by Leo Lukas
From which she shouldn't have any possibility at all of placing a call on the hypercom network!
"Surprised?" the historian asked, raising her hand. "Now listen to me for a moment before you call the Fleet's Syntron Security. There's no question that you can't seal me off from the outside world again at any time. But that would be an enormous mistake, High Lady Aykalie tan Taklir, that you would painfully regret."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm advising you out of quasi-collegial solidarity that Eniva ta Drorar and I have planted several, comprehensive, semi-autonomous files in the HistNet. Time bombs, you might say. Impossible to find, at least within the next few hours, and inactive. For now. But if we don't give them a certain command in at most ten minutes, they will let off Syntronic fireworks that will make the walls shake and draw attention to their contents. Then in one shot the entire Galaxy will have all my extensive data concerning the star arks. You can figure out the consequences yourself."
Aykalie felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. She gasped for air and for words. Tried desperately to find some clue to determine whether Solina Tormas was bluffing or not.
She was of course aware of the HistNet although she had seldom used it during her student days. The faculty wouldn't have approved. This Galaxy-wide, non-commercial, inter-university facility, being an originally Terran invention, was automatically considered a potential nest of trouble. Besides, there were no access restrictions—a ghastly concept for the exclusivity-minded Akonians! People there were anything but alone. Any inhabitant of the Galaxy could use it in order to exchange views, opinions, and knowledge with others.
Placed there, Solina's files really were a time bomb. So far, diplomatic complications were still held in check, not least, as Aykalie had to admit, thanks to Perry Rhodan. The Terran Resident had, up to now, played down the significance of the arks and helped avoid greater intergalactic attention to the artifacts. "The Akonians have discovered some old spaceships? If that's true, that's their problem." But if the Galaxy's great powers, especially the Arkonides, had their noses rubbed in the explosive details that the Ruling Council had kept secret from them—Cell Activators, para-psychically gifted mutants, ancient Akonian "Anti-Beast Weapons"—it would unavoidably lead to serious ill will. The Arkonides' Imperator Bostich didn't care to be treated like a fool. And when he pounded on the table, the entire Galaxy shook.
"How did you ... you two manage this?" Aykalie asked in a hoarse voice.
"Trade secret. But a designer-picosyn, a game machine, and the channel that our robotic watchers used to pass on their observations to Fleet Command contributed. Just in case you don't think we're up to it, Eniva is a computer network specialist and I'm quite good with computers myself."
That unfortunately sounded very believable. "What are you demanding?"
"Permission to enter the system for the LAS-TOOR, the PALENQUE, and the HALUTE. Free access to the ACHATI UMA. Both officially confirmed by the Ruling Council within six hours. Otherwise ... "
"You're committing treason to Akon, your home!" Aykalie exclaimed, trying to rouse patriotic feelings in her adversary, but not really believing it would do any good. Hadn't she just been wrangling with herself and her Akonian identity? Solina Tormas and Eniva ta Drorar were apparently already one step further.
"We are convinced that we are acting in the ultimate interest of our homeworld and our people," the historian insisted, "even if the Establishment might have a different opinion. I know very well that most of you don't want to deal seriously with our past. I've felt it personally often enough—you can believe me on that, High Lady. It's painful and shocking to consciously realize that fifty thousand years ago, the Lemurians were very nearly wiped out by the Beasts—and there would be no humans today, neither Akonians nor Terrans, neither Arkonides nor the many other races that descended from the Lemurians. The thought of the catastrophe that our ancestors only narrowly escaped is depressing and awakens primordial fears. The Lemurians in the arks remind us of that. They make us realize that we belong to the same family just like all their other descendants that we have always regarded so distrustfully and contemptuously. That endangers a major support column of our self-image, namely the chauvinism that we have cherished for millennia."
"Solina," Aykalie said lowly, "whether you believe me or not—I personally agree with much of what you say."
