Exodus to the Stars

by Andreas Brandhorst

  Jorgal looked out into space and attempted to make out details in the weak light of the distant red sun. He could see little more than some vague forms and shadows.

  "Memerek?"

  She came back and took a position close to him. Jorgal felt her nearness as very pleasant. Her presence touched something inside of him that wanted to be touched.

  "You can probably see more out there than I can. Where is the wreck section?"

  Memerek looked out and shook her head in surprise. "I don't see it. I ... " She interrupted herself and Jorgal noticed it at the same moment: the glow of the distant red sun disappeared.

  "The blackness out there has swallowed the sun!" he exclaimed in shock.

  "That is impossible," Darhel said.

  Jorgal felt a strange pain in his neck, a prickling that pushed between him and the remaining songs of the capsule. The whimpering of the Youngest Ones stopped for a moment, then they suddenly cried out—apparently they also felt the pain.

  It went dark around Jorgal and he was afraid that an Uncertainty was affecting his body again, which might change his eyes and they would temporarily lose their ability to see.

  But then Memerek said, "It's getting dark."

  "Even for you?" Jorgal managed to ask. He could see nothing at all now, and he felt Darhel sink to the floor next to him—and then to rise again at once, as though there was no longer any force that pulled downwards. The Youngest Ones squealed as they floated through the capsule. Tanira and Mindahon tried to pull them back but lost their own hold in the process.

  "It's dark," Memerek whispered. "For the first time, it is completely dark for me."

  Jorgal wrapped his arms around her, and then the pain in his neck exploded and shredded the Machine Whisperer's thoughts.

  6

  Splinters of Memory

  This was the place where memories painted pictures and took on new life, blooming like flowers in a garden left to grow wild. A life nearly three thousand years long that had begun even before the middle of the Twentieth Century by the old calendar ... Three thousand years of thinking, feeling, and acting. Three thousand years of responsibility and curiosity, insatiable curiosity that drove him to keep pressing onwards, to keep discovering, to keep confronting new dangers.

  Perry Rhodan's self was suspended in a timeless moment, alone in a world where insubstantial things were moving at its periphery, preparing to make a connection with him. Meanwhile, long-closed doors of memory opened and revealed the wonders of his own existence. Thora, full of pride and self-assurance, his first wife, an Arkonide ... When was the last time he had thought of her? A hundred years before? In his memory she still lived, along with the Plophosian Mory Abro, and Orana Sestore, Gesil, and all the other women who had played a large or small role in his long life. His sons and daughters, friends and acquaintances, mortals who had accompanied him for a short while on his way. They lived on in his memory, but did they die when he was not thinking of them? Third Power and Solar Imperium, Cosmic Trade Federation and League of Free Terrans—a past that hardly could have been richer, and there was still more. A future of wonders without end. A small chip in his body, a gift of the Superintelligence IT, gave him relative immortality, and made him a wanderer through time. His body ... It did not exist in this place of memories, it was not even needed here. Rhodan wondered for a moment whether Ernst Ellert had perceived things this way when he had journeyed through space and time completely separated from his fleshly shell.

  Something changed at the edge of his mental world and shadows approached. They were the first hints of images that did not originate in Rhodan's memories, but from a different mind. His floating self felt a gentle pull that set it in motion, and it understood that the timeless moment was coming to an end. The doors and windows of his memory closed once more, without being locked, and his attention turned forward. Rhodan felt something external that influenced his perceptions, but he felt no danger and chose not to offer any resistance.

  The slow mental gliding grew faster, turned into flying, then there was a sudden fall, taking Perry Rhodan to a different mental world filled with strange images. A connection was made by mental projectors in data modules that came from a distant past. Rhodan's self opened up to memories 50,000 years old ...

  7

  Deshan Apian

  Lemuria, 4500 dha-Tamar (51,900 B.C.)

