by Frank Borsch
In ordinary circumstances, the biological relationship between brother and sister would not be significant. Most siblings rarely saw each other, as the Ship generally assigned them to widely separate sectors. Most siblings didn't care. The personal attachment between metach that came from working together every day went much deeper than an accidental biological connection.
But the Ship knew that Denetree and Venron were close. The Tenoy would get her, interrogate her or worse. And Denetree did not try to deceive herself. She would not be able to endure the questioning. No one would believe her when she said that she had dreamed of the stars, but had known nothing of her brother's plan to see them with his own eyes. Then again, perhaps she would find unsuspected strength within herself and hold up under interrogation. But it wouldn't make any difference. Venron was dead. Nothing worse could happen to her. The Naahk needed guilty parties and he would get them, undeterred by the fine points of guilt or innocence.
Denetree's life was over. Hers, and the lives of the other Star Seekers. What a lovely name; she never would have expected that one day it would stand for death and desperation. Venron had given that name to their group. He did not claim it as his own idea, but she never learned where it came from.
There was one slight hope for Denetree: the mysterious present her brother had given her three days earlier. She realized now that by that point, her brother already had said good-bye to the Ship. This gift must be something more than a memento. Or so Denetree hoped.
In front of her rose an elevator tube. The cabin was at the level of the Outer Deck. This was unusual at this hour, because by now there should be no one left on the Outer Deck. Had the Tenoy discovered where she was already?
An old man sat on a stool in one corner of the cabin. When Denetree pushed her bicycle inside, he rose stiffly, supporting himself on a walking stick.
"Gotten late, hasn't it?" He winked at her.
"Er ... yes."
He apparently misinterpreted the reason for her red face. He winked a second time and waggled his hips in a grotesquely awkward, obscene gesture.
The elevator started moving, descending with tortuous slowness. The old man had sunk back on his stool and his eyes were closed. Denetree thought she heard a faint snoring.
Denetree suddenly remembered that as children, she and Venron had annoyed the elevator operators by spraying them with water and running away, or throwing objects onto the guide rails just as the cabin began to move. The Ship only assigned old people to this job, metach whose legs were too slow to keep up with the children. As adolescents, they took to taunting the elevator operators with cruel insults. They were the perfect defenseless victims. What was their real purpose? In emergencies or when they dozed off, the Ship controlled the elevators between the decks, and made them faster and more reliable. The old people were just unnecessary eaters!
Only recently had Denetree understood the Ship's reasoning. It allowed the old people to continue to function as part of the community by giving them a task that didn't overtax them—and wouldn't affect anyone or anything if it did. This kept the old ones out among other people, rather than just sitting around and waiting to die. After all, they had no hope of reaching the destination.
The cabin rose toward the Middle Deck. As she approached the Ship's central axis, the physical weight that pulled at Denetree on the Outer Deck melted away. When the cabin finally glided up through the several meters of the Middle Deck's floor, gravity was half what it had been when she started out.
The release from heavier gravity somehow gave Denetree new determination: she would not give up. She owed it to Venron to keep trying. She owed it to her brother and herself. She would go to her Metach'ton and retrieve Venron's present. If she was lucky, the Tenoy already would have searched for her there and would assume that she would not be stupid enough to return.
The cabin stopped on the Middle Deck. Denetree wished the old man, whose chin was now resting on his chest, a good evening and forced herself to slowly, calmly exit the cabin, like a metach who had put in extra time in the fields out of a sense of duty and was headed toward her well-deserved sleep.
She didn't get far. Several Tenoy had taken up positions on the path that led away from the elevator. They wore body armor and carried hand weapons. Several meters away, two Tenoy lay on the ground behind a gun whose barrel rested on a stand. Denetree hadn't known such heavy weapons even existed on the Ship.
A line of pedestrians and bicyclists had formed at the checkpoint, patiently submitting to questioning and a search. The metach were used to following orders. But Denetree could see an unfamiliar excitement on many faces.
