by Perry Rhodan
EVACUATION TO VENUS. This is the fate forced on a portion of the exiles from Earth who have just begun to get used to the planet Grautier. Others begin to do service with the newly established Solar Fleet Base on Grautier.
The problem of peril: mathematical calculations have revealed that in about 10 months the Myrtha system will be overlapped by the time-plane of the Druufs. When every volunteer counts in the race against time, there is no time for deserters.
And yet–Perry Rhodan is confronted with the frustrating fact of—
Perry Rhodan
Atlan And Arkon #65
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RENEGADES OF THE FUTURE
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1/ TO BETRAY EARTH!
A BAD DREAM. Tossing and turning in his sleep, Gunther Chellish began to perspire. Finally he sat bolt upright, eyes wide open.
And stared straight into a gun muzzle.
At first he thought it was part of his nightmare but then his eyes adjusted themselves to the dimness of the cabin and he could see the reality behind the pistol barrel. It was a huge hairy hand that firmly grasped the butt-end of the weapon and the hand was attached to an arm that, from Chellish's perspective, seemed to rise to a towering height. There it joined a shoulder that seemed to belong to a professional wrestler.
The nocturnal intruder's face was barely visible in the diffused residual light from the night lamp but judging from the breadth of the shoulders, Chellish knew they could only belong to Roane—Oliver Roane, one of the settlers who had recently been taken over into the Fleet. Chellish wondered what Roane could be thinking of. To break into a Gazelle like this in the middle of the night and startle the only man on board out of his sleep with a pointed pistol was not something that anyone would do if he were just kidding around.
But before Chellish could complete his train of thought, Roane spoke to him gruffly. "Come on, on your feet—make it snappy! And don't try anything cute. You probably know I can handle a gun—right?"
• • •
The Terrania Daily News, published under auspices of the Ministry of Public Information and Opinion, ran the following press release under dateline of 3 Oct. 2042:
On Myrtha 7, latest base of the Terranian spacefleet, three deserters have succeeded in making their escape on board a Gazelle type long-range reconnaissance spaceship. Their course is currently unknown but extensive search activity is in progress.
In addition to the deserters it is probable that first Lt. Chellish is also on board the scoutship. Chellish gained recent public notice in connection with repelling the encroachments of a humanoid race from Myrtha 12. It is presumed that he has been forced to pilot the hijacked flier.
Fleet authorities have attached no especial significance to the incident, since neither the data memory of the Gazelle nor first Lt. Chellish nor the three deserters are in possession of any important defense information.
• • •
Yes, Chellish knew Roane could handle a gun. Squinting upward at the man, he slipped a leg over the edge of the low-lying bunk. Drowsily he placed his feet on the deck as though preparing to stand up. He moved and acted with the slow clumsiness of one who had not yet collected his wits about him. So his big-shouldered opponent was taken by surprise when he suddenly came up from the floor like an arrow. His left shoulder struck Roane's gun hand and Roane shouted a curse as he lost his grip on the pistol.
At the sound of the gun clattering across the deck, Chellish knew half the battle was won. In comparison to Roane he was a weakling but Roane was caught off guard and Chellish had the hard training of the Fleet behind him. He shot his hand forward and clipped his assailant across the throat, causing him to stagger back gurgling in pain. He followed swiftly as Roane crashed backwards against the bulkhead. With a flying leap, he rammed him heavily in the stomach.
He heard Roane let out a grunt of pain and saw him topple over to his left. Chellish stood there breathlessly, waiting to see whether Roane was really out or if he was playing a trick. But before he could determine which, something exploded in his brain with a flash of unexpected violence.
He didn't even know it when he crashed to the deck.
• • •
As he came to again he heard somebody groan: "The crazy fool!" Even though a sharp, humming headache impaired his thinking at the moment, he knew that he himself was being referred to.
The voice he had heard was Roane's but now a second voice answered: "It would have been a mess if I hadn't been close by. I hope he comes to. We can't hang around here till broad daylight. In another hour and a half at the most the sun will be up."
So that's how it was, thought Chellish. While he was taking care of Roane, an accomplice had sneaked up on him from behind. Who could this one be, anyway? He thought he had heard the voice before but he couldn't associate it with the face it belonged to.
So he opened his eyes and the first person he saw was Oliver Roane, who was standing with his back toward him. He himself was lying on his bunk again. The second man could not be seen because Roane's broad figure was blocking the way. Meanwhile, somebody had turned the lights on full. Chellish risked looking about, observing that the cabin was still all in one piece. Therefore, Roane and his companion had not come here to steal anything.
So what else could be the reason?
Gunther Chellish thought back in time. A few weeks ago after the 'Whistler Adventure' had been wound up, Lt.-Col. Sikerman had landed with three cruisers of the spacefleet on Myrtha 7, otherwise known as Grautier. The 8000 settlers who had been deported here from Earth were informed that for certain vital reasons Myrtha 7 would henceforth be a support base for the Terranian spacefleet. The settlers had been sentenced to exile by Earthly civilian courts because of revolutionary activities but now they were set free to establish themselves anew on Venus, in the direct vicinity of Earth. Most of them had accepted the offer and had actually been brought to Venus, 6000 light-years away. Only about 1000 of them had remained behind, being especially selected as people who had most likely gotten over their earlier discontent with the Administrator's regime. These people had been taken over into the spacefleet service. In fact, the swearing-in ceremony had only taken place a few days ago.
