Perry Rhodan NEO: Volume 3 E-Book

Michael Marcus-Thurner

• Herausgeber: J-Novel Club
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Perry Rhodan NEO (English Edition)
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 496

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Perry Rhodan NEO: Volume 3

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Cover

Episode 5: School for Mutants

Episode 6: The Dark Twins

About J-Novel Club

Copyright

Landmarks

Table of Contents

1.

The Performance

July 8, 2036

High up in the sky, fireworks were exploding. Chinese fireworks. They carried conventional warheads with low levels of stray radiation, but they were blocked by the defensive shield that protected Perry Rhodan and the nascent city known as Terrania. They were probably Dongfeng-67B models with micro GPS systems, a circular error of probability of not even ten meters, and maneuverable warheads. Each of these projectiles cost a fortune, and each achieved nothing but its own destruction.

These bombs were the most important components of the arsenal that had been trying to break through the Arkonide barrier for days now, but they weren’t the only ones. They were bolstered by conventional DH-class cruise missiles, which had for years played a large role in Chinese “defense” strategies and were feared in the west for their impressive maneuverability. The missiles’ inertial navigation systems were the best in the world by far.

Perry Rhodan looked upwards, equal parts tired and apprehensive; there was no one around for whom he needed to feign confidence. The barrage of fire was exhausting him. The constant ba-bam that rang out with the standard acoustic delay was wearing on his nerves.

Ba-bam. Ba-bam. Ba-bam.

For the past few days, the imposing Arkonide robots had been his only company.

And they’re not exactly great at it.

He needed conversation. He had to know what was going on in the world around him. At the moment, he was cut off from all information channels. The Chinese had installed high-powered jammers around the dome. General Bai Jun knew his stuff, that much was clear. He was combating Rhodan’s superior technology with attrition tactics and endless patience.

Rhodan started wiping the sweat from his brow, then froze mid-motion. Something had changed. The bombardment of the defensive shield had abated. The cruise missiles’ launch and transport vehicles, mainly trucks with eight-axle trailers, model HY-664, had likely been repositioned to aim at a new target beyond the horizon.

The Stardust.

“The Terran ship is returning,” said the nearest robot in slurred-sounding English.

“Do you have a com link?”

“No. However, I can detect pieces of equipment that came from the Aetron. I have intermittent contact with structurally identical robotic units. The Terran pilot is executing some odd maneuvers that seem inexpedient for his goal.”

The Stardust was being shot at, and the attackers had a good chance of landing a hit. For a ship that reacted so sluggishly in the Earth’s atmosphere, the landing maneuvers took far more time than the launch.

“Diversionary tactics as planned!” Rhodan ordered.

In the blink of an eye, two of the robots went into action along with one of the enormous work machines. They rushed at high speed to the side of the shield that had been under the heaviest fire in recent days. Gaps in the structure formed, through which the three Arkonide creations left the energy cocoon. From there, they proceeded to the presumed positions of the Chinese army. Rhodan had instructed them to put on a performance that drew as much attention as possible from the landing spacecraft. Then, before they ran the risk of being destroyed by one of the enemy’s powerful projectiles, they were to blow themselves to smithereens.

For a moment, there was only silence. Four contrails ran across the sky towards the east like parallel lines scratched by a rake. Rhodan slipped into his Arkonide-made battledress, a suit so advanced that it almost seemed miraculous. He’d gotten the knack for putting it on by now and managed it in under three seconds, assisted by the stunningly intelligent positronic computer.

There was no contemplation anymore. No hesitation. He knew what he had to do. A decisive feeling rose up within him—the certainty that he was doing the right thing. He wasn’t reacting anymore, but acting. Anticipating what the soldiers would do before they even knew it themselves.

Perry Rhodan had earned his reputation as the “instantaneous adapter.” He used the battledress to raise himself into the air, ready for the conflict. Ready to keep the worst from happening.

There was the Stardust, at a height of around two kilometers. A new armada of Chinese missiles was flying from all directions at this tiny-looking target in the sky. The ship was moving at a speed of around seven hundred kilometers per hour.

