Perry Rhodan NEO: Volume 18 (English Edition) E-Book

Christian Humberg

• Herausgeber: J-Novel Pulp
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Perry Rhodan Neo
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 454

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The Naats begin their onslaught, but the Topsidians prove worthy opponents, and the cost of the resulting battle is staggering. Meanwhile, the Tosoma’s crew attempts an escape with the help of their captor, Toreead. Will they be able to bridge the communication gap and make a new ally? Or will the Naats lose the battle, dashing all hopes for the trapped humans?

Elsewhere in space, the tyrannical, self-serving hand of the regent is determined to boost his own status by using the Naats to wipe out the Topsidian resistance, but plans are afoot from both Atlan da Gonozal—an ancient immortal Arkonide—and Perry Rhodan, who has been taken aboard the hand’s ship. Things go smoothly at first, but when Crest senses Atlan nearby, he takes a risk that could endanger everyone.

Now it’s up to Rhodan and Reginald Bull to seek out Atlan in hopes of ending the threat of interstellar war. It all hangs in the balance as the conflict reaches its epic conclusion!

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Cover

Episode 35: Ghosts of War

Episode 36: The Pride of the Imperium

About J-Novel Club

Copyright

Landmarks

Table of Contents

“There’s a whiff of the lynch mob or the lemming migration about any overlarge concentration of like-thinking individuals, no matter how virtuous their cause.”

P.J. O’Rourke

Prologue

Death of a Giant

The leviathan was dead.

The flashing warning lights confirmed it, as did the plaintive howl of the alarm sirens. The engines, the heart of the leviathan, roared loudly into the eternal night of space, which immediately swallowed it. Only inside the body of steel and technology did the roar echo through corridors, drilling into heads and thoughts, fueling panic.

The colossus reached its goal, not as a victor but as a fallen man. The triumphal procession turned into a crash.

Only later, when it was all over and the colossus was little more than a smoking pile of scrap metal on enemy soil, did its crew also leave it. But the enemy’s resistance had not abated. The lizards didn’t seem satisfied with having taken the massive ship out of the sky. Now that it lay motionless on a fragment of their moon, burning in countless fires, they turned their wrath on those who had survived the crash. One Naat after another paid with their lives for the attempt to conquer the Topsidian fortress in hand-to-hand combat. The battle had begun in space, but it continued on the ground.

The leviathan was dead. And its companions, it seemed, had died with it.

1.

On the Edge of the Abyss

“Can I help you, Perry?”

Rhodan whirled around. It was not an attacker who had broken into his cell, but a friend. Dressed in his Arkonide battle suit, the teleporter Ras Tschubai was a rather unusual sight, but he had dispensed with his helmet, and Rhodan saw him smile.

“You’ve come at the right time,” Rhodan murmured wearily. The imprisonment aboard the Itak’tylam had taken a toll on him more than he had been willing to admit to himself. It felt good to be able to let go of at least some of his inner frustration.

Tschubai stretched out his arm. He was wearing a glove. “Shall we?”

The deck vibrated again. Rhodan, who was just getting up, staggered. Whatever was going on out in space, it seemed to be getting more intense by the minute. “Let’s go,” he answered, taking his companion’s hand.

Tschubai’s gift continued to fascinate him. Despite everything that had happened and come to light in the past weeks and months, he was sometimes amazed by the twists and turns his life, and the existence of all humanity, had taken since the fateful moon flight of the Stardust. And he hoped that the positive changes—the knowledge of mutants capable of teleportation was definitely one of them—would never be accepted as “ordinary.”

In a fraction of a second, he and Tschubai materialized in another room. Rhodan looked around. The room was barely bigger than the locker room at NASA’s Nevada Fields training center. The walls were smooth and metallic gray; the floor was similar. Several consoles and interfaces were embedded in the walls. Rhodan saw flashing indicators, lit-up holos. The air smelled a little of smoke, and the light emitted by the light fixtures on the ceiling flickered with each vibration of the ship. The vibrations didn’t seem to bother the others much.

“Look who I’ve found,” said Tschubai, panting a little. The effort of teleportation was evident on his face.

Tatiana Michalovna and Anne Sloane looked up, and relieved smiles crept onto their faces. Michalovna was standing near a door, which presumably led from the small room into an adjacent corridor. It was closed.

The Russian telepath seemed highly concentrated. Drops of sweat glistened on her forehead, and her cheeks were clearly pale. She’s listening, Rhodan guessed.

The mutant kept watch by mentally focusing on the corridor. Though Rhodan was immensely relieved to see her alive again, he just nodded. He didn’t want to disturb her.

Crest sat in a corner, working on a console, and didn’t turn around. Rhodan approached Sloane first. The otherwise fun-loving American seemed like a shadow of her former self. Dark circles lay under her eyes, and Rhodan couldn’t help but notice how nervous she was. She didn’t feel safe in this hiding place, he sensed that. And she guessed that it was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

“How are you?” he asked quietly. A dull pain throbbed behind his forehead, his body’s first defiant reaction to the fatigue he felt. But he knew he couldn’t give in to it. After the miserably long imprisonment, it looked as if he would finally be able to take action again!

“Better,” Sloane replied with a sigh. “Opportunities slowly seem to be emerging for us.” She nodded towards the Arkonide.

Rhodan postponed the conversation with Crest. First, he wanted to hear more about Sloane and Tschubai. After all this time of not knowing if his companions were alive, he desperately needed some information.

“What happened?” he asked quietly. “I’ve been stuck in a cell since we communicated with each other via Morse code. Toreead forced me off the Tosoma and onto the Itak’tylam, but instead of questioning me, he simply locked me up and left. What happened to you?”

In a few words, Sloane described what she and the others had experienced since their last contact with him. Their report was not all that edifying.

