by K. H. Scheer
“Tirako, watch the ceiling in the transmitter room! If I were an ISP agent I’d try to get in from overhead. A demolition charge would be enough—no shockwave and practically soundless.”
My friend looked at me in amazement but he caught on. Inside my head I heard laughter.
“Be still!” I commanded, again speaking aloud unconsciously.
“What? I don’t think I—Ah yes, I see. But, by the Crystal World, I’d never seen anyone who could laugh like that in the face of such danger!”
“Just voicing a grin, my friend.”
“Are you ever going to get started? I wouldn’t be so derisive of the ISP if I were you. They’ll do anything and everything to catch you.”
“Which includes you, my boy! Do you want to bail out of this? You can tell them I forced you to come with me. Dead men can’t talk, you know.”
He stared at me horrified. “Is that statement also based on advice from your logic sector?”
Again I sensed internal laughter. Instead of answering, I opened the steel door of the lock. The thunder of battle became more audible. When I passed through the opening the door closed behind me and Tirako vanished from my view. I activated the micro-reactor in my backpack and switched on my defence screen. With a crackle of small lightning from the discharge poles, the energy field enveloped me.
I hesitated momentarily, anxiously uncertain, but finally ventured to depress the release button of the second lock door. If the effects of extreme heat were to prevent its opening, then we were lost. Somebody had to operate the transmitter from the control room!
“Don’t worry,” whispered my new internal companion. “Arkon steel is more resistant than a light energy screen. Since your unknown friend is still shooting, it can’t be prohibitively hot in there.”
Involuntarily I made a gesture of slapping my forehead but only succeeded in hitting my faceplate. Now I understood why the activation was the most significant event in the life of an Arkonide.
The ponderous hatch glided outward. Although I was braced for a shock I was not prepared for the infernal storm that howled in around me. Gases heated to an incandescence blasted into the lock chamber, slammed me against the bulkhead and finally buffeted me around on the floor. If the materials used here had not been of Arkon steel, this part of the building would have long since collapsed, since normal masonry could not have withstood this thermal onslaught.
As the difference in pressure equalized itself, the hurricane subsided somewhat. But without the protective screen around me I would not only have been crushed but also snuffed out in a pall of ashes. I got up, ignoring my bruises, and pushed forward. I couldn’t run because of the cumbersomeness of the heavy suit.
In the blinding glow of the room beyond I made out a body lying on the floor. I could see the yellowish-white contrast of his energy screen against the superheated air of the room. The man appeared to be completely exhausted, perhaps also wounded. He was lying close to the outer portal as though he had attempted to open it and failed. The weapon had fallen from his hand. It was glowing a dull red and had become unusable.The indicators inside my suit registered danger levels. The heat was at the limits of the equipment’s capacity. Without delay, I bent over my unknown ally. Through his faceplate I made out a lean face distorted by unspeakable pain. When he saw me, he seemed to laugh ironically.
I asked no questions. His radio communicator must have ceased functioning early in the battle. I dragged him by the shoulders into the lock. Closing the door, I activated the chamber’s ventilation and heat-absorption system. This was a decontaminator airlock for transmitter travellers who might be wounded, poisoned or otherwise in need of stabilization and relief. The place was also designed for equalizing high temperatures and superheated non-organic substances.
But to me it seemed hours before the incoming fresh air finally lowered the level of heat. When the temperature got down to about 120 Fahrenheit, I opened the inner door of the lock. Again I dragged the stranger with me, since he was obviously incapacitated for the moment. Once inside the transmitter section I placed him gently on the floor.
Tirako was there. He waited until I had deactivated both of the suits’ energy screens and then he helped me to open the other man’s helmet. The first thing we heard was a groan of pain. As fast as possible we got him out of the spacesuit and then we saw the cause of his torment. He was far too badly burned for us to be able to help him. Apparently his defence screen had failed for a fraction of a second but it had been long enough for the incandescent gases to do their deadly work. The entire lower part of his body up to his waist was a terminal case.
“Atlan…”
“I am here. Be silent, my friend. We’re going to try to…”
“No!” he gasped, with an ominous rattle in his throat. “The others… they’ve fallen! Screens failed. I… I welded the entrance shut. But hurry. Get me to the transmitter console… hurry!”
He is right! declared my logic sector. Impossible to help him. What are you waiting for?I grasped him under his arms and with Tirako’s help I transported the man to the control keyboard.
“Place my upper torso up on the cabinet,” he groaned. “No… don’t let me sit! Hurry—across there! Have to be able to reach the green-striped section of the board.”
Tirako struggled to hold back a sob of emotion—pity for the mortally wounded fellow who strove to help us. According to his wish, we laid him across the console itself so that he could reach the controls.
“That’s it! Go into #5 transmitter—quickly! I can’t hold out much longer. Atlan—my life for you and our people! Hurry!”
Tirako and I ran. Over our heads the ceiling began to crumble. I jerked Tirako’s service weapon from him and fired several highly charged shots upward. Somebody fell with a cry of mortal agony through the suddenly gaping hole.
Then we were in the transmitter. We could see our helper only vaguely through the armour-plastic window of the control room.
“He can’t make it!” exclaimed Tirako fearfully. “Nobody can hold out in that condition! I’d never have believed that…”
He was silenced by the appearance of the dematerialization field. In spite of it all, our friend had carried through!
Above us, at an angle, I could see the first of the police robots floating on antigravs down through the hole in the ceiling. However, before the fighting machine could shoot at our transmitter I was already in the throes of pain that accompanied dematerialization.
Tirako became a vague shadow. Then my senses left me…
10/ THE MOMENT OF TRUTH
I fell into Fratulon’s arms. Beside him was Ice Claw. Behind my two old friends I was aware of several men whom I had never seen before.“Take it easy now, son—real easy!” said Fratulon softly. “You have really passed your test! Ah, your friend Tirako Gamno. Welcome to my stronghold. I hope it’s clear to you that there is no returning from now on. You will be hunted like Atlan. But I’ll see to it that your father is not molested. Of course he has no idea that his son has rushed in where angels fear to tread!” Fratulon’s laugh was deep and mysterious.
I stared down into the broad face of the relatively short man, who was nevertheless tremendously strong. Under squinted folds of skin I could see his yellowish eyes, which appeared to gleam with an inner triumph. And well I knew why!
He had achieved his goal. Not only had I obtained the Ark Summia, I had also been able to elude my pursuers and get away at the last moment. Yes, he had achieved something. As for myself—what had I won?
When I disengaged myself from his powerful arms I bumped against his chest armour. So he was still wearing that beat-up abomination. And naturally he still carried the short sword on his belt—a weapon to which he had given the resounding name of Skarg. He was a very strange man, indeed, my guardian and teacher.
Ice Claw came up to me. The little Chretkor was beaming for joy. This companion of my youth was always afraid he would melt in an extremity of heat or shatter to pieces under
any extreme of cold. He placed both claw-like hands on my shoulders. To shake hands with him wouldn’t have been advisable. If he should happen to tighten his claw it would turn a person to solid ice.
Taking no chances, Tirako drew back from us. Ice Claw’s body was completely transparent. That is, beneath his outer structure one could clearly see his organs and blood vessels. He was a walking anatomy chart!
“Atlan, welcome! I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you but Fratulon is a stubborn man—he wouldn’t let me!”
“You should be glad of that!” I smiled, and I breathed deeply. The weakness was finally leaving me. Transmitter jumps were always strenuous. “Be grateful, little one. Where I just came from you really would have melted away!”
“May the Great Chrekt forbid!” he cried out, and held up his hands against the very vision of such a horror.Tirako cleared his throat nervously. As one transfixed he stared at Ice Claw’s head. His brain was clearly visible.
I looked about me. The receiver transmitter, a small 2man cage, took up the greater part of the chamber we were in. “Where are we?” I inquired.
“On Largamenia, lad! Deep under the solid rock of a mountain that is covered over by one of the simulation domes. How’s that for a hiding place?” He laughed while he adjusted his battle harness.