  The day for the great event could not have been better: clear, not too cool and not too warm, the sky cloudless. Apsu shone over the mountains in the southeast, and the light seemed benevolent and friendly to young Deshan Apian. On this day nothing could have got him down. After his long study he had finally received the Chronicler's Key, which he could use to roam at will through the Tower of Truth and take advantage of all its opportunities. He wore it on a neck chain, clearly visible next to the Symbol of Merit that allowed him to be on this observation platform. Even so, he held back and kept a respectful distance from the other honorees who were also on the platform on this special day. Their Merits were vastly greater than his own. Deshan did not even dare approach Mira of the House of Lemroth, at least not here. They had known each other for quite some time, and even rather well, but this was not the proper place to suggest certain things to others. What existed between them belonged—still—to them alone.

  He stood by a side railing on the platform and looked out from a height of about two hundred meters over the city of Marroar, which was almost as large as Pataah in the west. It belonged to the Sixth Solidarity Community, a community in which the sciences played an especially important role and today would experience a new triumph. The launch area, approximately twenty kilometers distant, lay well outside the city and could be clearly seen from the platform. A white cylinder towered there, ready to take three Lemurians to the Moon. For the first time, a human foot would touch the surface of another world.

  Deshan Apian felt his excitement grow. However, his exhilaration was not only due to being made a Chronicler and the invitation to join the Meritworthy on the observation platform. While he did not work directly in the spaceflight program, he was among those people who supported it, who supported the idea of reaching for the stars. This was the Merit of all forty-nine Solidarity Communities, all Lemurians in the Great Solidarity. They had all worked together to make this first great step into space possible, following the motto of the Solidarity: "Only together does the future belong to us."

  Deshan turned his head and looked at the other observers. Dozens of men and women, among them the Primaries of several Communities, scientists, judicial arbitrators, physicians from the Fertility Institute, especially creative innovators, social and administrative assistants, cultural and industrial patrons, Curates, workers who had achieved noteworthy performances. A cross-section of the Sixth Communities in general and the City of Marroar in particular.

  Two large nut-brown eyes shone in Apsu's light, and Deshan met their gaze. Mira Lemroth stood next to her father, Thanh, and the young woman's smile promised more than Merit, recognition, and professional success.

  There was a muffled roaring, as though from a distant storm, and Deshan Apian looked back at the launch area. White clouds of steam billowed—vaporized water that had been used to cool the engines, Deshan knew. Then the cylinder rose with almost tortuous slowness, a sluggish giant that was attempting to hurl the three people in the capsule at its tip into space. The leisurely slow-motion ascent quickly changed to a rapid climb on top of a column of fire as the accelerating rocket rose higher into the sky. Deshan's fingers moved almost on their own to activate a recording device while his Chronicler's eyes followed the rocket. He impressed all the details on his memory, making use of the mnemo-technical disciplines he had learned during his education. Later he would write a report, his first contribution as a Chronicler to the Tower of Truth.

  The honorees at the front railing applauded and Deshan Apian clapped as well, while the rocket grew ever smaller until finally only the fire that carried it into space could be se
en. A brief flash indicated the separation of the burned-out first stage, and the second ignited immediately.

  Deshan felt very clearly that a new era was beginning for his people, and it filled him with pride.

  Something clattered behind him, a noise that disturbed the majesty of the moment, loud enough to reach the Chronicler but not the observers further forward on the platform.

  The clattering came from the open entrance, from the elevators. Deshan stepped through the door into the shadows and saw a man who had fallen to the floor along with several drink containers and a small Zephalon that monitored the platform's structural integrity. The man stood up at once and brushed off his clothes.

  "Are you hurt?" Deshan asked.

  Only now did the man take notice of the Chronicler and look at him in surprise. "What?"

  The stranger's face betrayed various emotions in rapid succession. Deshan saw confusion, joy, hope, and terror all mixed together.

  "Did you hurt yourself when you fell?" Deshan asked again.

  "No." The man looked around. "No, I'm all right." He took a deep breath and it sounded relieved.

  He wore a beige-colored shirt with a high collar and somewhat darker trousers without any distinguishing characteristics. The only odd thing that struck Deshan was his belt, from which several bags hung: some of them appeared to be filled. Deshan looked for a Symbol of Merit but did not see any.