“We kept an eye on the others as best we could without being discovered ourselves. Thanks to Crest’s knowledge of Arkonide ships and Ras’s talent for teleportation, we’ve always been one step ahead of the Naats. But we’re failing at the prison they’ve put the others in.”

Rhodan took a deep breath. So the rest of the crew of the Tosoma was also on board! He had hoped so but had hardly dared to think it. “Where are they?” he asked anxiously.

“They were sent here too, just like you,” Tschubai replied in Sloane’s place. “They’re trapped in a hold. I saw the Naats erect a huge force field around the hangar. If I hadn’t been on the other side by some lucky coincidence, I’d be stuck there.”

Rhodan understood what frustrated the Sudanese man so much about it. The force field not only locked in the Tosoma’s crew, but also locked out the teleporter at the same time. Tschubai could not penetrate it and therefore could not help the prisoners.

But Toreead put me in a solitary cell, Rhodan mused. For what reason? Why am I special? “Tako?” he asked. “John? What about them?”

Sloane shook his head. “They’re just as secure as everyone else. They’re alive, yes. But the Naats are blocking their paranormal abilities. Our friends can’t do anything for us, I’m afraid. And nothing for themselves.”

Why keep it simple when it can be complicated? Rhodan thought grimly, closing his eyes for a moment. Then the ground vibrated beneath his feet, this time more strongly.

“Direct hit,” Crest announced matter-of-factly from his console. The Arkonide was still paying full attention to the indications and had not yet acknowledged Rhodan’s arrival with any emotion. “Call me a pessimist if you like, but I highly doubt that this attack will end in anything other than disaster for our hosts.”

Rhodan raised his eyebrows. He hurried to Crest and looked at the indicators flashing in front of the Arkonide. He didn’t understand much at first, but what little he did comprehend confirmed Crest’s words, and the Arkonide was able to explain the rest.

“Is that Rayold I?” Rhodan asked, pointing to what he interpreted as a graphic representation of a battle scene. Crest must have activated the onboard positronics and hacked in to gain access to the ship’s internal data network.

The Arkonide nodded. “Novaal’s force is attacking the Topsidian fortress with everything at its disposal. So far, the damage has been limited, but the same cannot be said of the damage achieved by the other side.”

Rayold was the last bastion before the enemy: Topsid’s only remaining defense in the area. If the fortress fell, there would be nothing left between the Naats and Topsidian space. Rhodan sat down and listened to the battle. Fascinated, he looked at the displays.

“The Naats encountered resistance early on,” Crest said. “Topsid met them with thirty ships as soon as they arrived and had another thirty or so attacking from a hiding place. Rayold I is a fragment of a moon, of which there are fifty-six in total, giving the Topsidans plenty of opportunities to position pulse cannons and hide battleships from attackers.”

“Still, the Naats persevered,” Rhodan said. It was obvious, but on the other hand, he was beginning to recognize it even in the representations on the console.

“Longer than Topsid’s first line of defense,” the Arkonide confirmed. Was Rhodan mistaken or did Crest sound surprised? “Nevertheless, the Keat’ark broke through. Look, here!”

Rhodan’s gaze followed the outstretched finger of his elderly companion. Then he paused. “She’s crashed! Novaal’s ship went down on Rayold I.”

Crest didn’t disagree.

“That explains the tremors,” Rhodan continued. “Rayold is fighting back against the invaders.” And we’re stuck on a ship on the side that, in Crest’s estimation, will lose the battle. Not a pleasant thought. “What is the role of the Itak’tylam in this attack?”

“She’s not on the front lines. We’re lucky.” Crest pointed to a corner of the illustration where Rhodan recognized Novaal’s fleet. “She’s more likely to defend from behind, but even that won’t change her fate.”

Rhodan was taken aback. Crest’s fatalism, so perfectly composed and calmly delivered, astonished him.

“I’m afraid the Naats are really nothing more than dumb fighting machines,” added the Arkonide, who hadn’t missed Rhodan’s questioning look. “They have impressive capabilities with the Itak’tylam and the rest of the group, and clearly possess superior weapons against Rayold I’s stronghold, but they still haven’t managed to make any significant use of this advantage. The Topsidans down there aren’t just fighting back, they’re winning.”

Dumb fighting machines. Harsh words that echoed in Rhodan’s mind. Crest was an atypical Arkonide in many ways, Rhodan knew that, but even a man such as him wasn’t immune to the arrogance with which his species treated the giant Naats. Had he been aware of that, it might have embarrassed the Arkonide.

Rhodan decided not to broach the subject for the time being. “You see that, Crest, but Novaal doesn’t?” he wondered aloud instead. It was inconceivable that the ship’s bridge had not long since drawn the same conclusions.

“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Crest replied matter-of-factly. “But he won’t address it. I’m not a member of the military, Rhodan, but to me the impending defeat of the Naats is unavoidable. The fact that the attackers, for all their losses, won’t stop firing on Rayold, proves to me their lack of mental fitness for such undertakings.”

The meaning behind the words was clear: in Crest’s estimation, this attack was not being led by strategy, but by one-dimensional stubbornness, although the Arkonide would probably have expressed himself more selectively.

And something else is frighteningly obvious. “We need to disembark. Immediately!”

Crest nodded again. “As far as I know, Miss Sloane has an idea about that.”

Suddenly, Rhodan couldn’t hold back. “May I ask you something, Crest?” he said, and for a brief moment astonishment conquered his concern. “How are you so calm? The Itak’tylam is shaking under the bombardment of the Topsidans, our friends are imprisoned by the Naats, and yet you seem to me not to feel the slightest hint of anxiety.”

The corners of the Arkonide’s mouth twitched slightly. He looked amused. “Because I don’t fear for my life,” he answered. “After all, It wouldn’t have given me the cell activator to make me die here and now.”