"Really? I haven't gotten that impression so far from what I've read or heard about you. For me you were always one of those useful intellectuals who spoke for the rulers. Who falsified history so it was pleasant. Turned bitter defeats into heroic acts, even if historical truth fell by the wayside. The main thing was to sing the praises of the glory of the Akonian people, and above all the magnificent deeds of its splendid, oh so wise nobility."
"You sound bitter."
"I've learned my lesson. Our society, which is led by your sort, rids itself of unpopular troublemakers by means of very subtle methods. It isn't necessary to poison critics of the regime or exile them to desert planets for life. No, that would be too un-Akonian, too crude. It's enough, for example, to grind down bothersome individuals by sending them on research voyages for months, to regions where by any human standard they are completely out of place. And if by some stupid, unexpected chance they still happen to discover something sensational there, their discovery is simply taken away from them. They're kicked out and shoved into a so-called Rehabilitation Center. No, this isn't really an internment—who would ever think that! Only a brief, limited, special furlough. Which will last just as long as it takes for other, more opportunistic, more Establishment-conformist specialists to paper the whole thing over. Just so it's acceptable for the Tavakt'son, the stupid non-noble masses. Or isn't that really the assignment that you, your husband, and the other scholars working in the arks have been given?"
Secretly, Aykalie had to admit to herself that she could have signed her own name to nearly every word in Solina's fervent plea. However, conceding that to the historian was unspeakably difficult for her. "You can cause a lot of damage by trying to open people's eyes by force."
"More damage than when you're using every possible means to close them?"
"I hope you understand that I am not in a position to make such a decision. But I will immediately pass your ultimatum on to my superiors." She swallowed. It took her enormous effort to pronounce the following words. "And listen to me, Solina Tormas ... I wish to inform you that I approve of your methods, I understand your arguments, and I support your demands. The chances that they'll be agreed to is still very slight. It's much more likely that I'll soon be keeping you company in that Rehabilitation Center."
Solina's brows knit doubtfully. "I hear your message, but ... whatever the case may be, you have just six hours left, Madame Colleague. Make good use of them or the bomb goes off."
This much was clear: The man was not a simple Fleet technician. The hyper-crystals that he had pulled from his knapsack and showed to Raqett must have been worth a good-sized fortune. He had also claimed that where these crystal oscillators had come from, more were waiting for a change of ownership. Raqett was inclined to believe him.
He knew enough small-time criminal types who could have made short work of such a customer—here in Veehraátoru, in Droff, the gambling capital of his home planet where he had learned his trade from the ground up, and in other similar places in this wonderful galaxy.
Give him one on the skull, grab his bag, and run! If there's even half as much in it as what this guy hinted at, you'll be set for life. You can get yourself a nice little estate wherever you like, lie in the sun all day long, sniff Huquar Grass, and really live it up.
But Raqett didn't think of himself as a criminal, or at least not a small-time one. Loot that was as easy to acquire as this was almost always poisoned. He had lived on Drorah for a long time and had learned to interpret the natives' expressions, gestures, and body language. Everything about the nameless one's behavior indicated
that he was not one of the people who took orders, but someone who gave them. Not necessarily military, though he was undoubtedly familiar with the armed services and wore the uniform with utmost self-confidence. He also seemed to be in extraordinarily good physical condition for his age. Yet his outward behavior didn't seem as affectedly military, as ridiculously brisk and crisp as the officers acted when they called on Raqett's female purveyors of fine art. More like private business, or politics, or ... media.
Media. That could be it.
The Dronian congratulated himself for his ability to sniff out trouble as the man opposite him explained what he was prepared to pay such a large amount for.
"The two ancient Lemurian star arks that are parked in high orbit over Xolyar—I assume you've heard about them."
Raqett performed the little trick with his neck ruff that usually had a pleasing effect on human conversation partners and rumbled, "Do you wish to insult me? Information is a valuable commodity the same as money. I would be a bad broker if I wasn't fully informed about something like that."
"Can you get me there?"
"To the generation ships? Ha! You're dreaming of snowballs on the sun, Boss!"