She had no choice but to join the line. Denetree took her place, knowing that she could not escape her fate.
Her heart was pounding. When had she last eaten? She couldn't remember. Her surroundings blurred and spun. As though from far away, she heard the whispered conversations of the metach ahead of her in line.
"I hope they catch them soon!"
"Traitors on the Ship! How can it be?"
"The Naahk was right! We have to wipe them out before they drag us down to destruction!"
The spinning grew faster. The metach around her became dancing blurs who leaped wildly up and down. Their whispering swelled to a roar.
What should she do? The Tenoy would scan her arm chip, and the Ship would know in an instant who she was. The traitor's sister. She had to jump on her bicycle and ride away, pedaling as hard as she could, switch on the battery and pedal, pedal, pedal, onwards, onwards, without letting up ... .
Denetree swayed. The voices of the other metach thickened to an angry growling. With both hands, Denetree grabbed the handlebars of her bicycle and held it upright. For a brief moment, the solid metal bars supported her. The spinning stopped. Denetree saw clearly the faces of the other metach: they shrank away from her as though she had a contagious disease.
A Tenoy ran toward her.
Then ... blackness. Denetree fell and fell and fell ... .
She didn't feel an impact. Light abruptly flooded over her in a harsh wave that threatened to drown her.
"Take that lamp away!" said a voice. "Can't you see you're blinding her?"
The flood of light moved away. Denetree became aware of the outlines of men and women standing over her. They wore black uniforms and helmets with visors that revealed only their mouths and noses.
They've got you!
Strangely, she felt no fear. Her capture was inevitable. What was she thinking, defying the entire Ship by herself?
"Kisame!" There was that voice again. This time it wasn't giving an order. No, it was filled with consternation, overcome with concern.
Who was the voice talking to?
"Kisame! Can you hear me? Is everything all right?"
A hand slid under her neck and positioned something soft under her head. As the hand withdrew, fingers pinched her neck.
"Kisame! Can you feel that?"
Y-yes, Denetree thought. She tried to speak the thought out loud. She managed only a gurgle. The man attached to the voice was taking care of her. He had pinched her to see if she was conscious. But she thought he also had clasped her neck for a brief moment, as though he wanted to give her a sign. But what did the man want? And who was Kisame? Had he mistaken her for someone else?
"We should summon a doctor, Tenarch," another voice said. "Something is wrong with this woman."
"No, no, that isn't necessary," declared the man. A Tenarch, one of the Naahk's advisors. There was no way out now. "Kisame is just a little overworked. I know her Metach'ton very well. She is the best worker. Very devoted. Does everything for the Ship. Often too much." She could hear a smile in his voice. "Like now. She must have put in an extra shift. Right, Kisame?" He patted her forehead, as though she were a child, well-meaning but not very bright. "Everything for the Ship, isn't that so?"
Denetree's awareness snapped back to normal. The faces hovering above came into sharp focus. She concentrated on the
man kneeling next to her. He was trying to get her out of this situation. Why? Who was he? He was a Tenarch; she could tell that by his plain gray clothing. He represented the Ship, therefore he couldn't be favorably disposed toward her. And if he found out about the Star Seekers, he would ... .
The Star Seekers!
Now she remembered the man's face, from Venron's first effort at organizing a meeting about the stars. She and her brother had been barely more than children at the time, inexperienced and naive. Venron had simply approached everyone who seemed likely to share his interest and invited them to a gathering to discuss the stars. The Ship had of course learned of the meeting, and the Naahk personally warned Venron against any more such gatherings. That seemed to be the end of it. Venron was dealt with as a child, and the Ship was wise enough not to expect blind obedience. The warning had been effective for nearly a year, then Venron began to organize the Star Seekers, this time using all the caution he had learned from his first experience.
