausted but more mellow than he had ever felt before in his life, not least because of the kiss that Eniva had brushed against his lips before disappearing into her cabin on the
Palenque.
Alemaheyu took it as the promise of a most pleasant future.

As he staggered through the
Palenque
's hangar, he pinched his arm to reassure himself that he hadn't dreamed the past few hours—and banged his head against a metal wall.

The comm officer stumbled back.

"Watch out, Alemaheyu—that thing is harder than your head!" came an amused voice from one side. The comm officer turned his head and thought he could make out Hayden Norwell, who had voluntarily stayed behind on the ship.

"Uh ... what thing?"

When his vision focused again, he saw it: in the
Palenque
's hangar stood a brand-new space-jet, the auxiliary craft for which they had been waiting in vain for years.

"That ... that's ... "

" ... a space-jet!" Norwell finished happily.

"How did it get here?"

"Oh, I thought we could use one. So I got in touch with the ship's owners, talked to them very reasonably, and ... well, you can see the result."

Alemaheyu nodded. "Yes, I do see."

A ship full of Lemurians; the prospect of further discoveries that would make them all rich; people who cheered him; Akonians who weren't really so bad, and in one case not bad at all; Sharita relaxing in front of the crew; Perry Rhodan, who treated him like an old buddy—and now a space-jet for the
Palenque,
provided by the cheapskate owners.

Nothing was impossible.

Want to know how things are going to develop?

#2 The Sleeper of the Ages by Hans Kneifel will be available from November 5, 2015

Imprint

EPUB-version:

Editorship: Klaus N. Frick

Translation: Dwight R. Decker

Cover Artwork: Oliver Scholl

ISBN: 978-3-8453-3374-8

Original Title: Die Sternenarche

E-Mail:
[email protected]

Find us online: