by Frank Borsch
Rhodan met her gaze. "Because it wouldn't have made any difference. None of you would have wanted to believe me. You would have gone on looking anyway until you fell over from exhaustion. And I understand completely. In your place, I would have done exactly the same thing if the lives of my friends were at stake."
Pearl Laneaux opened her mouth, but Sharita waved her off with a militarily abrupt gesture. "I know, I know. He has a point." She straightened the belt from which her beamer dangled. "It's now confirmed. The three crawler crew are dead. Pearl, inform their families. See to it that they get the risk bonus they're entitled to. And now I want to take a look at the thing that is responsible for the loss of my people."
The commander of the Palenque stalked out of the control center. Rhodan joined her, and Sharita accepted his company without a word.
5
"Are you sad?"
Lemal Netwar carefully turned his head in the direction from which the voice came. His caution was rewarded; he felt only a fleeting twinge of pain.
He looked at the blank wall. The Net chose not to manifest itself today. It had been manifesting less and less often. Perhaps the projector had broken down and the Net had not found a substitute. It would be one more in a long list of devices on the Nethack Achton that had failed.
"Why do you ask?"
Netwar was a large and powerful man; he remained so despite the sickness that ate away at his joints. With his broad shoulders (though lately he found himself slumping), he could have been mistaken for a metach who had been assigned to heavy labor his entire life. But the appearance was deceptive. Nothing could be further from the truth.
"I know you, Lemal." The voice came from a different direction. Netwar made no effort to turn toward it. He was not in the mood to play games with the Net. Here in his private rooms, it heard every word he said, whether he liked it or not. And he had to take it easy on himself, try not to provoke pain by unnecessary movements.
"The wrinkles on your forehead tell me everything I need to know," the voice continued. It resonated with a human warmth that would have convinced a casual listener a real person was talking. If the same listener had been asked if the voice was that of a man or a woman, they could not have answered with any confidence. "It runs straight up from the bridge of your nose and branches out on your forehead to both sides. You always have it when you're worried."
"Always?"
"In 97.355 percent of all cases." The voice sighed. "Why do you compel me to unnecessary precision? To remind me that I am only a machine?"
Netwar did not reply. He often wished he had never begun tinkering with the Net. By doing so, he had upset the natural order of things. He was the Naakh, the ruler of the Nethack Achton. The Net was designed to monitor everything that happened on the Ship, gathering information he used to exercise his rulership for the good of all metach. It was what the Builders had intended.
And what had driven him to make changes? He had a lot of reasons. Even good ones. Standing still meant going backwards, was one. To make progress, they had to use the limited resources available to them on the Ship to maximum effect. Netwar hadn't realized what he was getting himself into, was another. The only honest excuse was: he was lonely. The other metach did not regard him as an ordinary mortal. Most worshipped him, many hated him, and without exception they both respected and feared him. If he had tried to discuss his cares and problems, the burden of his responsibility with other metach, he would have met blank incomprehension, even outright rejection.
Netwar had a strikingly sharp mind, but he didn't need to be a genius to recognize his problem. Once, a long time ago, in one of his darkest hours, he had tossed this intelligence to the winds. Naturally, he had reclassified the woman in whom he had confided to lifelong labor in the fields on the Outer Deck, as far away from him as was possible aboard the Ship. This decision was not only for his own good, but for that of the entire Ship.
Soon after this incident, he had started to fiddle with the Net. The Net's hardware was fixed; the Ship had not been given resources to make expansions or large-scale changes to the system, but the hardware was not the important element for what Netwar wanted to do. It was only the skeleton. What he wanted to shape was the software—the flesh—and that he had changed according to his whims.
He was the Naahk. He made all life-and-death decisions on board the Nethack Achton. But being allpowerful did not make him all-knowledgeable. It had taken Lemal Netwar a long time to learn the basic concepts of programming, and still longer to achieve the first tiny successes. The Builders had, of course, laid the foundation. They had equipped the Net, the decentralized union of all the Nethack Achton's computers, with simple speech recognition and voice control. Netwar wanted to elevate the Net interface to the point that interaction with the Net would be indistinguishable from interaction with a person.
His first attempts had been laughably primitive. The Net had been designed to react to a series of only two-hundred-fourteen precisely defined commands. Naturally spoken language lay outside its capabilities. In order to be understood by the Net, Netwar was forced to use a syntax that was rigidly simple. In the first phase of elevation, he had succeeded only in giving the Net a pseudo-intelligence, essentially the ability to play a question-and-answer game that quickly grew tiresome. The Net had replied to every statement with a question. No matter what he said, he received only questions—never answers.
"You are sad," the voice declared.
Now, Netwar regretted what he had done. He had hoped for someone to talk to, someone on whom he could unload his worries—not someone who confronted him with them.
The Naahk said nothing. He tried to concentrate on the data on his master display.
"It's the children, isn't it?"
Netwar immediately lost his patience. He looked up; an absurd gesture, since to look at the screen was to look directly into the Net's face. And it caused him pain, as well. He groaned softly.
"Don't call them that. They aren't children—not any more."
"Oh. So you no longer consider those on board to be your children?"
"We are a community. We must work together to survive. Everyone must serve the community in his assigned place. We ... "
"Spare me the lecture, great Naahk," the Net interrupted. "I wrote that one myself, remember?" Netwar heard an exhalation like a deep sigh come from all around him. Then the voice continued with exaggerated calmness. "I didn't want to talk to you about that. We need to talk about the children."
"Their leader was twenty-two, and the rest were about the same age."
"Please, Lemal. What does physical age say about a person? You, of all people, know better than that."
Netwar ran a hand through his short black hair. He wanted to run away—from himself, from the responsibility he had voluntarily accepted. But the Ship was too small; there was no escape.
"Have it your way," he said ungraciously. "Call them what you like."
"I knew we could talk reasonably with each other," the Net said. "These children did bad things. They explored forbidden territory, asked questions that should not be asked."
"Not children. One child, named Venron. He was alone. You verified that yourself. He accessed the data alone and he broke into the hangar alone. He alone—"
"—condemned forty-three Tenoy to an agonizing death. Forty-three of your best guardians. A crime without parallel in the history of the Ship! Yes, he carried it out alone. But the seed can't have grown in him alone. And it's that seed that concerns us. Venron is dead, forgotten, the past. We have to concern ourselves with the future."
"We?"
"You, of course. With my insignificant help."
"And what would that be?"
"I'm at your side," the Net replied in a maternal tone. "I'm at your side in your hour of need, when critical decisions must be made."
"The decision was made for us. The traitor is dead."
"He is, yes. But the others still live."
"The others?"
It was a rhetorical question. The Naahk knew as well as the Net that there must be others like Venron: his confidants, co-conspirators. But Netwar had hoped to ignore that knowledge, to deny it so that he would not be forced to act upon it.
"His co-conspirators. Haven't you looked at his file?"
"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.
6
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 shoo
k 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?"