A metach who must have been in his early twenties had come to that first meeting. With his carefully trimmed goatee, he impressed Denetree as being vastly older and more experienced than everyone else in the group—and very wrapped up in himself. He refused to speak, playing absently with his beard as Venron enthused about the stars and the adventures and challenges awaiting them out there. Venron insisted that they didn't have to live in fear of what lay outside the Ship. Hadn't the Protector himself come from the stars?
Only at the end did the man speak. "You are a dreamer, Venron," he had said, "a dreamer who goes through life with open eyes, but who is blind. You speak of adventures and challenges among the stars, without realizing that adventures await you right here, in front of your nose." The man stood up to leave, but paused at the door. "I hope that one day you will learn how to see. Before it's too late."
Neither Denetree nor Venron ever encountered the man again, but Venron was firmly convinced that metach had betrayed him to the Ship the first time.
So. He had risen to Tenarch. His chin was shaved smooth now, but something about him made him seem old beyond his years. Was it the wrinkles around his eyes? Or the burden she glimpsed in their depths?
"She's coming around," the man said. "Well, Kisame? Are you feeling better now?"
What was the man's name?
"I'll take you home."
She struggled to remember his name. "L ... La ... ."
"Yes, it's me, Launt. Don't worry, Kisame."
Launt. Launt the traitor, Venron had always called him. The traitor! She tried to laugh, but it became a painful spasm of coughing.
"Very good!" Launt encouraged her. "Spit it out!" He turned to the Tenoy. "She was threshing the grain too long again," he explained, shaking his head. "Good old Kisame! She always refuses to use a threshing machine. 'Wastes valuable energy,' she always says. She hates waste. She—"
The woman, apparently the leader of this Tenoy unit, interrupted him. "That's fine. I get it." She pointed to Denetree. "Take your role model of a metach and stop holding up the line. We don't have time for 180-percenters who think they're doing the Ship a favor by working themselves to death."
The Tenoy disappeared from Denetree's field of vision, and her voice faded as she walked away. "You've got three minutes, then I'll call a doctor!" Then they were alone.
The line curved around them, the waiting metach at once curious and fearful. Everyone knew that the essence of a waste-free life was indifference. A good metach did not deviate from the prescribed path lest their neighbors notice them—and, of course, the Ship. It was better to stay in one's place.
Launt carefully supported her shoulders. "Can you stand?"
"I ... can try. I'm only ... "
"Later. You can explain everything to me later, if you wish. Right now, we have to get you away from here."
Launt took her right hand and guided it to a metal rod. Without looking, Denetree recognized the handlebar of her bicycle. Launt had seen to it that no one took her bicycle!
She pulled herself to her feet.
"Are you feeling better?"
"Yes. But I'm still a little shaky."
"May I?" Launt indicated the bicycle. She understood at once what he was suggesting. He was right, but still she hesitated. She hadn't been carried around like that since ... . She stopped her thoughts and climbed into the carrier frame installed in front of the handlebar. By the Protector! Venron was dead, the past was dead—and if she stubbornly stuck to old habits, that was what she would soon be herself.
"Good," Launt whispered. He climbed onto the seat and pushed off. "Thank you!" he called to the Tenoy. "It's good to know that the Ship has intelligent guardians who can differentiate between what's important and what isn't!"
Denetree held her breath. She waited for the Tenoy to catch the double meaning of his words and stop them, but the guardians only waved them on. She thought that she might have seen the corners of their mouths turn up just a little. It wasn't every day one was praised by a Tenarch.
Launt was soon gasping from exertion. Apparently, he didn't ride a bicycle very often. But he refused to change places with Denetree. "You have to rest!" he said. "Relax. People should think we're a couple."
People were everywhere. The Middle Deck was the Ship's living area. It offered protection from cosmic rays along with gravity just high enough to keep a metach's muscles strong, metach were born on the Middle Deck; here was where they died, and here was where they spent the largest part of their lives, safe within the shelter of their Metach'ton.
Or trapped.
Denetree had always preferred the Outer Deck, despite the burden of gravity that at the end of the day made even her arms heavy. There, one could be alone now and then, and believe in the illusion of doing things unobserved.
