by Frank Borsch
They camped under the "open sky." The Kalpen made it a rule to ignore the shelters assigned to them; perhaps because they spent their days in the cramped shafts, perhaps as a sign of their independence. Denetree was still trying to figure it out. What she was certain of was that she liked at least this part of her new existence. Camping gave her a feeling of freedom that she had never known before.
That evening, some metach came from the Metach'ton whose air supply they had brought back to standard pressure, bringing gifts. Food and some alcohol that had been distilled on the sly. Tekker accepted them, but when the metach politely tried to start a conversation, he quickly drove them off with his rude remarks and cackling. All Denetree heard before they left was that the Tenoy had caught another traitor.
Then they were alone. Tekker lit a small fire. "We make the air, so we can use it, too!" he declared as he built it, and the others agreed. Soon they were roasting the protein plants they had received as gifts, along with the standard rations that the Ship had allotted them. The bottles were passed around. The first time one came to her, Denetree passed it on without drinking, and just stared into the flames.
Someone held a plate with a large protein plant on it under her nose. It was Tekker. She took the plate. A young Kalpen had sat down next to her, but Tekker sent him away with a disapproving look and sat next to her himself.
"Everything all right, girl?"
"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"
"You often seem like you're somewhere else in your thoughts."
"Maybe I am," Denetree admitted.
"That isn't good. You're here with us, and your thoughts should be with us too."
The bottle came to Tekker. He took a long swallow and held it out to her.
"Thanks, but none for me."
"It would do you good." Tekker continued to offer her the bottle as though he hadn't heard what she said.
Denetree took the bottle and weighed it in her hand. Tekker meant her well. She gave in and took a swallow. The alcohol burned her throat and stomach.
"Better?"
She raised the bottle again and forced down several more swallows. The burning sensation became a pleasant warmth.
"Yes, I think so,"
A tear ran down her cheek.
"You're crying."
"Yes."
"But why? You're here with us. With Tekker."
"I know."
More tears came. The flames in front her blurred. The sparks flying from the wood shone like stars.
"I know," said Denetree.
15
What a day.
First, the maphan called her into the holy sanctuary of the control center, then they stumbled on a gigantic Lemurian ship—the largest artifact found in centuries from the time of the First Humanity!—and finally, Jere von Baloy let her stay in the control center, at her own console, quite as though she belonged there.
Solina Tormas wondered what further wonders awaited her.
She did not have to wait long.
Hardly a quarter hour after the Palenque had launched its peculiar fighters, the Espejel announced, "Maphan, the Terrans are calling. Their commander wants to speak with you!"
Jere von Baloy sent the faintest hint of an all-knowing smile in Echkal cer Lethir's direction and said, "Put them through, Netkim. We don't want to waste any more time here."
Solina understood the underlying meaning of his remark. The Las-Toór had matched its speed with the Lemurian ship. At just below light-speed, each minute on board the Lemurian ship corresponded to one hundred minutes in the Blue system—so time was passing quite quickly. It was regrettable, but there was nothing to be done at the moment if they didn't want to give up their claim to the discovery. And no one on board would consider that, certainly not Solina. Floating above her in the holo, the huge cylinder with its long, antennae-like feelers filled her with a powerful yearning. There, the early history of her people waited for her—and possibly even living history. The head of the Terran commander displaced the image of the Lemurian ship. She had an angular face set in a military-neutral expression, an effect that was not softened by almond-colored eyes and a smooth fall of shining hair. The holo showed her body only to just below her shoulders, but it was enough to see that she wore a black, tightly fitting uniform that reminded Solina unpleasantly of the security forces on Drorah.
"Sharita Coho, commander of the Terran prospecting ship Palenque," she introduced herself, speaking the intergalactic language of Intercosmo.
"Jere von Baloy, Maphan of the Akonian explorer ship Las-Toór," came the reply, also in Intercosmo.
For a moment there was silence as the two tried to size each other up.