"To be more precise, to the ACHATI UMA. As fast as possible."
"Out of the question. The Seventh Fleet has sealed off that area. No spaceship could get through that cordon without being detected at once and stopped—not even a mini-probe. Several tri-vid teams have already attempted it."
"By teleporter?"
"Strictly Fleet-internal connections and equipment. Top secret coordinates, and they've got coding them down to a fine art."
"Art is your specialty."
"Very witty. Not that kind."
"Jars tan Aburrir jumped directly from orbit to the talk show that was just on."
"That's what they want us to think. You know those media people, don't you? His trip actually went over at least two relay stations."
"Even so, space soldiers are constantly transferring back and forth between the arks and Xolyar or Drorah. That's usual when the Fleet is stationed in its home system."
"Correct. And every single one of them is repeatedly checked by individual sensors. In case you intend to take the place of someone returning from shore leave—forget it. They scan their people from the ends of their hair to the bacteria in their intestines."
"Any security system can be bypassed. Maybe not from outside, but from within. All it needs is someone looks away at the right moment."
"You're thinking if he deactivates the scanner for a moment, neutralizes the Syntrons with override commands ... That's a lot of effort, and dangerous as well. Why should someone go to that much trouble and put his entire career at risk? Oh." Raqett's glance had followed the nameless one's gaze and landed on the backpack that contained the Howalgonium. "I understand."
"Isn't it said that anyone on Drorah can be bought, and the only question is the price? Or the circumstances. A personal emergency ... gambling debts, drug addiction, a run of failed stock speculations ... "
"Anyone placed in such a responsible position is regularly checked by the military secret service for susceptibility to blackmail. We aren't dealing with fools here, Boss, even if they give that impression often enough with all the nonsense they come up with."
"I'm aware of that. But it would still be enough if the responsible one isn't the one in trouble and needs a very large amount of money, but a family member, an old school friend, a secret mistress ... With a hundred security personnel, there's guaranteed to be at least one who can be had."
"I won't deny that. Even so—to find him would take me days if not weeks."
"I'm confident he's already been found."
"Eh?"
The stranger—he must have some role in the media business. Only someone who had long been used to cameras and stage-lights would have touched his fingertips together like that before making his point. He leaned towards Raqett, smiled crookedly, and said, "What do you want to bet that more than just one network gave out the relevant assignments within a few minutes after the arks hit the headlines for the first time?"
"You mean ... ?" "Somewhere out there is everything we need, already as good as arranged. Someone has long since been kind enough to do most of the work for us. And left tracks. Made waves. Stirred up dust. Not enough for the military or the Energy Command to catch wind of it, but still a little, and in areas that aren't their specialty. But are yours."
"You have my respect. That is very underhanded."
"Like I said before, two deals. One, put your connections to work and find out which reporter is furthest along in organizing this coup. Second, arrange the opportunity for me to appear in his place at the crucial moment. How much time would you estimate for that?"
"Hmm. For the first item, if money isn't an object ... "
The nameless one nodded.
"I'll have to close the gallery and send my girls hunting. That would mean a considerable loss of income ... "
"Compensated. Go on."
"Don't hold me to it, but it should be doable in less than an hour. For everything else ... maybe two or three hours, maybe half a day. It depends on who, where, and how. Anything more exact would be speculation."
"I accept."
"What about an advance?"
That point was settled with encouraging swiftness. "You're a real pro," Raqett said after he had taken the crystal. "How is it that I've never heard of you?"
"Oh, you have," his business partner replied modestly in an almost apologetic tone. "You can be very sure that you have."
He had a great deal to do. But that didn't bother him; on the contrary. He preferred to take care of everything important himself. As well as he got along with Space Admiral tan Taklir, Achab ta Mentec was hardly disturbed by the fact that the Takhan was spending more time lately at press conferences and in tri-vid studios than with his Fleet. As long as Mechtan took along his grandson-in-law, Jars tan Aburrir, that puffed-up windbag, and thereby freed him from his nerve-racking presence.