When I released the magnetic fastenings of my spacesuit my white robes became visible. Fratulon stepped back with a gleam of wonderment in his eyes. How well I knew this solemn and formal facial expression by now!
“Alright, lay off that!” I said defensively. “Don’t start in with ceremony again—all those fine words and speeches of praise! I’ve had my fill of them!”
“We are not here for that, Your Majesty,” said one of the strangers present. He placed his right hand to his forehead and bowed. His companions kneeled down and placed their fingertips over their eyes. It was a traditional gesture that was made to…
It wasn’t possible for me to finish out the thought. I felt every muscle in my body stiffen. This… this wasn’t possible!
But it is! came my voice within, as matter-of-factly as usual. This greeting is given only to the Imperator or the Crystal Prince.
My momentary rigidity relaxed but there were red rings before my eyes. They condensed into pinwheels. I was aware of excited voices and the hiss of a high-pressure injection needle. My arm began to smart but the attack of faintness had been overcome for the moment. I could even see clearly again.
The three men were still kneeling. The older Arkonide stared at me searchingly. It was he who had addressed me with that, to me, inconceivable title.
“I am Arctamon,” he said, “former special adviser in domestic affairs to His Highness, Imperator Gonozal the Seventh of Arkon. I was also able to escape the agents of the fratricidal usurper, Orbanashol III. I greet Your Majesty in joy, thankfulness and humility.” And now even he kneeled down!
“Please… please get up, sir, I beg you! You… you shouldn’t do that! I’m not deserving of it. I don’t understand at all…”
I felt Fratulon grip my upper arm so severely that I had to groan aloud. “You have to get hold of yourself,” I heard him say. “The moment of truth has come, Atlan. That’s what I promised you. Your scientific education has been completed and your test of manhood has been crowned by the Ark Summia which you have richly earned. Let me be your Chief Aide. Of course I’ll always see in you the helpless lad that I brought to safety some 14 Arkon years ago. Imperator Gonozal VII, murdered by his criminal brother, was your good and illustrious father—a man of splendid capabilities. You are the lawful Crystal Prince of the Realm, the future ruler of the Greater Imperium. Through the death of your father, you already have the legal status of Imperator Gonozal VIII. I hail and honour Your Imperial Highness!”
“Fratulon… don’t you kneel! Don’t do it! And I beg of these noble gentlemen to get up, please. You are embarrassing me!”
The old man who had introduced himself as Arctamon looked at me as no Arkonide had ever looked at me before. I saw joy and veneration and relief in his eyes, of such proportions that it made me uneasy again.I turned imploringly to my friend Tirako. He was there—naturally he was there—but how he looked! He stood stiffly behind me with legs apart in regulation parade rest position and with his right hand pressed to his heart. This greeting was given by officers to their Commander in Chief and of course also to the Imperator of the Empire.
He was apparently attempting to merely stare “through me” as custom demanded but fortunately he wasn’t able to. His lips trembled, as did the hand on his chest. Actually it was Tirako Gamno who unknowingly helped me to regain my normal senses.
I came to him and messed up his already dishevelled hair. “You dummy!” I scolded him. “Do you have to do that? Do you have to get stiff-necked with an old buddy you’ve sweated it out with under fire?”
“But Your Majesty…”
I stomped on his foot and he was unable to suppress a yelp of pain. I grinned at him. “Ah, so maybe everyone is coming to their senses? Fratulon…” The old Sawbones from Gortavor apparently had no intention of baring his uprooted psyche like Tirako Gamno. “I’m just too stirred up and astonished,” I told him. “I can’t express myself more reasonably than I have already.”
“Oh but it was quite reasonable,” replied my former teacher.
Arctamon smirked slightly. Like Tirako Gamno he seemed to be a good observer and also a very good psychologist. He had probably been waiting long for my appearance. A man in his position would have wondered, naturally, just how the Crystal Prince of the Realm had turned out. His reservations were justified. After the flight from Arkon and under Fratulon’s unconventional methods of education I might have become a man who was completely obstinate and insufferable. And now after the revelation of my origin some streak of arrogance that had been hidden in my subconscious might have become noticeable. Many negative possibilities concerning my person must have been thinkable.