Rhodan closed his eyes tightly. He didn’t like Crest’s behavior: first the arrogance towards the Naats, now the almost blind trust in a better fate symbolized by the cell activator? He refrained from pointing out the truth to the Arkonide, that It, this immortality-giving spiritual being, had actually offered its gift to him. Only when Rhodan had refused the offer had It given the cell activator to Crest instead.

Deceptive security. That was what his driving instructor had called it back in Connecticut. The memory, just over twenty years old, seemed to come from another, earlier life. So much had happened since those days. Still, Rhodan suddenly heard his instructor’s words as clearly as if they had been uttered only yesterday.

“You’re too reckless for me, Perry,” the man had reprimanded him after their first hour together. “You drive as though nothing could happen to you as long as you have your hands on the wheel. You’re too confident. But a beginner can make no greater mistake than to be too confident.”

As far as the cell activator was concerned, Crest was a beginner. And he acted with the confidence of a man who thought he was indestructible. Rhodan knew the danger such people could pose. They tended to take unnecessary risks.

All the more reason to get out of here as quickly as possible. He turned. “I’m listening, Anne. What’s your idea?”

The question seemed to flip some kind of inner switch on the dark-haired woman. From one moment to the next, she exuded the energy and willpower that Rhodan appreciated about her. “We’re working on the screen projectors that are holding the prisoners captive in the hangar. Crest has figured out their location, and Ras can teleport there and sabotage the projectors. When the force field is no longer active, we will take the Itak’tylam! John, Tako, and the others will help us with that. We will arm our makeshift army with everything we can find and bring the Naats to their knees. They won’t be expecting resistance. We’ll use that mistake to our advantage!”

Rhodan was polite enough to let her finish, but knew from the first sentence that this plan wasn’t worthy of the name. She did not speak of reason, but of pure reactionism. She wanted to do something, just like him, but her inner urge lacked the prudence that was essential for success. What she proposed would lead to a massacre.

“Careful!” he tried diplomatically. “We mustn’t underestimate the Naats. The element of surprise alone doesn’t guarantee us victory.”

Sloane snorted. “These noseless giants would do well not to underestimate us.”

“Maybe,” said Tschubai. He sat on the floor next to Sloane and looked at her and Rhodan. “But I agree with Perry. If we just go for it, we’re going to lose people. This battle will cause deaths; many deaths.”

“And what do you think will happen if we continue to watch what’s going on in silence?” Sloane continued to speak softly, but her tone became more urgent, angrier. “Then they all die. It’s already happening! Each and every one of us. And our comrades down in the hangar. Every single Naat who doesn’t want to admit that he’s no match for the Topsidans down on Rayold. We are being crushed in a war between two empires that we have nothing to do with, friends! No, if I must go, it will be as the architect of my own happiness.”

Rhodan nodded thoughtfully. Sloane’s reasoning was far from untenable, he knew that. And yet...

He listened silently to the hum of the Itak’tylam, heard the faint whirring of the life-support system, felt the gentle vibrations of the engines in the deck beneath his feet. And he sensed the battle that was raging beyond the outer walls of the proud ship.

“You’re right, Anne,” he said at last. “And you, Ras. But I don’t think we’ll get out of our situation with a surprise attack, or by waiting and hoping.”

“Do you have a better suggestion?” she snapped at him.

Rhodan looked her in the eyes. “I think I do.”

The fires were everywhere. Again and again, distant detonations made the entire ship tremble. Even on the bridge it blazed brightly; dark, corrosive smoke hung under the ceiling. Novaal, Reekha of the 247th Advance Border Patrol, stood at one of the few consoles still capable of rudimentary functions and cursed softly into the helmet of his Arkonide battledress.

Impossible! What he saw was simply impossible. The Keat’ark was an Arkonide ship, a flagship, in fact. It was built to withstand fire like this. Her innermost realm should have braved the fire and destruction with ease. But the flickering displays of the positronics proved the opposite.

Again and again, Novaal called up status updates of the individual onboard functions and checked the condition of various systems. Wherever he looked, he found nothing but destruction. Only the strong survived. This simple truth was a cornerstone of Naat culture and was as familiar to Novaal as his own body. So far, he had always been the strong one. He refused to believe that things would turn out differently today.

The evacuation was already in full swing. He had ordered it himself, for he knew that the Keat’ark was beyond salvation. Nothing he and his crew might attempt would be able to avert the fate that threatened the ship. Those who had fallen on the surface of a boulder, burning and beaten, no longer won battles.

The shields have collapsed! Novaal read the information from the displays. The same was true of the weapon systems and the primary energy supply. He briefly considered trying the secondary systems but quickly dismissed the idea. What good would they be? His people wouldn’t be able to revive the shield projectors, nor would they be able to give him back control of the weapons and space torpedoes. It was over.

Outside, the enemy was waiting. The Topsidans in Rayold I’s stronghold, the target of Novaal’s failed attack, fought back with all their might. Rayold I was their headquarters, he knew that. Their armament proved to be good, as was to be expected. Novaal had already sent every crew member who was ready for action into ground combat, and had used his remaining combat robots to make a difference on the side of the Naats. The Keat’ark was history, but the Battle of Rayold I was far from over.

Only the strong survived. And he, Novaal, was far from dead. Determined, he tore himself away from the console and set off. It took some skill to avoid the fires and sparks that raged all over the bridge, but he made it and ran through the corridor.

The plan was clear: he had to escape this wreckage before it surrendered completely to the flames and destruction. In the meantime, the rest of the garrison had arrived in the open and were heading for the fortress. It was time for their commander to do the same. As Reekha, Novaal had waited until he was the last one on board. This, he thought, befitted a person of his rank.

