by Leo Lukas
The city of Veehraátoru has an extravagantly made-up face, Rhodan thought, remembering an Akonian saying, an impressive front and perfect outer skin, but nothing behind it, no inner life—and no heart at all. Everything here is of beautiful appearance and has a flawless mask. What lies behind it, you had best not ask ...
From the Fullops he had obtained the name of an information broker who occasionally worked for the TLS. A double and triple agent, probably. No matter, Rhodan didn't intend to reveal his identity. As he drifted towards the ground, he twisted his body to one side, in the direction of where he wanted to go. The antigrav field reacted immediately and set him down at the entrance to one of the most magnificent avenues. It was about 500 meters from there to the address that the pair of young agents had given him. He assumed the relaxed yet eager gait of a man who knew where he was going and wanted to take full advantage of every last second of his all-too limited off-duty time. He pushed energetically through the crowd, though always carefully making sure not to bump into anyone. The overall intoxication level was high in Veehraátoru, and fists, claws, and tentacles were on trigger-edge as a result.
The facade he was approaching was one of the smallest fronting the otherwise little frequented side street. It was just three meters wide, twice that high, and not even half as deep. What did they call them, the building fronts that were once put up in old Russia in order to fool the passing Czar with the simulated prosperity of the country's inhabitants? Rhodan asked himself as he waited by the small display window next to the flickering door opening. Oh yes, Potemkin Villages.
Hmm. But what did the battleship in the old movie have to do with it?
Never mind. The display was adorned with two constantly changing light sculptures of the kind that interior designers loved to use as decorations for living areas. The artist was identified on a small card as "Quartodecimus Filidor Edler tan Homph." If the man was as self-important as his name made it sound, Rhodan didn't care to make his personal acquaintance ... According to rumors, this gallery's employees, selected for their beauty, provided interested customers with a degree of individual service that went well above and beyond art-historical information. In other words, what was paid for was the services provided in the "private consultation booths". If one also purchased something to take as a small present to one's current life-partner who had remained at home, that was an agreeable side-effect.
Rhodan remained there about three minutes, continually pacing back and forth between the display window and the door, as though struggling with himself whether he dared go in or not. At length he caught a glimpse of a movement behind the frosted glass rear wall of the display. A few seconds later, the barely perceptible flickering in the door frame died away and a young woman came out to him.
"Am I mistaken, or do I sense in you a friend of the fine arts, hero of space?" she asked in a friendly tone that was also a little sardonic.
She had style—shoulder-length brunette hair, a pleasant, subtly alluring voice. She was well groomed, simply and yet strikingly clothed. Like the personal assistant of a high-level executive, she was self-controlled, professional, almost a little pale. At the same time though, there was something about her full lips and a sparkle in her eye that reminded Rhodan of the ancient adage about still waters running deep.
"I'm just an ordinary soldier," Perry Rhodan replied. "On the other hand, I'm looking for something downright unusual."
"And that would be?" she asked.
"A Huq."
"A Huq?"
"That's a traditional ornamental vessel made in the Dorgshi System," Rhodan explained, "used for storing Huquar Grass and offered to guests for inhalation."
"I know what a Huq is. But do you, 'ordinary soldier,' know what such a product of Dronian handicraft costs? We don't carry any cheap imitations. Perhaps you would be better advised if you were to inquire at one of the marketplaces around the central plaza and ... "
"I don't want a copy," Rhodan interrupted. "I want an original." As the gallery associate slowly shook her pretty head in indecision, he added, "And I think I can afford it."
She looked at him with increased interest. "You are of course aware that there will be a charge for the consultation even if you do not make a purchase?"
"Yes."
Without further comment, she turned to the entrance and motioned for Rhodan to follow her. As soon as he had gone through the door, she activated the teleporter function once more. The tiny waiting room behind the display window offered just enough space for a narrow couch, a chair, and a computer terminal. "One minute," she said after she had sent a message via the Syntron and invited Rhodan to sit down on the couch. He gestured in reply that he would prefer to remain standing. Then indicator lights lit up and a holographic touchscreen appeared. She touched two of the control areas with her index and middle fingers. Small lights on the teleporter frame signaled that the device had been reverse-polarized.
From the green flickering emerged a Dronian.
Rhodan tensed even though he had been prepared for what he saw. The word exchange beforehand had served no other purpose than to inform the gallery associate in code that he wanted to speak with precisely this Dronian, and in person. The Huquar Grass that had been mentioned was used by the lizard creatures, in laying their eggs, but they also inhaled it in ground form. It gave off a harmless aroma that supposedly sharpened their senses and increased their decisiveness.
"Are you Raqett?"
"Who wants to know?"
The Dronian's appearance must have commanded respect even on his home planet. More than two meters twenty tall, he weighed a good 180 kilos in standard gravity. He wore a kind of knee-length kilt and a sleeveless vest open over his chest made of pea-sized, rustling chain-links. His leathery, brownish-black skin was interspersed with horny plates and bony accretions that seemed rock-hard and to some extent worn down, even weathered. His race did not shed its skin like other reptilian lifeforms. He supported himself on his powerful tail as though on a third leg. When he spoke, his wrinkled throat pouch jiggled. A folded, finely scaled ruff around his neck, supported by radial rods of cartilage, would abruptly spread out and display a fiery red and yellow mosaic pattern whenever the "art dealer" wanted to give his arguments emphasis. And that happened frequently, as he did not have a personality that could be termed passive.