The Terran's expression gave nothing away, but Solina wondered what was going through her head at the sight of Jere von Baloy in his dirty overalls. This was supposed to be a starship commander? On the other hand ... Solina had never before looked a Terran commander in the face, but somehow the Akonian had pictured it differently: more relaxed, certainly not in uniform. But as a historian, Solina knew that when one looked more closely, things were always different than one imagined them.
"You look like a man who appreciates frankness," the Terran said. "Therefore I won't waste any time: you're wasting your time. We were here first, so just go away!"
"Not so fast," Jere von Baloy replied, giving the Terran his most radiant smile. "Isn't there an old Terran proverb, 'Good things take time'? We are ready and willing to compare the log data in our syntrons with yours. As you certainly know, hyperdetection alone is decisive for ownership priority, as has been repeatedly affirmed by galactic courts for centuries now, and—"
"Keep the lawyers away from me! I'd sooner—" She broke off.
"You'd sooner what ... ?"
"Never mind! The ship belongs to us and you might as well leave. Anyway,"—the Terran's voice changed to a sticky-sweet chirping—"that thing is just a low-tech tin can. Flying scrap metal. It isn't worth fighting over."
"A Lemurian tin can," Jere von Baloy said simply.
"What? How do you know?"
"We are a research ship. It's our mission to ask questions and find answers."
"Then go look for them somewhere else. You've got the whole goddammed galaxy for that! Or do you want to force me to request the assistance of the LFT fleet?"
Jere von Baloy did his job well. Very well. Solina knew there were some on board who were not satisfied with his leadership. "A maphan who dresses like a simple neelak! It's a scandal!" they whispered, though only behind his back. But others often underestimated Jere von Baloy. In moments like this, he showed one of his greatest strengths: grace under pressure. Whether it was an emergency on board the ship, quarrelsome Yidari, or impertinent Terran starship commanders, he did not let himself get excited. Another man might have exploded under the hail of insults and presumptions. Not only did the maphan remain calm; Solina had the impression he actually enjoyed the battle of words with the Terran.
"Do what you must," he said and spread his arms in a gesture of generosity. "I will not, however, conceal from you the fact that cruising in the immediate vicinity of the Ochent Nebula there happens to be an Akonian squadron under the command of Gartor von Taklir, a most unpleasant and short-tempered character, or so I've heard. He has a reputation for shooting before getting around to asking questions."
The Terran seemed ready to explode. Her deep frown wrinkled her forehead and a thick vein bulged angrily. She opened her mouth. Solina instinctively ducked behind her console. But the fit of rage never came. The Terran's face remained rigidly fixed toward the camera, but her glance wandered to the side, as though she was concentrating on a director just out of camera range. And he seemed to be giving her new instructions.
When the Terran continued speaking, all the anger had vanished from her voice.
"It's good that we spoke of that, Maphan. Now we both know where we stand." The Terran allowed herself a moment of silent triumph as she sensed that she had caught Jer
e von Baloy off guard for the first time with her surprising change of tactic. "Now that the lines have been drawn, I can get down to my actual purpose in making contact with you."
"And that would be?"
"I want to make you an offer. In consideration of the fact that we're dealing with a Lemurian artifact, I see a special responsibility for both parties. After all, it's a matter of our common ancestors."
Solina wouldn't have been surprised if the Terran had choked on the syrup in her own voice. But Sharita Coho was made of stern stuff. She held on, breathing deeply and evenly.
"Why don't we investigate the Lemurian ship together? It would be childish to let petty jealousy get the better of us, right?"
"How very true."
Sharita Coho lowered her head. "I can understand that you're not ready to trust us whole-heartedly. Terran-Akonian history is unfortunately filled with regrettable ... um ... misunderstandings. Therefore, I suggest a trust-building measure. Why don't we exchange guests? It would be a wonderful opportunity for each side to get to know the other while the joint exploration team goes about its work."