He hurried. With a few steps, he reached the entrance of the catapult. This was the name given by the crew to the long and narrow tube system, which was intended to transport the headquarters’ command staff out of the ship’s interior and into the open air at lightning speed in emergencies. Novaal opened the hatch in the rear central wall. Although it violated regulations, he refrained from tying himself down completely. The bowl-like bunk in which he lay on his back and looked into the darkness of the tubes would not lose him even so, and time was of the essence.

The only thing he pulled over him was the transparent protective dome. Now, at least, no piece of debris would hit him if he was shot through the ship’s interior at insane speed. Novaal raised his hand once more and touched the small console, which was integrated into the platform at head height, and the ride immediately began. It took only a few glimpses to reach his final destination, the hangar. Novaal felt a little dizzy when, as soon as he got there, he threw open the dome and sat up again.

Keep going! he ordered himself, suppressing the nausea. Then he looked around.

The outer bulkhead of the huge cargo hold no longer existed. Where it had been was now an almost circular hole, several meters in diameter, the edges of which had burned and were still smoking. Novaal knew it was the quickest way from the bridge to the rock that had become the grave of the Keat’ark. And speed was now more important than ever.

He was about to run towards the hole when something grabbed his leg. “Reekha!”

Novaal stopped.

“Reekha,” the voice repeated faintly, pleading.

Novaal looked at the gloved hand that was trembling as it tried to cling to his leg, and crouched down. A buried soldier. The escape from the burning ship had come to an abrupt end for him, for the ceiling of the hangar had collapsed, trapping him underneath. He was lying on his stomach on the floor, fixed by the weight on his back, legs, and shoulders. Novaal quickly realized that the injured soldier would not be able to free himself on his own.

Damn!

Once again, explosions shook the wreckage. Sparks rained down from the chaos, as if to remind Novaal of his priorities. But even so, he knew what he had to do. What the situation demanded. And he also knew that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

I have to leave you behind. Time is of the essence. At any moment, the entire ship could blow up and take me with it. But I can’t just leave. The battle has not yet been decided. The crew needs me at the front.

He was the Reekha, responsible for those he commanded. It was his duty to stand by their side. However, honor also commanded him to help the helpless. This man was in danger of burning or suffocating. What Naat abandoned a brother in battle?

One who must live, thought Novaal. Then he picked up a gun. The attempt to simply cut his comrade free failed. For every load Novaal severed above him, two new ones seemed to slide out of the chaos of debris under which he lay buried. Novaal searched for new approaches or angles, but the Keat’ark didn’t seem to want to give up her prisoner.

“Can you understand me?” he asked. But there was no reaction; the soldier must have fainted.

Novaal was about to give up when an idea suddenly came to him. Focus on the essentials! He didn’t need to clean up the mess. The soldier was probably already being helped with a small escape route. Groaning, Novaal grabbed it. The Arkonide battledress he wore increased his muscle strength in a most practical way, and he managed to push aside one of the smaller ceiling tiles. Underneath, narrower beams were revealed. Novaal pointed his gun at them and severed them one by one. With patience and skill, he managed to give the buried man a little air. But was it enough?

Carefully, he lowered the plate he was lifting and took a deep breath. It won’t work, he realized. Help or not, the soldier’s injuries were probably too severe for him to crawl out of his predicament on his own. What to do?

Perplexed, Novaal looked around but found nothing. And time seemed to run on relentlessly. With his right hand, he once again gripped the edge of a steel plate, careful not to cut his glove on it. At the same time, he grabbed the foremost of the small pieces of debris from the support beams, which were bent and crooked between the hangar floor and the remains of the ceiling. He concentrated, closed his eyes, clenched his jaws until it almost hurt, and began.

His first attempt almost cost him the right leg of his short column. Concentrating on the top and the beam, he had missed the sharp-edged piece of wall paneling that slipped off the former when he lifted it again. It was a miracle the thing didn’t cut through his pants, skin, and muscle strands when it fell to the ground.

Go on! Novaal urged himself. I don’t have the time for what ifs!

Attempt two was completed with much more success, but the carrier piece was still not in the right position. Novaal swallowed, tensed his muscles, and gave it his all one last time.

It worked. As he lifted the steel plate with his strength and the help of his battledress, he simultaneously pulled his makeshift support to the spot that seemed most suitable to him. Although the material creaked and squeaked against this treatment, it did not detract from the stability of the temporary structure that Novaal had built.

Panting, the Reekha crouched down. For a brief moment, bright dots of overexertion danced before his eyes, then he regained control. It was only when he stretched out his arms and grabbed the wounded man that he realized the other soldier had long since lost consciousness. He would not be able to get up and leave the wreck of the Keat’ark on his own.

“Forget it!” growled Novaal. It was hard for him not to resent the man for his lack of help, as absurd as that was. “You can’t get away from me, do you understand me?”

Without hesitation, he leaned forward and pulled the motionless Naat out of the tangle of scrap metal and dark smoke. Reassured, he noted that the positronics of the combat suit in which the soldier was stuck had suffered less damage than its wearer. Novaal synchronized their frequencies with those of his own battledress and coupled the two together. The process took only seconds, but if everything went well, it would make all the difference.

Let’s try, he thought grimly and rose slowly. The unconscious man did the same. The soldier’s battledress mimicked any movement Novaal made in his own. When Novaal raised his hand, the stranger’s hand shot up as well; if he took a step to the right, his unfortunate shipmate followed him at the same moment. Would it actually work?

Suddenly, the deck shook again. The sirens, which had just wailed through the deserted corridors of the ship, fell silent. Then, after the main lighting, the emergency lighting ceased operating as well. Only the flames of the small smoldering fires were left, which filled the hangar with dirty smoke so that Novaal had to wipe his helmet visor free twice with his hands.