Bull was pulling off evasive maneuvers with the gallant deftness Rhodan knew his friend for. Even if he would never achieve the same piloting proficiency as Rhodan himself, Bull possessed awe-inspiring skills when it came to steering the spacecraft.

Some of the rockets flew past their target, while others exploded early. An area of several kilometers was temporarily irradiated with an equivalent dose in the region of a few hundred microsieverts, but as sad as it was, that problem wasn’t paramount right now.

The important thing was that Bull survived. That Rhodan somehow ensured the Stardust made it back to the ground in one piece.

He rose higher until he was only slightly below the roof of the energy shield. Looking around, he saw that the three Arkonide machines had already advanced deep into the Chinese military’s territory. They were making the sand swirl dozens of meters into the air, to create a bigger distraction and confuse the enemy drones.

He considered whether he should switch more of the Arkonide robots over to this task, but no, there wasn’t enough time. In the sky above him, the shots had become significantly more frequent again. The soldiers had overcome their initial surprise.

Details of the Stardust were now visible to the naked eye. Rhodan observed and drew some conclusions. No matter how skillfully Bull had combined Arkonide drive components with those from Earth, it was clear that the two sets of technology were not designed to work together. The craft’s fins twitched restlessly back and forth; he could hardly keep the ship steady.

Bull had deployed enough thrust that he was eluding the Chinese attacks, but that reduced stability even further. Rhodan suspected the telemetric data collected by thousands of onboard sensors couldn’t be processed quickly enough anymore.

The Stardust is a lead balloon, he thought. One without any helium.

One of the robots informed him of its imminent self-destruction. Directly afterwards, Rhodan glimpsed a tremendous geyser of sand, followed by a shock wave and a violent crash. Hundreds of Chinese infantrymen were thrown to the ground or whirled about like leaves.

All the while, the assault on the Stardust continued. The leadership ranks under Bai Jun’s command wouldn’t let themselves be deterred.

“All robots, up to my level!” Rhodan ordered, fearing the worst.

The machines obeyed. As they gained more and more height, they looked like insects who scoffed at the laws of gravity. They rose up to him, to the new gaps in the shield that Rhodan was opening.

He raced forward and passed through the dome. Higher, ever higher, towards the Stardust and the three-dimensional minefield surrounding it. Without thinking about his own safety. Without a single thought to spare for the danger. A friend needed his help.

That one, right there! The missile that would deliver the final devastating blow. Rhodan anticipated it, felt it, knew it. It was the last in a long series of shots that had been haphazardly fired in quick succession. A Dongfeng, as he’d feared. He was pretty sure he could even identify the warhead: this variety was called Xiè. “Harmony.” It carried the equivalent of a megaton of TNT to its target. It would blast the Stardust out of the sky without leaving a speck of dust behind.

“Robot Three, intercept that missile! All other units, prepare to approach the ship. We’re getting Bull out of there!”

Number three got moving. It accelerated and hunted down its target on a flight path that brought it close to the Stardust. Too close.

Rhodan held his breath as he accelerated as well, bearing down on the ship with assistance from the suit’s Positronic. What he was doing was madness, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was the right course of action.

By now, Robot Three was visible only as a tiny speck colliding with the tip of the missile’s fifteen-meter-long body. The explosion followed as soon as Rhodan looked. He closed his eyes a fraction of a second too late—the blast of white light imprinted itself on his retinas so strongly that it left a pinprick-sized hole in his vision through which he thought he’d never see anything again.

It hardly mattered.

Light. Heat. Torrents of air. Pressure. Radiation that made the suit give off alarming signals. Control malfunctions. Everything spun around him. “Earth” and “sky” were arbitrary terms; there was no up and no down. He was stricken with nausea. His ears rang.

“Stabilize!” he grunted into the microphone. The vocal command was a necessity right now. The intuitive method of passing orders to the suit via body movements was not currently possible.

At last, the chaos subsided. Rhodan could again draw a distinction between the pale gray of the desert sand and the blue of the sky. A piece of metal plunged right past him. A burst tube; no doubt an element of the Dongfeng’s solid propellant stage.