"My name isn't important," Rhodan said.
"I'm still the one who decides what's important here or not," Raqett roared at him, opening his remarkably stretchable maw threateningly and exposing a short, plump, bright red tongue along with numerous peg-like teeth along the edges of the jaws. The gallery associate pressed herself fearfully into the furthest corner, an indication that the Dronian ran a tight ship.
"I could give you a lot of names, but you'll never know my real one," Rhodan replied evenly. "The conditions involved in making a deal depend on the two participants. And a deal is what I'm offering you—a very profitable one for you. Two deals, actually."
The Dronian blinked. A third eyelid shot out from the inner corner of the eye and over the eyeball with the greenish yellow slit-pupil, then rapidly retracted. If this gesture had a special meaning, it was not clear to Rhodan. He couldn't interpret the facial expressions of this species particularly well.
"Deals," Raqett murmured. "Two deals. Ha! I've made more profitable deals in one night than you have in your entire life, little Heroth!"
"I rather doubt that. All the same, I assume that your time is as precious as mine. So let's get down to business. Just ourselves."
"Begone," the Dronian curtly growled to the young Akonian. She obeyed promptly, switched off the teleporter, and stepped out on the street. With dexterity that could hardly be believed looking at his huge hands, Raqett programmed the light arch again so that anyone entering it would be beamed to the actual "gallery"—wherever that happened to be.
"I like it better this way myself," he then said in a different, much softer, downright confidential tone as he sp
rawled on the couch. "When she's gone, I don't have to constantly play at being such a dreadfully nasty fellow. But you have to do that with females. I'm sure you know how it is."
Rhodan didn't let it show that he saw through the intent of this sudden change in atmosphere. The Dronian wanted to take advantage of his employee's departure to create a feeling of familiarity. By seemingly revealing himself, he was attempting to lure Rhodan into doing the same.
"Actually, I wouldn't know," Rhodan replied dryly. "We work in very different professions."
Again the flame-colored neck ruff went erect, although only halfway. "What do you want from me?" Now the raw voice sounded neutral and dispassionate.
"No Huq and none of your other display items for that matter. Just information and possibly arranging transportation."
"What will you pay for it?"
"If your connections are as good as I've been told, you'll be able to import several Huqs with what you make."
"Ha! Who says you even have any money?"
Without a word, Rhodan opened his backpack, reached inside, and pulled out a protective container of the kind used for storing Howalgonium crystals. The lid was transparent. Beneath it, five of the tiny but extremely valuable quartz oscillator crystals could be seen.
The Dronian noticeably had to restrain himself from drooling with greed. "Whatever you want, boss—I'm your man."
9
Betrayal
Aykalie's men often got on her nerves. When no one else was around, all three—she included Grandfather Mechtan since he was having as much of an effect on her life at present as the other two—treated her as their closest, even only, confidante. But she also sensed very clearly that each of them, the enlightened Admiral as much as Jars, the eccentric scientist, and Achab, the career-conscious squadron leader, was keeping his most personal, most private views and intentions hidden from her. They each played their role. Another, more complex one that was certainly closer to their true nature than what they presented in public or to their colleagues. At the same time, they didn't completely reveal their motives and plans to Aykalie, not even approximately. The charade, the constant bluff, the complicated game of concealment that the entire Akonian society had mastered and played down to the last, most remote back room, was taking place on a higher level, within a small circle. This didn't change any of the frustration that she felt increasingly often these days, or the stale aftertaste that not even plunging into new activities could drive away as thoroughly as before.
But could she really excuse herself to the three men? Wasn't it her fault, too? Wasn't she guilty herself? What she wasn't getting back—wasn't it the same thing that she herself wasn't giving?
She, too, deceived those who were closest to her, and only marginally less than various minor people in her life who meant virtually nothing to her. Perhaps the entire Akonian elite suffered from the same syndrome. They had been raised from childhood to keep up appearances while at the same time secretly looking out for their own advantage. They had been condemned for innumerable generations to an eternal masquerade. They stewed in their own juice, as individuals as well as a people.
Fifty thousand years, Aykalie thought. We have endured for fifty thousand years without serious civilization or technological collapses. On the other hand we've suffered several devastating defeats in our history. The destruction of the Great Tamanium by the Halutian Beasts; the defeat in the Center War against the Arkonides; the destruction of the system-spanning blue energy shield by the Terrans; the annihilation of our mighty forces in the Twin System by the Maahks.
Due to their national pride, thoroughly justified as it was on the basis of their long history, the Akonians had draped these drastic setbacks in a kind of collective darkness. In their arrogance over the millennia they had considered other peoples as inferior, especially the Arkonides and the Terrans, whom they regarded as upstarts and whose achievements they were not prepared to recognize. In addition, the repeated defeats had reinforced the self-absorption of Akonian culture and the tendency to isolation that dated back to the Beast War. In contrast to other Galactic races, the Akonians had largely confined themselves to their home system for a long time.