It would have to suffice. Novaal felt that every second counted. He sprinted off as fast as his tired limbs would carry him, diving on all fours over the rubble and scrap to the hole in the hangar wall. It took him several tries to get used to the coupling of the suits, which meant that he would also stop abruptly whenever the remote-controlled soldier got wedged against an obstacle.

At the last possible moment, he reached the destroyed bulkhead, jumped out into the open, and landed harshly on the rocky bottom of the boulder.

Keep going! He forced himself up. Only the strong! Only! The! Strong!

Behind him, the wreckage exploded. Novaal ran as fast and as hard as he could, but he didn’t really distance himself from the dying Keat’ark until the blast wave grabbed him and threw him meters across the barren wasteland lit by the light of distant stars.

“Partial system failure,” reported the suit Positronic. The voice sounded unmoved. “Shield generator and flight unit are at zero percent. Stealth function limited. Automatic radio contact with the crew lost.”

Novaal landed hard in a depression. He wanted to heave himself up, to crawl deeper behind cover, but he could only do so with difficulty. The heavy knapsack of the combat suit hindered him.

“Positronic!” he gasped. “Gravity?”

“0.67 gravos.”

“That’s impossible! The mass of Rayold I is far too small to produce such high gravity.”

“That’s correct.”

“Then it can’t be!”

“It is.”

“How do you explain it?”

“There is no explanation, but the fact cannot be denied.”

Novaal gave up. He had greater problems than arguing with positronics.

He looked around. Miraculously, the soldier he had rescued from the burning ship was lying nearby. Novaal was just about to dive out of the cover offered by the stones to pull the man to safety as well when once again the light of numerous explosions illuminated the darkness. It wasn’t until the debris crashed against the rocks that he realized what was happening and barely managed to take shelter again.

The hull of the ship, he thought to himself. It can withstand the explosions! The fire may eat the ship, but it won’t tear it apart. The Arkonides built to last an eternity.

Then came new pieces of debris. A tremendous rain of small, pointed objects, remnants of the dying ship, fell over the corner of the boulder that housed the fortress of Rayold I. Novaal pressed himself against the rock that shielded him from the horribly fast projectiles and listened to the rattle. He should have reckoned with the rubble, he knew that. If the explosions did not destroy the hull of the Keat’ark, they would create pressure inside the wreck that would find another way out. Obviously, they had done just that.

Air locks, the Reekha suspected. Holes like the one in the hangar bulkhead, and so on. The pressure of the detonations escaped through any exit it could find, hurling debris like little projectiles. Woe betide the one who gets caught in their trajectory.

The soldier!

Novaal looked to his left. The unconscious man he had rescued was still lying on the ground, about eight paces from the shelter. As soon as the rattle of the debris stopped, Novaal deactivated the synchronization of their suits. After that, he lowered the positronics of his own as far as seemed acceptable to him, leaving on only the few basic functions that ensured his survival, and activated stealth mode, which would hide him from the Topsidans’ sensors. Then he lunged out and headed for the man.

“Can you hear me now?” he asked, reaching out to the soldier. Only then did he see that his fears had come true: the man’s suit had numerous small holes. The debris cannon into which the Arkonide ship had just turned must have hit him hard.

For a moment, Novaal sat motionless, staring down at the corpse. He realized that he didn’t know the man’s name, and he regretted that. But even more so, he regretted risking his own life for nothing.

“What’s the soldier’s name? When did death occur?” he asked the Positronic. He spoke softly, and frustration clung to every word like dirt on the heel of a bull.

“Porksin died exactly nine minutes and twenty-six seconds ago,” replied the suit with its usual matter-of-factness.

Novaal was taken aback. Nine minutes? So he was already dead when I pulled him out from under the ceiling tile. The realization filled him with anger. All this for no reason?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he snapped.

He knew how absurd it was to blame the AI. The Positronic was not a living, thinking being, but only technology, not something with feelings. But he couldn’t help it. The struggle with the ceiling tile, the arduous attempts to escape to the bulkhead with synchronous movements—they had been unnecessary, completely useless.

“You were highly concentrated. Any comment on my part would have interfered with your efforts. I assumed that the recovery of this body was of special importance to you.”

“That’s Arkonide thinking!” exclaimed Novaal. What horrible nonsense!

“Of course,” replied the Positronic. “You wear an Arkonide suit; you are a member of the Arkonide group. What logic, if not the Arkonide one, should I impute to your actions?”

Novaal did not reply.

2.

Rhodan’s Tactics

Perry Rhodan came without a weapon. He hoped that this gesture would prove his intentions better than words ever could.

With Ras Tschubai, he materialized in Toreead’s quarters. The room was not particularly large and was quite spartan. Visually, it was dominated by a holo, which immediately caught Rhodan’s eye. It covered the entire back wall and showed a captivatingly alien panorama. Rhodan saw a large city of tall towers and shimmering golden roofs rising out of the desert sand. The Naat home world? He regretted that he lacked the time to learn more about it.

“What... How is this possible?” stammered Toreead. He stared at the unexpected visitors as if they were Arkonide vengeance spirits and had come to carry him off. “How did you get in here? Perry Rhodan, I don’t understand—”

“We are humans, Toreead,” he interrupted the Naat calmly. “We think analytically and act creatively. We have far more options than you and your friends can imagine. And we know how to use them.”

The three large eyes in the hairless head of his counterpart blinked briefly. Rhodan had been around Naats long enough to be able to interpret this impulse: skepticism.

“Hardly,” Toreead promptly confirmed. His tone, one of astonishment and a little terror just a moment ago, had taken on an almost arrogant coloration. “You are our prisoners. If your abilities were as you say, you would have escaped us and perhaps would have defeated us long ago.”