Not so on the Middle Deck. The paths were lined with metach enjoying the evening. Children played with balls they had made themselves. Adults sat or stood together, eating and gossiping. The houses of the Metach'ton stood close to each other and the narrow spaces between them were filled with impenetrable bushes.
The plants on the Middle Deck had been bred to provide the highest possible carbon dioxide-to-oxygen conversion rate; food crops were raised on the Outer Deck. Launt greeted people to the left and the right and smiled happily, as though the Ship had assigned him an especially pretty partner in order to fulfill his reproductive quota, and Denetree did her best to force joyous anticipation onto her face.
At length, Launt stopped in front of a house that stood by itself, surrounded by a high wall.
"What kind of house is that?" Denetree asked. It was too small for a Metach'ton and too large for an individual. Not even the Naahk had such a big house—or so she imagined. No one she knew had ever been to the Naahk's quarters.
"It's mine. Being Tenarch requires much thought and reflection, and thought and reflection require peace and quiet."
The gate opened automatically. Launt rode through and parked the bicycle. "No one can take it from here. That's important to you, yes?"
Denetree nodded.
They went into the house. It was huge. Four rooms for one person! In her excitement, Denetree almost forgot the circumstances that had brought her here.
Launt led her into a room with a single, narrow bed. He smiled kindly. "As I said, thought and reflection require peace and quiet. I'll sleep in another room."
Denetree wanted to protest—she was strong! She didn't anyone to take care of her!—but suddenly she felt terribly tired. She sank onto the bed.
"Sleep," Launt said gently. "Sleep, and tomorrow the world will look completely different."
Denetree sat bolt upright. Launt's words shattered her illusion of safety. "No," she said. "It won't. Unless you can do something for me."
Launt seemed only mildly surprised that she would ask. "And what's that?"
Denetree explained.
8
When Pearl Laneaux arrived in the hangar, less than two minutes after the call for the m
ed-team, she found Sharita, Rhodan and a body missing a head and right shoulder. The body's dead fingers clutched the grip of Sharita's beamer.
The first officer held a primed, heavy beamer. Half the control center crew, also armed to the teeth, crowded the corridor behind her.
"What's going on?" she exclaimed.
"I called for a med-team," Sharita retorted, "not an assault squad." If Pearl didn't know her commanding officer better, she would have guessed Sharita was unaware of the dead body lying on the floor. But Pearl knew Sharita. She saw the minute trembling of her eyelids—and the glaring evidence of her beamer in the dead man's hand. Sharita Coho had never given her beamer to anyone else.
"Doc is at the back of the line," Pearl said in the casual tone she always used in conversations with Sharita. "Your call was interrupted by laser fire, so I assumed that medical help would be a secondary priority." Pearl pointed to the corpse with the hand holding her beamer. "It seems as though I was partly right. He doesn't need a doctor any more."
Sharita and Rhodan didn't repond. An answer seemed superfluous.
"What happened here?"
"That's what we'd like to know," Sharita replied. She knelt next to the dead man, gingerly took the beamer from him, then secured the weapon's safety and holstered it. "This guy did himself in."
"I can see that," Pearl said. "With your beamer."
Sharita rolled her eyes. "Very observant."
Rhodan stepped in. "He killed himself, Pearl. We found the man in this compartment, already half dead. We tried to help him. I spoke to him reassuringly, and though he didn't answer, I got the impression that my words calmed him. And then, suddenly, without any obvious reason, he grabbed Sharita's beamer and turned it on himself. We couldn't have anticipated that. It wasn't Sharita's fault."
Pearl nodded. "I understand." Then she shook her head. "No, no, I don't understand a thing. Here's a man holed up in a wreck going along at nearly light speed through the ... well, the backside of the galaxy without the slightest hope for rescue. But when help does arrive—by some chance with such slight probability I don't even want to try figuring it out—the fellow has nothing better to do when he sees his rescuers than to blow his own head off."
