Perry Rhodan Lemuria 1: Ark of the Stars (7 page)

"Of course. He was an eccentric, a loner. People like him occur occasionally, regardless of our skill in prenatal genetics. Even education has its limits."
When did you become an inquisitor, Net? I altered you to support me, to help me
—
to ease the weight of my office, not to exercise it.

"Loners are never alone. The term is a symbol, an imprecision of speech. Loners have families, a friend or two, and they belong to a Metach'ton."

"Should I have everyone who ever spoke with Venron arrested?"

"Of course not. Just a few will suffice."

"On what evidence shall we arrest them?"

Several seconds passed before the Net replied. "Your children are clever. And my presence is not as extensive as it once was, though we attempt to give the opposite impression."

"So there is none," the Naahk said trying to keep his relief from his voice.

"There is no evidence, but it isn't necessary. We know Venron's associates. We'll send the Tenoy to them, intimidate them, and ask penetrating questions. Anyone collaborating with Venron will give himself away under the pressure, and perhaps a few others. And those others will betray additional members until we have the whole conspiracy. The traitors will betray each other. Could there be a more fitting outcome?"

"And if we catch the innocent in our net?"

"Then we will have performed worthwhile educational work. If anyone harbors doubts about his place on the Ship, we will have driven out those doubts."

Netwar looked down at his large hands. He believed in the mission, in the great goal of the Ship and everyone on it. He had sworn to do everything necessary to fulfill their task. But he had taken that oath unable to imagine how heavily it would weigh on him. He had always imagined himself as a kindly ruler, a loving father who protected those in his care. He never would have believed that one day he would order the death of the very people he was pledged to protect, in order to save the larger community.

Desperate thoughts pounded at his brain. He wished that something would happen to take the decision out of his hands. Or that some of the conspirators would show remorse and allow him to be merciful. Or that the Net would give up on this course of action. Or—and this was the height of improbability—that the Protector would return.

Has it finally come to this
—
hoping for miracles?
he admonished himself.
It's time for you to be renewed again!

"Well?" asked the Net.

The Naahk straightened his spine. "You're right, as usual. Do what you think is necessary."

"I'll give the orders. We'll start with his sister—it's very unlikely that she knew nothing of his subversive activities."

"Fine."

Netwar tried to suppress the thought of what the Net's orders would lead to and concentrated on the master display screen in front of him. He called up the Ship's status data and compared the actual numbers with their corresponding theoretical values, then reviewed area status reports. After a while, his tension faded as he relaxed into the familiar routine of leadership. Proposed changes to the irrigation schedule, personnel decisions, mediating disputes between neighbors—the banal but reassuring elements of daily life—reminded him of his real work: taking care of the community.

"Lemal?"

"Yes?"

"What are you doing there?"

"You can see for yourself. I'm working."

"Yes, but at what?"

"You can see that, too."

"I can. You are doing the wrong work."

"And what would be the right work?" the Naahk asked, though he knew the answer.

"You must speak to the metach. Forty-three Tenoy are dead. Their friends and co-workers deserve an explanation for their deaths—and the hope of justice."

"I will personally call their friends and coworkers to reassure them that proper measures are being taken."

"That is an excellent idea. You should do it right away, as soon as you've given your speech."

"My speech?"

"The metach have a right to know who endangered their community, don't you think?"

When the Naahk didn't reply, the Net continued. "I have taken the liberty of preparing some accompanying visuals." The pale face of a young man appeared on the command display. His jaw was clenched and pushed out toward the imager. He apparently didn't like to have his likeness reproduced. Despite his aggressive posture, his eyes held the look of a dreamer, and an alert intelligence. The Naahk knew this look: it had to be Venron, the traitor.

Always the best,
Netwar thought.
It's always the best of us who find life on board too constricting, who yearn for outside, whose curiosity won't allow them to rest. And I crush them ...

Words appeared below the traitor's chin. "Metach, I am speaking to you today—"

"Get rid of the text."