Despite the tense situation, Rhodan couldn’t help but smile. Toreead’s words brought back a memory of Anne Sloane. “Don’t underestimate us, Toreead,” he advised.

The Naat lifted his torso so that his arms lost contact with the ground. Rhodan wondered if the gesture was meant to be defensive.

“I don’t underestimate you at all,” Toreead said. “After all, you look like Arkonides, even if you’re not.” Then he leaned forward again, returning to his starting position. Aboard Arkonide ships, Rhodan knew, the Naats usually moved on all fours. “From now on, you won’t leave my side, Perry Rhodan. Understood?”

Tschubai, who was waiting in the back of the room, was about to come forward in protest at the threatening statement, but Rhodan motioned for him not to do so with a quick wave of his hand. The teleporter obeyed.

“You can’t hold me, you see,” Rhodan said to Toreead. “So, what reason would I have to stay near you if I don’t want to?”

Toreead’s thin-lipped, oval mouth contorted. “You’re staying because I’m responsible for you. I vouched with my own life to my superiors that you are under control and will not do anything that could affect the course and outcome of our mission. To know that you are free and unguarded on the ship is simply unacceptable.”

Rhodan raised an eyebrow. That explained a lot.

“Perry...” Tschubai cautioned.

“It’s all right, Ras,” he said again. He did not turn to Tschubai and did not let the Naat out of his sight. “Toreead and I are just talking. Just like when I was eating.”

Rhodan remembered well the borscht that Toreead had brought to his cell. At that moment, they had not been such strangers to each other. Could he build on that?

Slowly, he took two steps towards his unwilling host. Toreead didn’t budge. “With your life, right?” asked Rhodan. “Tell me one thing, Toreead: what is the value of this life? The squadron is in the middle of the storm on Rayold, admittedly, but you don’t have to be a strategist to see what the outcome will be. The Naats will lose. Every minute that we stand here, your peers die from the stupid intransigence of their betters. You may feel superior, but as the course of this attack demonstrates, you are not. The Topsidans down there are defending their fort with all the strength they can muster. They’re defending the Tatlira system because they are defending the despotate, their homeland. You cannot and will not bring them to their knees. So, Toreead, tell me, what is the value of this life that you believe to be in danger from me?”

The spontaneous speech left its mark on the Naat’s black, leathery face, though Toreead was clearly trying to do the opposite. The Naats were most likely unaware of Crest’s access to their ship’s positronics; they had no idea that some of their human and Arkonide prisoners were well-informed about the state of the battle. For Toreead, Rhodan had remained helpless and inactive in a tiny cell, wrestling with his fate. Nevertheless, the Naat did not show whether or how much he was surprised by Rhodan’s analysis, which was as apt as it was reprehensive.

“You’re going to die, Toreead,” Rhodan insisted. “We all will if you don’t change your course of action as soon as possible.”

As if to underline his words, at that very moment another tremor passed through the hull of the Itak’tylam. Rhodan felt the uneven vibrations under the soles of his feet. Another hit. How many would follow until the ship was finally destroyed?

“You’re probably right,” Toreead said matter-of-factly. The ship’s precarious situation seemed to bounce right off him. The light flickered briefly.

“Probably?” Rhodan shook his head with a sigh. How stubborn! What benefit could it bring? “I’m right, you know that at least as well as I do. The Itak’tylam has not been fighting on the front lines so far; so it might actually survive this battle, though I highly doubt it. But what then, Toreead? You’ll die in the next battle. Or the one after that. The Arkonides are taking advantage of you! They force you into war and you pay the price! I’m no Naat, but I think I know you well enough by now to be able to attest to one thing: with your uncritical obedience and penchant for fighting, you’ve maneuvered yourself into a corner. If you don’t die here and now, you’re guaranteed to die soon under similar circumstances. Unless, of course, you change your minds and finally come to your senses.”

It seemed almost arrogant to rebuke the Naat in this way. Rhodan regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth. But he knew how necessary it had been. The Naats ran blindly to their doom, dragging Rhodan and his companions with them. He had to stop them, and the best way to do that was to be direct.

Will they understand my arguments, though? Are they even capable of understanding? He hoped so. Otherwise, he might as well have tried to persuade a Fantan to give up his Besun. I am not allowed to measure other civilizations by human standards, or to judge them by those standards. Each culture has its own context.

“I don’t shy away from a fight, Perry Rhodan,” said Toreead firmly. “It is the core of every life, our life.”

“But this is not your fight!” Rhodan glanced briefly at Tschubai, who stood silently behind him. The expressionless face of the Sudanese man made him suspect that he shared his frustration.

“It’s not the Naats who are Topsid’s enemies, it’s the Arkonides,” Rhodan turned back to Toreead in another attempt.

“Fighting is the core of life,” the soldier repeated calmly. There was no defiance in his voice or demeanor, and yet Rhodan felt that no amount of arguing would dissuade him from his views. Did this stubbornness also apply to the rest of his species? Could Crest be right in his harsh judgment? “And besides,” Toreead continued, “what else are we left with? What would we do if we didn’t fight?”

Rhodan raised his hands helplessly. “Well, you could release my comrades and me. That would be a start. You could avail yourself of the help we offer you, if you would be reasonable.”

“Help.” Toreead’s leathery visage twisted into the Naat equivalent of a tired smile. “What help could you be to us? You’re different from us, far less calibrated for confrontation.”

“If we can help you get through this battle—” Rhodan began.

Toreead wouldn’t let him finish. “What then? You said it yourself: if we don’t die today, we’ll die tomorrow or the day after. It’s true, Perry Rhodan, there’s always a new fight, always some danger. Should it be granted to me and my family, with or without your help, to survive this day, my existence is still forfeit. The Arkonides will have me executed as soon as they get their hands on me, as punishment for my actions.”