  "Are you one of the invited guests?"

  "I ... " The man hesitated and sought for words.

  "How did you get here? The elevator Zephalons only allow entrance to bearers of Merit symbols."

  "I must have ... lost mine," the man replied, and he glanced across the floor as though in search of the Symbol. At length he looked up. "You're Deshan Apian, aren't you?"

  "Yes," the young Chronicler replied, astonished. "Do we know each other?"

  "I ... " Again the man gave the impression of searching for the appropriate words. "I ... have heard of you."

  That seemed absurd to Deshan, since he had been a full-fledged Chronicler for only a few hours. It had been his good performance in his studies that had brought him the honor of witnessing the launch of the Moon mission from the high observation platform, not any particular accomplishments as a Chronicler.

  "How can you have heard of me? And who are you, anyway?"

  The wind carried voices through the open door that led from the elevators to the platform, but Deshan was now paying attention only to this man. He seemed to be about forty, and was tall and of average build with smoothly combed-back shoulder-length black hair. The gray eyes under bushy brows ... Not only intelligence and knowledge glittered in them, but also something that reminded Deshan of the inner passion of a Curate.

  "You do not know me." It sounded almost apologetic. "I am Levian Paronn. This is the day, is it not?" "The day?" Deshan repeated. Perhaps the man really had hurt himself when he fell.

  "The Moon mission."

  "I'm afraid you missed the launch. The rocket lifted off a few minutes ago."

  "This is the beginning," Paronn said in a low voice. "The first step. Others will follow. Very soon. Space is our future."

  Deshan looked at the man closely again. "You sound very convinced."

  "I know whereof I speak. I ... work for the space program." He gestured to an elevator door. "I would be grateful to you if you would accompany me down below."

  Deshan wanted to point out that no Symbol of Merit would be necessary for the trip back down—the Zephalon check was only for those going upwards. But he chose not to say anything. Paronn's request offered Deshan a chance to spend some more time with the man and perhaps find out more about him.

  They stepped into an elevator car. Within a few seconds, it was gliding towards the distant ground. On one side, a large window offered a view out over the city. Towers, minarets, and spires rose out of an urban landscape that was mostly white or tan in color but with many colorful points as well. These hinted at individualism or even eccentricity—such had its place in the Great Solidarity. Vehicles rolled along the wide avenues, only a few still equipped with combustion engines. The majority derived their propulsive energy from powerful batteries or hydrogen reactor cells. They whirred and hummed past buildings some of which obeyed the rules of utility and functionality and others that showed more artistic and architectural imagination. There were round buildings that resembled arenas, which offered room for thousands of great families, surrounded by expansive parking areas; the octagons of the many creative centers in which new ideas daily increased the potential for the future; distribution centers and branches in which consumer goods for basic needs stood available without cost for all. There, too, the motto of the Great Solidarity was expressed. No one should suffer from need and all would be given the opportunity to contribute to the shaping of the common future. For acquiring goods whose production required greater effort or that were considered luxuries, the appropriate Merit coupons were required. The system functioned as long as the overwhelming majority actually did give priority to the good of the community. Deshan Apian did not doubt that it would go on being that way, as well. The Konos experience was part of the psychological, cultural and perhaps even genetic inheritance of all inhabitants of Lemuria. The ghastly, endless struggle against the Prabios had impressed itself deep in the Lemurian soul and made survival of the species the first priority of all efforts.

  The Tower of Truth, the tallest and most impressive building in the city, stood at the edge of the inner district, at the outer Threshold of Merit. Almost without thinking, Deshan Apian felt for the key at his throat and imagined wandering through the tower entirely by himself. Tomorrow. Or perhaps even this evening.

  "Isn't it amazing how much we've accomplished in these last few decades?" Deshan asked. "In a few days, human beings will walk on another world for the first time!" He looked at Levian Paronn, who seemed a little confused as he gazed out over the city. "What part of the space program do you work for?"

  "What?" Again Paronn seemed to remember that he was not alone. "I'm in ... development."