The sky darkened. Rhodan craned his neck upwards. Roughly five hundred meters above him was the Stardust—or rather, what was left of it. It was a lacerated capsule with tubes hanging out like entrails and parts falling off by the second.

One of those parts was a human body.

“Bull!” he cried, speeding straight towards his plummeting friend. Only then did he see another human figure spinning unstoppably downwards. Towards the ground, a kilometer below them.

“Secure the humans!” Rhodan commanded.

He didn’t give any more thought to who or what had been on board. From that moment, everything ran intuitively. Grasping the limp body, securing it, diving under the cloud of debris from the ship... All these lightning fast actions were carried out partly by the Positronic and partly under his orders.

Something struck his arm. He felt a brief moment of pain. The suit flashed error messages and recommended a hasty emergency landing.

Below him, several more explosions occurred one after another. The robots carrying out his diversionary tactics were consumed by blazing infernos.

After the booming of the double explosion came a moment of absolute silence that never seemed to end. No Chinese missiles were visible in the sky anymore, and there was silence on the ground as well. Rhodan felt like he was getting a teaser of the peace of the grave.

Then he realized... He was deaf! More and more of the suits’ functions were failing, and that had included the ear protection.

Suddenly, the man in his arms felt impossibly heavy. The dead weight of the Arkonide suit made itself known. Rhodan was essentially wearing a high-tech version of a knight’s armor, and it had to weigh at least fifty kilograms.

“Emergency systems activated!” a voice squawked. “Preparing for emergency landing.”

It smelled like something was burning. Rhodan was sure he could feel fire spreading across his back, and boiling hot molten metal running down the protective suit. Bolts of discharged electricity crackled through the hefty chest piece. The positronic AI gave optical and aural warnings.

There were still five hundred meters left to the ground. The force of the detonation had blown him sideways towards the camps filled with civilians that Rhodan had lured to the Gobi Desert with his speech a few days earlier. Hundreds were pointing at him with outstretched arms. He could practically hear the crowd’s murmurs and screams of fright.

So many sensations. So many images. They swirled and blended together until it was hard to take it all in and know what was real, what mattered.

He tried to get his bearings. There was a single robot in the immediate vicinity. An identifier appeared on his heads-up display. “Five—to me!” he ordered. “Take this man off my hands!”

The machine raced over, sometimes above Rhodan, sometimes below. Smoke engulfed him. It was coming from his own back. The anti-grav kicked in, slowing his fall a little—and then petered out again.

Rhodan was spinning uncontrollably towards the ground. A rendezvous with the robot seemed impossible. He let go of the man in his arms and just let him fall. Robot number five did as told and saw to the unconscious figure. It dived under Rhodan and safely caught the man. Then it flew in a zigzag course, weaving through the whirling pieces of the wrecked Stardust.

Three hundred meters left.

“Make gaps in the shield and get the humans to safety!” he ordered the robots. Then, to the suit, he said, “Activate emergency mode!”

A kind of joystick rose out of the left glove. With the right, he did what he’d practiced repeatedly over the past few days: he intervened in the Arkonide suit’s controls. He checked the function routines, then slid deeper into the menu to bypass the positronic control circuits and divert power. He gave the anti-grav as much power as possible, counterbalanced the spinning motion, and switched to reverse thrust. It was a maneuver worthy of one of the best trained fighter pilots in the US Navy.

Below him, the rocks loomed ever larger. He could see his own shadow grow by the second from a dot the size of a matchstick to a clearly defined shape with an irregular outline. The anti-grav kicked in again, and not a moment too soon! It slowed his descent speed while also introducing g-forces strong enough to force the air from his lungs and push him to the edge of his physical endurance.

Rhodan breathed in ravenously and blinked the sweat out of his eyes. He felt sick. Just don’t throw up! Not now! He suppressed the urge as best he could and brought himself into an upright position.

With the aid of the joystick controls, he touched down, making a rough landing on the ground. The energy shield was about a hundred meters away from him. When he moved again, he left imprints several centimeters deep. He was a burning torch visible far and wide.