"An interesting suggestion." Jere von Baloy gave the ship's syntron a hand signal outside camera range and turned to the control center crew. "The cards are on the table. What do you think of the offer?"
The Terran would not be aware of the small council of war: the ship's syntron had seamlessly inserted a simulation of the maphan into the conversation. Jere von Baloy's digital doppelgänger would answer her remarks as long as necessary with banalities meant to delay making any meaningful response.
"This is a trap!" exclaimed Echkal cer Lethir, not surprisingly the first to be heard from. "You can't trust Terrans. Call the fleet! That's even what the Las-Toór's regulations say: In a hopeless situation, the fleet is to be called upon for assistance!"
Other crew members expressed themselves in turn. Their opinions were divided: half agreed with Echkal cer Lethir, the other half felt negotiations should continue.
This was a quirk of Jere von Baloy's that Solina had only heard about prior to this moment: before an important decision, he often solicited advice from the crew. Though such collaboration might be considered a sign of weakness—a maphan didn't discuss, he decided—Solina saw it as just the opposite. It was a sign of strength: this way, he made his decisions the decisions of the entire crew. And—
"Solina, your opinion?"
She gave a start. All others present had voiced their opinions, but she didn't expect to be asked. She wasn't part of the inner circle.
"Solina, we're listening!"
"Well ... I ... " Redness flushed her cheeks. "I think we should accept the offer. The Terran commander may rant and rave, but we have a proverb on my home world: 'A glowshark that beats its fins doesn't bite.' The Terrans won't do anything to us as long as we have their hostages on board."
"And you believe the Terrans have no ulterior motive?"
Solina nearly burst out laughing. "Of course they have! They consider themselves smarter, and think that sooner or later they can kick us out—but we'll see who kicks out whom!" Without realizing it, Solina had stood up from her seat and cried out the last few words.
Jere von Baloy's gaze locked on her. "You would pay any price to go aboard that Lemurian ship, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"Then we don't want to disappoint you." The maphan gave the syntron a sign again and said to Sharita Coho: "That is a very wise and sensible suggestion. We accept."
Solina collapsed in her chair. Her knees trembled. She would board the Lemurian ship!
What a day.
16
If it just wasn't so blasted cramped!
Pearl Laneaux was convinced she would cease being able to breathe at any moment. The air in the crawler was hot. It stank horribly. Of the sweat of her companions, of course, from their excitement and anticipation, but there was also a smell that Pearl had trouble placing at first, then identified as mold. That was the legacy of the crawler's regular crew, who had cleared out of their beloved vehicle for this mission only under protest.
There you are! she thought. You've always wondered what being in a crawler felt like. Now you know.
The crawlers were purely utility vehicles, equipped to take readings in life-hostile environments, collect samples and analyze both. Pearl had the impression that it had only occurred to the builders of the crawlers at the last minute, just before delivering the first model, that they had to accommodate three people somewhere. Nothing could be easier, they must have thought. We'll just bolt a cabin on underneath!
A cabin large enough for three people who must be prepared to live for weeks or months in a kind of symbiosis that would transform them into a conjoined entity, not a collective being but no longer individuals.
Three people. For months. Pearl had been on board for less than half an hour.
She only had to shift her weight to the left and pull her head back slightly in order to find her nose between Perry Rhodan's shoulder blades. She wondered how the Immortal would react to that. Rhodan would probably make a polite remark, or a joke. That might not be so bad, and who could claim to have ever been so close to an Immortal? Pearl cautiously shifted her weight, and her nose came within a couple of centimeters of Rhodan's back. No, better not.
She stretched out her right leg, folded it again and felt it rest against something solid. She quickly shifted back, but too late. Hayden Norwell gave her a sharp glance. Sharita, what were you thinking? she mentally demanded of her commander, who had assembled the team. Did you want to punish Rhodan for being smarter than you? Or me because I was on his side?