"Don't worry—it's only visible to you."

Netwar jerked upright. Pain stabbed his joints. "You will not put words into my mouth! Get rid of it at once!"

"As you wish."

The Naahk angrily tugged his jacket straight. Was this what the Net had intended? To provoke him into a rage? He could admit to himself, at least, that the anger would help him fulfill his obligation.

Lemal Netwar spoke to his metach, informing them of the ghastly treason that Venron had committed, explaining the incalculable danger to which his actions exposed them, and describing the merciless punishment awaiting all those in league with the traitor.

The Net illustrated his words with images of dying Tenoy, but as he spoke, Netwar saw only his own face reflected in the display screen.

He studied his reflection, looking for the dreams he had always been able to see in his own eyes, regardless of his current life-cycle phase.

The dreams were no longer there.

The wreck seemed to be alive.

The metal of the ruined shuttle, whose temperature had stood near absolute zero for no one knew how long, groaned and creaked as it expanded in the warmth of the
Palenque.

Under normal circumstances, Sharita Coho would have waited until the temperature of the wreck adjusted to the temperature of the hangar: the thing was dead, and she was in no hurry. At that point, she would have arrived with appropriate staff and the necessary equipment for making a thorough examination of their prize.

Normally. But nothing had been normal since Perry Rhodan had come onboard the
Palenque.
Sharita had known this would happen. She had protested vigorously against taking on the famous passenger, but the owners had stubbornly refused to listen: Rhodan would be on the
Palenque;
they left it to her discretion whether to join him there.

As if she could abandon the rewards of her decades of effort just like that! If Rhodan had turned up only a year or two later, she might have stuck to her guns. But ... maybe it wouldn't be as bad as she imagined, she had told herself.

She felt Rhodan's gaze on her everywhere: in the control center, here in the hangar, even in her own cabin. Rhodan's gaze measured her, tested her—and she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that he found her lacking. Not leadership material.

Sharita shook off these thoughts and focused on the wreck. It was covered with a layer of ice crystals like a thin coating of snow: the moisture in the air of the hangar had condensed on the cold metal. She laid a hand on the hull and felt the cold slam into her through her uniform glove.

"Be careful," said Rhodan, who had remained several steps behind her. "Whatever they used to build this doesn't seem to tolerate temperature differences very well."

"So I see."

From the corner of her eye Sharita saw movement. She threw herself backwards. A metal strut hissed past her head. Rhodan was at her side almost instantly. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine." Sharita shook off his hand, angry at herself for appearing so careless and angrier at Rhodan. Did he always have to be right? And worse, play the rescuing knight who rushed to help her without a word of reproach?

Sharita stood, smoothed her uniform, and refastened the collar. The fabric felt like a clamp around her neck. It held her upright, which was good.

She walked slowly around the wreck. On the narrow side, which she assumed was the forward end, bulged a facetted dome that reminded her of an insect's eye. A second dome had burst. Sharita peered inside, but the slushy ice coated everything. Below the bow protruded an ice-covered projection. An antenna? No—it was too short and too thick for that purpose.

She continued around to the rear of the wreck, where she faced a tangle of blasted metal. Using both hands, she grasped one of the struts sticking out of the mass—practically daring Rhodan to make a comment—and pulled at it with all her strength. There was a cracking noise and pieces of ice fell, but the strut wouldn't come loose, and couldn't be used as a lever.

Rhodan said nothing.

"Piece of junk," Sharita murmured in the direction of the wreck. "Give me a break here!"

She stepped back, pulling Rhodan along with her. She drew her beamer and aimed it at the wreck.

"Sharita, no!" Rhodan exclaimed.

Well, how about that,
she thought.
Sounded almost human. So you can lose your composure.

Sharita fired. A green, flickering beam bored into the wreck's hull in a circular pattern.