There were people behind him. Camp members; no doubt Chinese soldiers too. They were running after him, the lunatics! Some because they wanted to catch him, and others because they venerated him or wanted to help him.

The suit grew stiffer and stiffer. Rhodan heard a grinding sound, as if mechanical parts were scraping past each other and locking together. Every step felt like torture.

The defensive shield. Just twenty more meters. “Open a gap!” he commanded. Miraculously, the Positronic reacted. It sent the required identifier signal as Rhodan dragged himself to the fizzling archway, to safety...

Something hit him. A stray bullet from a Chinese sharpshooter must have caught him! It struck his right shoulder blade. Pain coursed through him.

He threw himself forward through the gate and gave the order to close it. Then he rolled back and forth on the sand. He had to put out the fire and free himself as quickly as possible from the battledress. All its communication signals had steadily died out. Only one last message remained: a report of total system breakdown. Rhodan deactivated the last functions and removed himself from the suit. Leaving it there, he hurried away, fearing an explosion.

None came. Instead, the suit began to deform itself. For a while it was surrounded by a shimmering blue cloud of energy, and then it shrank into an ungainly blackened hunk of metal.

Rhodan stood there panting, his hands resting on his knees. He took the moment not only to catch his breath, but also to arrange his disarrayed thoughts.

His shoulder hurt, but the bullet hadn’t penetrated the suit. He’d have a bruise for a while as a souvenir of his foray outside of the dome. His head was pounding, but he was used to that effect by now. His legs were like rubber and his arm muscles intensely sore. His hearing gradually came back, and his mind started to work again too.

“Everything’s A-OK, buddy,” he said quietly to himself.

No. Nothing was okay! Right outside the shield, hundreds of people were pushing and shoving. The Chinese soldiers had their hands full keeping the heaving masses from colliding with the energy barrier. Just this once, Rhodan was grateful that the army’s forces stood firm against the civilians.

They’d all witnessed his failure.

They’d all seen the Stardust exploding and an Arkonide battledress burning out. The mystique of being able to indefinitely withstand the most powerful army on Earth was suffering from bigger and more visible cracks with each passing day.

No brooding! he warned himself. Other things matter more. Much more.

He glanced around. In front of him lay several giant pieces of the Stardust, smoldering or melted beyond all recognition. Some of them showed characteristics of Arkonide technology. The same AI that maintained the defensive shield had made holes in order to catch these pieces.

Other people were there as well, forming strange pairs with the Arkonide robots. Bull trudged over to him, cursing and hurling pieces of his suit away. His own example of this miraculous piece of foreign technology was evidently damaged beyond repair too.

“Welcome back,” said Rhodan. “You could have cut down on the theatrics just a little, don’t you think?”

“What would be the fun in that?” Bull smirked and wiped some blood off his face. This revealed a scar a few centimeters long on his left cheek; a second adorned his forehead, reaching from his left eyebrow up to his hairline.

“You look awful.”

“You’re not exactly an oil painting yourself right now, Perry.”

Manly posturing. Downplay any worries and difficulties. Whatever you do, don’t show any pain, any vulnerability... “You brought some guests?”

“Reluctantly.” Bull gestured towards two men in American uniforms who were standing beside each other and looking around. “You know Deringhouse and Nyssen. And this lovely pair over here are our Great Russian friends, Darya Morozova and Alexander Baturin.”

Russians and Americans who were eyeing each other with suspicion and didn’t know a thing about developments down here on Earth. A twist of fate had brought them here to the fledgling city of Terrania. Rhodan would have to hold intensive talks with the four guests. He hoped he hadn’t lost his powers of persuasion.

Why did he feel no strong reaction, no sense of surprise? He took in the names of the astronauts and cosmonauts with barely a second thought. He could guess what had happened on the Moon. Bull would fill in the details as soon as time allowed. In the meantime, it was taking everything he had to handle the disappointment. The Stardust had been destroyed. They’d lost a great deal of their equipment. Everything lay in ruins.

The dream of a dominant power that didn’t belong to any of the world’s military blocs seemed to be dead.