Some months before, first Lt. Chellish had landed here on Grautier under the command of Capt. Blailey in order to watch the development of the immigrant colony, and now he had taken command of this Gazelle. At present, Blailey commanded a semi-squadron of the space reconnaissance ships, and all of them were stationed here.
The ships' crews were in the habit of spending the night in the newly-constructed troop barracks. However, a ship the size of a Gazelle required one man to sleep on board. Chellish thought bitterly now of this arrangement as he tried to figure out who could help him in his present predicament. Of course the barracks were close enough to the ships so that the personnel could reach them in a matter of moments, and if he could give out an alarm he would be saved. The only difficulty was that Roane and his companion, whoever he might be, would not give him any opportunity for sounding an alarm.
He rolled onto his side and the noise apprised Roane of the fact that his victim had regained his senses. As he turned toward him, Chellish caught a quick look at the other man. It was Suttney. Chellish knew that Suttney belonged to a group of men who had sought to stir up trouble among the settlers some months before, under a leader named Hollander. Hollander had been sentenced to death. Deprived of their leader, the members of his band had rejoined the settler community.
Suttney's presence here gave a new aspect to the situation. Chellish knew that he couldn't expect much good from a former associate of Hollander because he hi
mself had taken a significant part in the chase after Hollander and his men.
Roane had long since retrieved his gun, which he now held in his hand. When he saw that Chellish had his eyes open he aimed the weapon at him and sneered. "I'll pay you back for getting smart—but not now. There's plenty of time for that."
Chellish raised up on his elbows. "Didn't you take an oath a few days ago?" he asked, while wondering how his roaring head could stand the additional thunder of his voice. "So you're subject to martial law. If you're caught you'll probably be shot by a firing squad."
Oliver Roane wasn't the quick-thinking type who always had a pat answer for every occasion. He was a muscle man and when he recognized Suttney he wondered why it had been left to Roane to take care of him.
Now Suttney stepped nearer into plain view. "We don't intend to get caught, because you're going to help us!" he said.
"And then what happens?" asked Chellish wonderingly.
"I don't think we have to blab our plans out to you," Suttney answered coldly. "The main thing that you have to do is follow what we tell you. Anything else will get you into trouble." He watched Chellish as if to detect the impact of his words on him. Then he made an imperious gesture. "Get up and come along with us!"
Chellish saw no way out but to follow instructions. He got to his feet and cursed the pain in his head. Meanwhile, Suttney had opened the cabin's sliding door and stepped out into the corridor. Chellish followed him and behind him came Roane with leveled pistol.
Suttney went to the control room. Chellish saw at first glance that without exception all the main systems on board the Gazelle had been turned on. It dawned on him what Roane and Suttney expected of him but he couldn't yet make rhyme nor reason out of their possible objective.
Suttney stopped beside the pilot's seat. "By now you may have figured out what we need from you," he said. "You're going to lift this ship into outer space. That's all we want you to do for now."
"You don't say!" sneered Chellish defiantly. "Is that all...!"
Suttney nodded gravely. "For the time being, yes."
"I wouldn't think of it!" retorted Chellish angrily.
In the same instant he received a blow in the most sensitive part of his body—the back of his head, which was still roaring and buzzing. For a few seconds he blacked out and when he came to again he was lying on the deck near the pilot's seat.
Roane grinned down at him. "There's more where that came from," he announced.
Chellish suppressed an impulse to leap up and attack Roane because it didn't make much sense to charge into the muzzle end of a loaded gun.
"Well...?" asked Suttney.
"Are you out of your minds?" yelled Chellish. "Don't you know what would happen if I took off now?
Within two or three minutes we'd have the whole Grautier Fleet on our necks. Or maybe you were thinking we could stick to regulations and ask for permission to leave?"
But when he got to his feet he saw that Suttney's attitude had become surly.
"Quit kidding around!" warned the latter. His voice was low but menacing. "You're fully aware of what this fly-boat can do. You can make an emergency flash takeoff and go into a hypertransition within a minute. Don't try any fairy tales on me—I know what a Gazelle can do."
Great!—thought Chellish grimly. So Suttney knew what the ship could do, and now he was supposed to make it perform. Lord knew he'd never been a model soldier, because otherwise in all his time of service he would have become a captain or something higher. Nevertheless, this was something Suttney could not force him to do.
He went around to the front of the pilot's seat and sat down. He felt miserable but not so miserable that he was incapable of putting up some kind of resistance to Suttney's treachery.
"Give me some coordinates," he said peevishly. "If I'm going to make a hyperjump I have to know where to."