Rhodan looked at Tschubai, then again at Toreead. “Not if they don’t find you,” he said with a smile.

Novaal reacted just in time. He whirled around, braced himself against the rough ground of Rayold I, and jumped more or less blindly into the hoped-for cover of the nearest crater depression. Directly behind him, the beam of energy slammed against the barren stone, melting it.

They found me! The thought flashed through his mind. He feverishly checked the remaining systems of his battledress. Many were no longer functional because of the crash, and its consequences had taken a massive toll on him. The energy reserves were no longer sufficient to power the force field.

Cautiously, Novaal crept back to the rim of the small crater. The gravity on Rayold I was less than usual; accordingly, he had to proceed with caution. Otherwise, he ran the risk of losing contact with the ground. Even with little muscle strength, he would make huge jumps, and during the uncontrollable landings, he would most likely get lost in one of the many crevices that seemed as deep as they were numerous. It should not come to that.

Novaal peered over the crater rim. In fact, the Topsidian robot hadn’t budged yet. The wretched thing was the size of a particularly clunky humanoid and still stood perhaps ten meters away, its spotlights pointed at the depression. The flickering light of the force field that surrounded Rayold I was reflected on its shiny metallic outer shell, and Novaal didn’t have to be a Topsidian weapons engineer to interpret the flashing lights and other indicators on the front of the technical killing instrument that he couldn’t read but could recognize.

From the rim of the crater, glowing rock rained down on his helmeted head. It couldn’t end like this. That fact was as simple as it was mandatory. Novaal hadn’t survived a starship crash only to fall victim to a piece of technology that had crossed his path by pure chance in a crater depression, far from the actual battle. It would be a ridiculous, useless death, unworthy of a Reekha. Therefore, he decided, it wouldn’t happen.

Pressed close to the rock face, he crept on, looking for a way out of the crater that didn’t put him directly in the robot’s firing path. But the circular rock funnel into which he had taken refuge, at the bottom of which lay the lifeless body of the soldier from the Keat’ark, had no emergency exits. Novaal would already be in danger if he moved just three more steps to the right or left, because the wall that hid him from the robot’s sensors could no longer protect him.

Another rain of weapons fire fell. He escaped the beam of dazzlingly bright energy by a hair’s breadth and cried out as a thin thread of the molten crater wall touched his right glove. The rock had turned to liquid fire from the attack and burned through the Arkonide suit, causing a leak.

“Warning. Pressure drop inside the suit. Loss of atmosphere is imminent.”

I know, Novaal thought grimly, wishing the Positronic, who had to tell him the obvious, all the devils his culture knew. His left hand trembled in pain as he readjusted the suit according to the AI’s instructions, isolating the affected finger of his right hand from the rest. He acted intently, even though the pain behind his forehead was like a loud siren that tried to drown out everything else. Nevertheless, he succeeded.

“Internal pressure restored,” reported the voice in his helmet.

But the long-term problem still remains.

Novaal crept a little deeper into the hollow, sensing the approaching robot. How many meters separated it from the crater rim? And why didn’t the robot just shoot him down? Had its energy reserves also plummeted?

Fierce determination took possession of Novaal. The defiance that had driven him ever since the Topsidian robot had come upon him out of nowhere turned into stubborn fatalism—and energy. Naats lived for battle, and while Novaal felt it was shameful to lose, he appreciated the challenge of confronting Topsid’s inanimate guardian. The more difficult a struggle, the more significance it had and the greater its value. Naats grew from their obstacles and great tasks.

The sole of Novaal’s boot struck the dead soldier’s leg, and suddenly an idea occurred to him. Everything happened at breakneck speed. He knew that it could and would fail if he didn’t risk everything. Feverishly, he worked on the deceased’s suit, touching input fields, activating the last energy reserves of the combat suit he had set up earlier in sync with his. Then, a few fractions of a second later, it happened: as commanded by Novaal’s input, his dead comrade rose. Porksin, externally controlled, turned on his heel and climbed laboriously up the crater wall. No sooner did his helmet protrude over the edge of porous rock than a volley from the Topsidian fighting machine struck him.

Breathlessly, Novaal watched as Porksin died a second time. The Keat’ark had taken his life. Now the robot’s energy weapons took away his body. His remains fell back to the crater floor. Novaal saw the scorched helmet and the flesh behind it, burnt beyond recognition, and saw the black gunshot marks on the suit’s chest, shoulders, and sleeves. The robot hadn’t left too much of its victim. But would it be enough?

Wait. Don’t move. Now was the time. All or nothing; either the plan succeeded, or the battle ended here and now. Don’t move a single muscle. You’re not there anymore. You’re dead.

That’s what the robot was supposed to believe. It had registered a creature in an Arkonide battledress and wanted to shoot it, and it had done just that. The fortress had one fewer enemy. The fact that the soldier who had been hit by the energy weapon had already been dead remained, Novaal hoped, an unnoticed detail.

Seconds elapsed into minutes. The Reekha hardly dared to breathe. This was nonsense, of course, because the robot would only locate the suit. Any emotion, he feared, would betray him. Was it still waiting in front of the crater? Was this how it checked whether it had definitively caught his victim? Or had the Topsidian sensors long since noticed that not one, but two Naats lay beyond the stone funnel rim—one alive, one doubly dead?

Novaal had disabled all nonimmediate survival features of his suit and turned on stealth mode, but did that really help when the enemy was only a few steps away?

Are you still out there playing with me? he asked the machine in his mind. Or did I actually outsmart you?

It was hard for him to believe the latter. The idea had been too rash and spontaneous for him to allow himself to attach much hope to it. But it was and remained his only chance.