Still, we've established a considerable number of colonies, Aykalie reminded herself, mainly for supplying raw materials, but we've kept them strictly secret from other peoples. Which has been made possible mainly by the fact that our worlds aren't kept in contact with each other by starships traversing space. Instead we have highly developed teleporter technology that the Galaxy's other interstellar empires haven't had access to for a long time.
Isolation and secrecy. Akonian watchwords, fundamental if not fundamentalistic values that over the millennia had been ingrained in their bodies and souls.
"Never trust an Akonian!" That advice was a proverb in practically every language in the Galaxy. "Akonians lie as soon as they open their mouths, and they even lie to themselves. Akonians put on makeup and false eyelashes before they look into a mirror."
And that isn't so?
Did she know in her innermost self why she was spying on her nearest and dearest? She was betraying her husband Jars just as she was betraying her lover Achab. She was betraying her grandfather Mechtan for nothing less than the Energy Command. To it she was dutiful and made regular reports—deliberately omitting anything that she felt was detrimental to her own solitary game. She betrayed her education and love for art by misusing it as sheer pretext. What she was actually intending, actually striving for, actually wishing, she revealed to no one.
Not even herself.
In connection with the politics of withdrawal and confinement to a limited area, there had also been a trend since ancient times toward a small population. As a result, the Akonians had always remained a very small people in comparison with other major powers in the Galaxy. At present, not many more than a billion people lived on Drorah.
And how? Well isolated, Aykalie thought caustically, paraphrasing a bard named Hayn ta Ling who had been regionally quite famous for some years. We are all well isolated—each and every so horribly alone of us, we who are all so horribly alone.
Even so, the Akonians' attitude towards other nations, ranging from reserved to hostile, had only in the rarest cases led to open warfare. Splinter groups repeatedly played a part in organizations that operated in the background against Arkon, Terra, or the United Stars Organization. In the history books, the so-called "Condos Vasac" served as the most famous example. For a time, the experience of a collective defeat suffered by all the races of the Galaxy at the hands of the Hetos of the Seven had changed the Akonians' attitude. It had made it possible for them to participate actively in the formation of the Coalition of Galactic Peoples and later the Galacticum, which was associated with a certain democratization of Akonian society. But later the reinvigoration of the Arkonide Crystal Imperium in particular, led to the Akonians again turning largely towards their own interests and mainly attempting to use the Galacticum to pursue them.
What do the Blues and the other realms included in the Forum Raglund really think of us now?
Nothing especially good, I'm afraid.
With isolationistic politics, the stabilization of a stratified society always led to power resting almost entirely in the aristocracy's hands. As one of the System's upper ten thousand, Aykalie did not have much to complain seriously about. What she was, what opened opportunities for her, she owed much more to her heritage than to her abilities. And, in typically Akonian fashion, to her talent for disguise and deception.
You must keep up appearances had been drummed into her long before she could read and program. We are the elite, the chosen ones. Our customs and traditions are light-years beyond those of the primitives, the barbarians, the disgusting brutes.
Oh, weren't they wonderful! What an incomparable, superior ability, to be able to pretend, distort, twist! To arrange the world just the way it seemed most convenient. Here we are, innocent and infallible, and there the others are
, the dirty, the genetically contaminated.
Wonderful!
And stupid. The straitjacket of overly refined etiquette resulted in mental rigidity, even paralysis. The overemphasis on superficiality, the maintenance of reputation and prestige at all costs. The tradition of deriving self-confidence almost entirely from how well one followed convention. It all bore bizarre fruits. Some of Aykalie's female classmates now worked in dubious galleries, that were actually nothing more than disguised bordellos. Nor could she very well look down her nose at them. She too was a whore, she too had sold herself—to the Energy Command, to the husband of appropriate social rank chosen by her family. Finally, in a similar fashion, she had given herself to the lover with whom she had long been united more in an alliance of convenience than by passion.
Perhaps it would even be the unexpectedly appearing Lemurians who would give their descendants the impetus they needed to break up encrusted structures. In that regard Aykalie was not very optimistic. Still, what effect the star arks would have on Akon over the long term could even be partially foreseen.
Who knows what will happen if this Levian Paronn actually appears? Oh, he'll probably be swallowed up by the system as fast as everyone else.
An audio signal tore Aykalie out of her melancholy brooding. The room-servo in her study reported a message signaled with highest-level urgency. Someone wanted to communicate with her over the interplanetary network. After she had run her hand over her face in a useless gesture of wiping away her gloomy thoughts, she activated her Syntron's holoscreen and accepted the call.
The holo showed an Akonian. Aykalie recognized the woman with the slightly diagonal cheekbones, the copper-colored hair that was tied behind her head in a loose knot, and the pale gray-green eyes in whose blue-black pupils golden flecks sparkled. She was Solina Tormas, historian and archaeologist. At the moment, like all crew members of the LAS-TOOR, she was safely tucked away in the "Rehabilitation Center for Staff Officers of the Seventh Fleet."