No, he wasn't jealous of Aykalie's husband. So often over the course of his career, Achab had experienced people of higher rank or from more influential families insolently passing his accomplishments off as their own, that he could now just laugh about it.
Briefly.
Then, as the staff officer on duty, he devoted his time and attention once more to matters at hand. And all the more cheerfully, since with the absence of the Takhan, he could take care of routine business quicker and more effectively than ever.
Each Akonian fleet was responsible for a certain sector of the imperial economy. His, the glorious Seventh, oversaw the mining of raw materials on colonial worlds. A report had come in that communication with the planet Gorbas IV had been broken off since the day before. The planet was 12,790 light-years distant and had only been acquired a few years before and bore one of the most important oscillator crystal deposits in the quadrant. No contact could be reestablished, neither by hypercom nor by teleporter.
In consideration of the general turmoil around the Lemurians, this news would have hardly bothered anyone. There were any number of possible explanations for the silence of Gorbas IV: hyper-anomalies, streams of radiation from the nearby nebula, or most likely, human failure, such as that caused by the painful aftermath of a well-lubricated birthday celebration in the mine-workers' camp there ... Admiral Mechtan tan Taklir certainly wouldn't have reacted immediately to it, especially since the message from the Remote Detection Division didn't have any connection with the star arks. Achab, however, convinced that he would conquer the heights soon enough, kept his attention as before on the difficulties of the lower levels. He arranged for a ship from his squadron to set out in the direction of the Gorbas System and investigate. The cordon could easily make up for the departure of one unit out of hundreds. Besides, it was never too soon to check out the temporary loss of a position. If the whole thing turned out to be a false alarm, no harm done. If more serious events were
taking place on or around Gorbas IV after all, then the sooner a ship was on the spot the better.
A short time later, Aykalie contacted Achab. She informed him of the ultimatum that Solina Tormas had given her. They agreed that it was an extremely unpleasant situation. Under no circumstances could the recalcitrant historian's reports on her experiences and findings be allowed to go public. He promised to inform the Space Admiral at once.
"He'll listen to you," Aykalie said. "If he asks you for your opinion—how will you advise him?"
Achab considered. "He should try to reach a compromise with the historian. She might be satisfied with being allowed to join the science team."
"Hmm. She's as clever as she's stubborn. She's standing with her back to the wall. And she is rock solid in her belief that she's doing the right thing."
"It almost sounds as though you sympathize with her."
"And if that were true?"
"Be careful, Aykalie. Don't lean too far out the window," he added cryptically.
"I sometimes wonder if I shouldn't have left that stifling room a long time ago," she said, taking up the metaphor.
On that note they ended the conversation. Achab gave orders to determine the current whereabouts of the Takhan, then summoned two of his Syntronic technicians to the UMBERIA's control center. He described the problem of the "sleeping" files hidden in the HistNet to them. As expected, the specialists saw little to no chance of tracking down the pseudo-autonomous files before the time limit ran out. As long as they were inactive, the files didn't exist as far as the search machines were concerned. But when they "woke up," it would already be too late ... The only hope lay in identifying the means Solina and Eniva were using to send "disarming" commands to the files at regular intervals. That was considerably more difficult than it sounded. From their repurposed game machine in the Rehabilitation Center casino, the two conspirators were showering the HistNet with a constant stream of postings and queries ranging from harmless to senseless. There were a thousand opportunities to hid the command codes in them, and the codes themselves could be scrambled on a quantum mechanical basis in an uncountable number of ways. All the investigators could do was sift through the data jumble at random without knowing what they were really looking for. The command could be hidden in ultra-short, minimal pulse variations that normally wouldn't be registered by the servers at all. Or, they might be divided up into a meta-structure over a minute-long, apparently incoherent data stream. It might manifest itself like a virus or a worm only after attacking a series of networked computers, or ... or ... or ... The entire coordinated computing power of the remaining five units of Achab's small squadron wasn't enough to run through all these eventualities in the amount of time available.