"Not necessary," countered Suttney instantly. "We can work out our plan from any part of the galaxy. Just get going and make sure you don't come out somewhere in Andromeda."
Gunther Chellish considered this, then nodded. "As you wish. The responsibility for it will be on you."
"That I can handle," Suttney assured him scornfully
Chellish moved slowly then. He reached out his hand to depress a control button but suddenly stopped and groaned, grasping his head. He choked several times as though prepared to throw up, thus gaining time. He took a minute and a half just to make his preliminary checkout, all the while considering a thousand ideas, rejecting them and coming up with 500 new ones. He quickly realized that none of them were worth anything. There wasn't a single fast play he could make without running a suicidal risk. But once he faced that fact he decided to take the risk anyway.
Everything depended on whether or not Suttney understood the significance of a certain control on the main switchboard. The button bore no decal, nor was it lettered, but it was big and glaring red. Anybody who had even had only one session at the flight console of a Gazelle would know what its function was. It was the ship alarm, and while the spacecraft was still parked on the field it was coupled to the ground installations. The interval between hitting that button and having troops swarming onto the field would be about 20 seconds. It would then be impossible to take off and Suttney and Roane would be caught in their own trap.
Chellish was apprehensive that in such case they might prefer to destroy him and themselves rather than surrender but it was a risk he had to take.
The alarm button was located high up on the switch panel. It had been intentionally installed out of reach of normal movement so that it could not be tripped by accident. To reach it, Chellish had to lean far forward. He did not do this all at once because he knew without looking around that Roane was standing behind him with the pistol aimed at his back. He depressed a series of switch buttons that were located beneath the alarm and which were ineffective temporarily because their respective equipment sections had not yet been turned on. In this process, his hand moved higher on the panel and he was forced to lean forward more.
He didn't dare look around because in so doing he would alert them to his uncertainty. However he made a pause as though his headache were getting worse, and he listened. Behind him nothing moved. All he could hear was Roane's heavy breathing.
To gain still more time, he fell back in his chair. Since he had just been working the upper section of the panel it would not seem too conspicuous now if he were to lean far forward again. After taking a deep breath, he did so. At first he activated a few more switches—then his hand leapt forward suddenly.
What happened then came so swiftly that he could not remember later the true sequence of events. A searing hot pain shot through his outstretched hand even before he could reach the alarm button. Then he heard the hissing on a section of the forward bulkhead near the viewscreen and saw that the wall plate began to bubble. A few droplets of molten metal plastic trickled downward but hardened before reaching the control console.
Chellish saw it all in a dreamlike clarity although the murderous pain in his hand was beginning to cloud his consciousness. He realized that Suttney had seen through his ruse and that Roane had shot at his fingers just as he was about to press the alarm button. His discouragement and anger over his misfired strategy were almost more unbearable than the pain of his wounded hand. For a few moments he wavered in a semi-conscious state but Suttney's sharp voice soon brought him to again.
"That'll show you we're playing for keeps, Chellish! So now you get busy and do what we tell You to do!"
Chellish was too broken and weary to offer further resistance. He had run through the flight start-ups of Gazelles so often that he could have made the control settings in his sleep. In fact it was a good thing he didn't have to use his brain for it, because his shame and defeat and rage concerning Suttney and Roane crowded out every other thought or emotion.
He brought all the appropriate equipment to a full-power warmup and then sank back with a sigh. He had to admit t
hat his game was up because any Gazelle-type scoutship could easily take off in such a way as to avoid pursuit and get out of gun range in a hurry. Suttney was right: beyond 40 seconds of top acceleration a hypertransition could be risked. And since this particular model was not only equipped with a hyper-compensator but one of the new frequency absorbers as well, it could make a transition without being detected by tracking stations.
So he had lost this round—or had he?
A new idea came to him suddenly. Suttney and maybe even Roane probably knew something about the technical details of a Gazelle—but they certainly couldn't know very much about galactonautics. They wouldn't be able to tell what direction he was taking. Perhaps he could jump the ship into a heavily traveled space lane somewhere. Once the space around them was swarming with ships from the fleet it would remain to be seen whether Suttney and Roane would prefer being taken prisoner to being annihilated by heavy disintegrators.
That was it. He knew he could make such a manoeuvre. Among the people who had been transferred recently into the Fleet was only one man who knew something about galactonautics: Ronson Lauer. He was not on board, although in retrospect Chellish would not have put it past the man to have gone along with Suttney and Roane had he been taken into their plans.
But the fact remained that he was not on board now and Chellish was confident he could fool Suttney and Roane any day of the week as far as the course of flight was concerned. This thought gave a new lift to his spirits. He turned around. "Better strap in!" he told them. "I'm taking off."
"What's the big deal?" asked Suttney wonderingly. "We're equipped with inertial absorbers. We shouldn't feel a thing, should we?"
Chellish shrugged. There was no use trying to talk them into anything that would take him out of their sight for even a moment.
He moved the drive control into its first position as a checkout. Although the darkness of night dominated the viewscreen he could see that the Gazelle was responding properly. Then he tensed and threw the flight bar to maximum.