  "Maybe I can even write a report about it."

  At that, Levian Paronn turned his head and considered the young Chronicler with a very intent look. "Yes, that would be quite possible."

  The cabin stopped and at that moment the elevator's Zephalon came on. "Persons without a Symbol of Merit are not authorized to ride in this elevator to the observation platform," announced a recorded message.

  The door opened up to a crowd in the tower's entrance hall, consisting of people with lesser Merit vouchers than those who had observed the launch of the Moon mission. Astonishingly, Levian Paronn did not seem to know in which direction to go, and so Deshan grasped his arm and led him to the side, towards the side exit.

  The streets outside were thick with traffic and pedestrians.

  Levian Paronn looked around in amazement, almost as though he was seeing Marroar for the first time. He took a deep breath as he had when Deshan had asked if he had hurt himself when he fell, but this time it did not sound relieved. More melancholy. "I have to go now," he said.

  The Chronicler in Deshan sensed that he had stumbled on something important and he pressed for a continuation of the conversation. "If I may invite you ... I hereby offer you the hospitality of the House of Apian."

  Levian Paronn looked at him, and in his eyes lay an unspoken message that Deshan could not decipher. "I thank you, but ... " He waved in a gesture of parting. "Goodbye, Deshan. We will meet again."

  And before Deshan Apian could reply, Levian Paronn had disappeared into the crowd.

  8

  Deshan Apian

  Lemuria, 4502 dT (51,898 B.C.)

  Sublime tranquility reigned in this place, the tranquility of souls at peace. Deshan Apian walked slowly through the catacombs of the Bastion of Tuamar at the edge of the Center of Memorial Contemplation. It had originated in the Konos Era and was shrouded in an aura of venerable age that seemed to whisper messages: Nev
er forget. Carry the past with you into the future.

  Lights in the form of small torches shone here and there in the corners, casting an uneven glow that left much room for shadows. They were a part of it all: the Darkness that covered everything claimed everything for itself in the end.

  Deshan stopped in front of a wall and pointed to the many tablets, each of them inscribed with a name. "Here lie the old Maximals," he said softly. "Those of us who accomplished the greatest Merits thousands of years ago. Every Chronicler learns their names by heart."

  Mira Lemroth, standing next to him, looked around in astonishment. "There are thousands of them."

  "Yes." Deshan smiled gently. "With the proper memory technique, it's not a problem."

  "It's still a mystery to me how you Chroniclers can remember so much. And why you make the effort at all. There are powerful Zephalons with enough memory storage capacity."

  Deshan raised his hand and caressed her cheeks. They both wore the Seal of Promise on their right wrists, which signified their upcoming partnership union—the time for discretion lay behind them. The light of a nearby torchlamp glistened in Mira's black hair and was reflected in her large brown eyes. She was tall, almost as tall as he was, and the light brown pantsuit that she wore did little to hide the supple beauty of her body. On her shoulder Mira wore the sign of the Zephalon adept.

  His fingers brushed her lips, a very intimate gesture, and then Deshan let his hand drop.

  "Knowledge is too precious to entrust it to machines and dead matter alone. It becomes alive only when human beings remember. That's why the most important things must remain within us."

  They went on their way through the cool, silent half-darkness, along walls within which the past slept. Only a few other wanderers were on their way through these shadowy vaults. When they spoke, they spoke softly out of reverence and respect for the dead and for time. After a while, Deshan took Mira's hand and they exchanged fleeting smiles before they continued walking. A steep stairway led them downwards, still deeper into the primordial rock of the mountain, into a labyrinth of natural caverns and alcoves hollowed out of the stone. This was the oldest part of Tuamar, the Last Refuge as the Curates called it. Here, thousands of years before, people had sought safety from the Konos and perhaps prayed in hope for help. Fluorescent symbols on the walls and torchlamps showed the young couple the way, and finally Deshan and Mira stopped in front of a wall with paintings on it. Hybrid beings of horses and men dominated the depictions: they chased much smaller, normal human beings.