So now I understood why the old man had looked at me so strangely. Not every son could be equated with his father! For example, Tirako Gamno had failed to become a cold-hearted businessman but was instead a relatively frail and aesthetic youngster who wanted to know as little as possible about his father’s merchant spacefleet.
“I’m tired. My nerves are frayed and I don’t have my wits about me just now. I wonder if I could have a few hours of rest. Fratulon, can one take a bath around here?”
11/ HIS MAJESTY, GONOZOL VIII!
Seven planetary days had passed since I had been told of my true origin, which to me was still unimaginable.I had been having meetings almost incessantly with Fratulon, Arctamon and the three other men of his retinue so that I could be informed concerning the path of my life to come as well as the details of my father’s terrible fate.
Fratulon had been present during a hunting expedition on a primeval jungle world when Gonozal VII “suffered a misfortune”. It had been no accident—but rather a well-planned murder. Naturally the crime had not been committed personally by my father’s brother, who was now the present Imperator, Orbanashol III.
It was patently clear, however, that my father had been killed by order of his younger brother. The time for it had been favourable. As the Crystal Prince of the Empire and the only son of the ruler, I had just reached my 4th year of age. My uncle had seized the opportunity to convince the freely elected members of the Supreme Council of Arkon that for my sake and in the interests of the Greater Imperium he, Orbanashol, should occupy the Regency in the place of my father until the time of my final examinations and maturity.
Fratulon had made timely provisions for such an event. While he was still living, my father had already placed vast financial means and supplies and equipment of every nature at his disposal. He had always been wary of an assassination attempt so he had placed his full trust in his personal physician Fratulon, which had proved later to be a very wise move. Filmed evidence, secret documents of State and recorded conversations between the
Regent and his vassals had convinced me that Fratulon had seen through the treacherous plot to take power, in sufficient time to make the necessary preparations.
At that time I carried the name my father had bestowed upon me at my birth. I was called Mascaren. However it had always been my mother’s wish that I should be called Atlan, and Fratulon had never forgotten this.
Only a few months after assuming the Regency, Orbanashol took over absolute power. Because of alleged objectionable intrigues and charges of incompetence the Supreme Council was dissolved and Orbanashol’s political henchmen took over the vacated seats in the Parliament of the Empire, after which he was officially declared Imperator. From that point on my life was as good as forfeited.
Orbanashol III, as my uncle was now called, had made the mistake of underestimating my father’s foresight and Fratulon’s skill and adroitness. Of course there were numerous persons in all important departments and institutions of the Empire, especially in the Fleet, who had seen through Orbanashol’s foul machinations. And thus Fratulon was able to find many allies. My personal identity data were erased from the registers of the robot brain on the Crystal Planet and from then on the “helpless child” of the murdered Imperator could not be found, as far as records alone were concerned. Not even the ISP had been able to prevent this erasure. Fratulon and his friends had always been a little bit ahead of them.
I assumed the name of Atlan and, with the help of high officials in the Fleet, Fratulon was able to bring me to safety. One of those who helped him had been Admiral Tormanac. In fact he had ordered a pursuing ISP spaceship to be destroyed. Of course no manipulation inimical to the State could ever be traceable to him but if he had not been so powerful and popular he would undoubtedly have forfeited his life by that action. Even someone of the stature of Orbanashol could not dare to eliminate this Fleet admiral who was so esteemed by the people. Nevertheless it had been possible to more or less put him “out to pasture” on the testing planet of Largamenia, removing him from active service on the basis of his two artificial legs—although that affliction had not ever hindered him before on the front fines of battle.However, my uncle had felt the “boomerang” effect of this action only two days ago. A man like Tormanac never gave up! It was he who had arranged my escape from the Clinic. The technicians in the transmitter control room had been among his most trusted accomplices in the plan.