Eventually, after more time than even prudence deemed necessary, he dared to creep back to the edge, raised his head cautiously, and looked out at the barren plain of Rayold I. Far and wide he saw no robot, nor any other sign of Topsidian presence. It was over.

He nodded contentedly, mentally ticking off the incident. Relief spread inside him, but he forced it back. This was not the time to give in to feelings of triumph. He’d won a battle, and only with a lot of luck, but the war raged on, and that was the only thing that mattered.

We’re even, you and I, Novaal thought, looking back at the charred corpse of the soldier one last time. I risked my life to save yours, and now you’ve returned the favor. Thank you for that, Porksin.

He climbed out of the hollow, heaved himself over the crater rim, and returned to the plain. The fortress... He guessed where it was by now. It was time to finally intervene in what was happening there.

Rayold I was about six kilometers wide, six long and nine high; he knew that from the displays on the ship’s bridge. Getting there wasn’t an unrealistic journey. Silently, Novaal walked ahead, trying not to think about the brief flashes of brightness he saw in the distance. He thought he knew what they were: Naats fighting lizards. Shipmates who weren’t lucky enough to have a corpse in their luggage that they could use to dupe Topsid’s soldiers.

I’m coming, he promised them silently. Hang in there! He had sent these soldiers into battle, giving them weapons and robots of his own to help them. He belonged by their side.

He passed Topsidian search parties and robots several times, but they took no notice of him as long as he kept quiet and always found a rock, crater, or crevice in time to hide himself from the scouts. The battle and the crash of the Keat’ark had scared the lizards quite a bit, it seemed. Nevertheless, Novaal made good progress. The wasteland of this chunk of rubble had a charm of its own. He saw flat terrain, crisscrossed by rocky crevasses and garnished with occasional walls of porous rock at least shoulder-high. These were the craters, he knew, and Rayold I had so many of them that it was not difficult for him to imagine the past of this memorable rock.

It had once been part of a large moon, but an unknown cosmic catastrophe had blown it up into countless pieces. Ten thousand years had passed since that day, according to scientists, and debris from the moon was still floating around the gas giant Rayold, more than fifty different clumps of matter without life or a future. Rayold I, on whom the Topsidans had built one of their fortresses, was considered the most important of those fragments and was of strategic significance that should not be underestimated thanks to the presence of the lizards.

From space combat and preparation, Novaal knew that the Topsidans were running multiple gun batteries across the surface of Rayold I. These were the main weapons causing problems for the Naats and had forced the Keat’ark out of the sky. It was them, and especially the fortress, that the Naats were attacking.

The lizards were stationed on many of these chunks of lunar debris. Accordingly, it was considered difficult to eliminate them, as an attacker could never really be sure to catch the entirety of the Topsidian defense. More than fifty pieces of debris also meant more than fifty potential sources of danger. The scarred surface of Rayold I testified to that. Novaal had no doubt that the craters and fissures were due to smaller pieces of debris from red-hot celestial bodies that had crashed into what was now called Rayold I in free fall. And he sensed that today would leave more craters, traces of the battle and the crashing Imperial and Topsidian ships.

Later, as he crouched behind a rock and waited until a patrol had passed him on the other side, he looked around more closely. Above, the stars twinkled, as if in competition with the force field that the enemy had placed around Rayold I. Thanks to this shield, which flickered from time to time as if it wanted to burn, Novaal was able to walk safely over the rough terrain, as the flickering dome provided him with the necessary brightness and snatched the scarred boulders from the eternal night of space for several seconds.

Then he moved on.

Careful. Just don’t rush.

His mind wandered. He thought of the events of the past few hours, and as it had often done before, Inkmoon’s face suddenly moved in front of his mind’s eye. The young commander had impressed him, albeit in a way Inkmoon would probably never have imagined.

He had something of my son, Sayoaard, Novaal thought. That’s why I can’t get it out of my mind. In Inkmoon, he had seen what Sayoaard could have been had he not been born a cripple.

The realization hurt twice. Inkmoon was dead. He had died when his ship, the Honunt, had crashed on Topsidian lunar debris. They had wanted to take advantage of the collapse of the protective shield around Rayold I to break through to the enemy fortress. But when the Honunt returned, it had been hit by exploding debris. This had brought about their downfall.

The Honunt no longer existed, nor did its commander. Inkmoon had known that he would not survive the attack on the lizards’ stronghold—at least that’s what Novaal had always feared.

But his death—and that of his shipmates—hurt the Topsidans. The Reekha knew that. He undoubtedly left his mark...on their buildings as well as on their psyche. And now I’m here to avenge him.

There were more sensible and, above all, more useful drives for a fighter, but Novaal took what he could get. Somehow, this attack on the fortress was also a fight against those who had brought him and the others this far. Novaal couldn’t destroy the Arkonides, but he was able to channel the hatred he had felt for them for some time and turn it into action.

Novaal thought of the hand of the Regent, Sergh da Teffron—the Arkonide who had Sayoaard in his clutches—and went on, saluting the hatred. It would be of use to him, the Reekha was convinced of it.

Suddenly, he stopped. There in front of him, not five paces ahead, something sparkled in one of the smaller cracks in the ground. Novaal tensed his muscles, prepared to flee. Was this another Topsidian welcome gift? Had their technology once again discovered him by chance and would now end what the combat robot had failed to do earlier?

But the feared reaction failed to materialize. Whatever was in front of him didn’t budge and didn’t seem to be preparing to detonate. However, it sparkled in an extremely fascinating way.

Starlight, thought Novaal, astonished by his own fascination. He stepped closer, crouched slightly, and reached out to the object. It was smaller than the palm of his hand, almost spherical, and when he turned it, it caught the light of the stars and the ghostly flickering glow of the force field over Rayold I.