The metal groaned in protest. Sharita resisted the impulse to dive for cover: she was determined that Rhodan would have to acknowledge her courage. The sound of rapidly cooling metal died away, leaving only the occasional ping and pop of the expanding metal. A hole large enough to let a human pass now gaped in the hull of the wreck.

"You shouldn't have done that," Rhodan said.

Sharita holstered her beamer. She smiled grimly, the first time she'd managed that expression since Crawler Eleven disappeared. "Oh? And why not?"

"You could have set off an explosion!"

"But I didn't, did I?"

"No, but who knows what you destroyed! Maybe the only clue that could have given us information on the origin of this wreck. Why didn't you wait until—"

"Why, why, why?" Sharita mocked.

Because you make me nervous, Immortal!
she thought.
Because I feel you watching every step I take! Because I've
got this crazy fear that you're comparing me to every commander you've ever flown with, and you're writing me off as an amateur. That's why.

"Because I'm not some goddamned archaeologist. I'm just the commander of a prospecting ship," she said aloud. "Do you understand what that means? I don't have a flock of robots and scientists at my side giving me advice and getting their hands dirty for me and planning and documenting everything step by step. I don't have a fleet I can just call, and half an hour later a squadron of battleships filled with trained specialists will come flying up. I've only got this"—she tapped the side of her head—"and this!" She tapped the grip of her beamer. "And do you know what? They've never let me down."

Giving Rhodan no chance to answer, Sharita set her left foot on a projecting strut, tested her weight on it and then climbed inside the wreck. Darkness enveloped her. She switched on her picosyn and used it as a makeshift flashlight. Rhodan, who had followed her without a word, was forced to rely on her for illumination: as a passenger on the
Palenque,
he had not been issued a picosyn for his own use, let alone a weapon. Sharita felt fiercely glad that he was dependent on her for as long as they were inside the wreck.

A landscape of ice awaited them, as if they were inside a cave. Sharita's breath came out in clouds of vapor. The crackling, clicking noises of warming metal now surrounded them.

The air temperature had to be well below zero. Sharita shivered, the uniform jacket in which she had been sweating all day now proving to be little protection against the cold. It had to be worse for Rhodan, who was wearing lightweight, casual clothes.

"Let's not waste time." Feeling slightly guilty for her petty anger at Rhodan, she was now determined to keep him from freezing. Her light provided enough illumination to search each room. The barrel of her beamer followed the light.

"Are you afraid that space monsters might be hiding in here, just waiting to pounce and eat us?" Rhodan asked.

Sharita ignored his remark. She felt safer with the beamer in her hand. That was what counted, not what Rhodan thought about it.

Sharita estimated that the ceiling was about ten or fifteen meters above them and was the inner surface of the exterior hull. They were in a large cargo hold or hangar.

What was it used to transport?

To their left and right, a ledge about a meter high ran along the walls that corresponded to the outer hull. A bench for passengers? Possibly. That would mean the wreck was a spacecraft designed for short flights, probably a shuttle. In that case, the wide, empty interior hold would be for planetary-surface vehicles or equipment containers.

But if the wreck really was part of a short-distance shuttle, Sharita asked herself, what was it doing in the Ochent Nebula, far from all galactic civilization? And racing along at near light-speed, to boot?

She and Rhodan reached the end of the hangar. Before them rose a wall that spanned the ship's entire width. The layer of ice hid from their view the hatch that must connect the cargo hold with the shuttle's bow.

Sharita extended her little finger on the hand holding the beamer and tapped the picosyn on the other wrist. A series of diagrams and schematics flashed rapidly across the tiny screen.

She gave a grunt of satisfaction, then aimed her beamer at a point about three meters to the right of where she stood. A wide green beam of energy melted several square meters of ice. When the steam dispersed and condensed somewhere else, Sharita could see a discolored metal surface.

No wonder,
she thought.
The builders of this shuttle never dreamed that its interior would be exposed to temperatures near absolute zero. The materials weren't up to the strain.