Hayden was one of the prospectors. Crawler Twelve was his normal assignment—she had no idea how the other two on board with him could stand it—and so most of the time he was out of sight and out of mind. Pearl had once tried to find out what tasks Norwell actually performed on the crawler, but his comrades had nothing to say. The first officer, whose curiosity had now been properly spurred, turned instead to Alemaheyu Kossa. The comm officer knew everything about everybody on board the Palenque. But even Alemaheyu had passed on her question. Norwell had no identifiable qualifications that explained his presence: not professionally, and not personally.
And on top of all that he was ugly. Incredibly ugly. Pearl considered herself a sensitive person. Even though she loved to vent her anger now and then with French curses that no one on board understood, she appreciated a minimum standard in the matter of conduct and grooming. Norwell was a failure in both categories. His dark eyes were always outlined by faint shadows, as though he'd had too little sleep. His eyebrows were bushy, seeming to cry out for scissors to trim back their rank growth. Then there was the scar over the right eye, which seemed to have slipped. That part of his face, including his eyebrow, must have been torn off and then crudely sewn back on again. The injury probably had the same cause as his nose with its impossible bump. When and how he had been injured, no one could say. Here, too, Alemaheyu had had to pass.
Why is he in our team, for God's sake? Is he supposed to keep the inhabitants of that Lemurian crate—if there are any—at a distance by the sheer sight of him?
That Norwell was in so-so physical shape hardly mattered. They weren't going on board the Lemurian ship to do gymnastics. And besides, Pearl, Perry Rhodan, and the prospector wore protective suits equipped with antigrav propulsion systems.
"Crawler Twelve, are you ready?" Alemaheyu's voice asked from an acoustic field.
"Couldn't be better," Pearl answered bravely. She gasped for air, being careful to breathe through her mouth so she didn't have to tolerate even more smells. "How much longer ... Mama?"
Pearl could just about hear Alemaheyu's satisfied grin through the acoustic field. He loved being called "Mama" even though he indignantly denied it when anyone suggested that might be true.
"I see you've made yourself at home," the comm officer said.
"It's not bad," Pearl coughed. "How much longer, Mama?"
>
The crawler was under the control of the mother ship's syntron, which guided its course. Pearl and the others were only passengers. She hated having no control, but it was the most reasonable solution. If the Akonians or the presumed Lemurian ship decided to open fire in a surprise attack, any human reaction would come too late. The Palenque's syntron gave them the best advantage here. It also had an overview of everything that was happening and so could coordinate the actions of the prospector ship and all the crawlers.
"Eleven minutes, forty-three seconds," Alemaheyu replied.
"Good," Pearl said succinctly. "How are things with the Akonians?"
"They're holding to the deal. Their fighters have withdrawn to the specified distance and they've launched two objects that we think are Shifts. One will dock with the Palenque, and the other is on course for the rendezvous point."
"What about us?"
"Of course we're keeping our word," Alemaheyu laughed. "Did you expect anything else?"
"Certainly not," Pearl replied, knowing that the commander could tap into the Palenque's entire communications traffic at any time. Sharita was considered capable of anything, even an attempt to dupe the Akonians at the cost of the special team.
"The hostage is—" The impulse engines came to life in order to brake the crawler and drowned out the comm officer. The builders of the vehicle had skipped the acoustic shielding. At that moment, Pearl wished she could get her hands on one of them and lock him into one of his vehicles for a three-week test flight at full thrust. She would have gladly listened to what he had to say afterwards—if he could manage to string together a coherent sentence.
She deactivated the acoustic field, hoped that the vibration of the crawler didn't make her lose her balance, and shut her eyes.
She tried to imagine what awaited her on board the Lemurian ship. A paradise, perhaps? If her calculations were correct and the ship had been under way for tens of thousands of years—and for centuries for those currently on board—it must amount to its own little world inside. A utopia in which there was no crime and no violence, no cares, only simple people who contentedly went about their work, and the stars that surrounded them, stars that ... .