2.

The Circle

July 4, 2036

The cottages had names like “Lúcás Ó Ceallaigh,” “Ciarán Burke,” “Barney McKenna,” and “Ránall Ó Draoi.” They were names that meant nothing to John Marshall and that he didn’t particularly care about either. They were just another part of the scenery he’d gotten mixed up in that he didn’t understand. And that, if he was honest, he didn’t want to understand either.

The one and only thing that mattered was the boy lying in the bedroom of Lúcás Ó Ceallaigh, the house whose thatched roof was an unusual shade of red.

A strong gust of wind blew past him. He stumbled forward a step, then caught himself and stood with his legs farther apart than before. He hated the wind, which was blowing more strongly now in these early morning hours than it had been before. He hated the vastness that spread out before him.

Well, not quite. He was afraid of it. It was too different to everything he was used to in the United States. There was grass here so powerfully green that it stung his eyes. There was slimy, salt-encrusted kelp spread out in a strip to dry. There was a small notch in the terrain; Mercant had explained this to him as a kind of vestige that marked where a line of peat had been cut out some years ago.

Beyond that were the beaches covered in more kelp that had washed ashore. And the sea, with foam-crested waves that thundered and roared against the tiny patches of land as if they wanted to drag the island away—not over millions of years, but now, right now.

On the other hand, he was enjoying the distance from people. The sound of others’ thoughts, which he’d heard with increasing clarity in recent days, was now only a faint hum, distant, vague, and monotone.

This tiny island was unlike anything he’d known so far. Across the entire rest of the world, people were talking about Perry Rhodan’s return from space, share prices were crashing on the major stock exchanges, agitators were rattling their sabers, and delirious fanatics were singing the hymn of the imminent apocalypse. Meanwhile, here on Owey Island, off the coast of northwestern Ireland, there was nothing but glorious quiet. It was like time was standing still. For all he knew, it was.

“What are you thinking about?”

Marshall jumped. He hadn’t heard Sue coming. That was rare.

“That we’re little pieces of nothing,” he answered contemplatively. “That we’re cocky enough to believe we’re the rulers of this wonderful planet, and that that entitles us to treat it with disrespect. To poison it and ruin it.”

“I don’t get what you mean,” Sue replied. She sounded anxious. Overwhelmed.

“You know, I’m not sure I do either.” John turned to the girl and looked her up and down. “You look good.”

“You think so?” She received his little compliment with a shy smile.

“If this island had any boys your age, I’d have to lock you up somewhere to keep you safe from their advances.”

“You liar.” She smiled again, but a moment later it was overshadowed by the constant distrust that she’d never escape from. “You’re not making fun of me, are you?”

“Nope,” he said, entirely serious. “I think you’re really pretty.”

It was true; he did. Despite her body, which was more suited to a ten-year-old than a fifteen-year-old. And despite her crippled left arm, which ended in a stump she could hardly move. This girl who could have been his daughter had an unbelievable presence. One that it was possible only he saw and had a rudimentary perception of.

Sue’s entire face reddened. She pulled her head down between her shoulders as if scared of his appraisal.

“Shall we check on Sid?” Marshall asked.

“Y-Yes.” The young girl sounded even more insecure than usual. Despite her gift, she hadn’t been able to help Sid. It upset her to have let down one of her best friends.

He linked arms with her, feeling the light resistance that quickly vanished, and pulled her along with him. Onwards to Lúcás Ó Ceallaigh. “Time to see how our problem child is doing.”

The next gust of wind brought rain along with it, suddenly and unexpectedly. He shuddered as it blasted him with water, leaving a light salty taste in his mouth, disheveling his hair, and soaking his vest. His pants stayed dry, at least, apart from a few splashes.

The water tasted bitter.

“I could never get used to this weather,” said Sue, drawing closer to him.

“They say they don’t really have weather on the Irish islands. There are just times when it rains extra hard and rare occasions when the rain is interrupted by a few seconds of dryness.”

“The people here must have a weird sense of humor,” she remarked. Marshall was pretty sure she’d read that sentence in an old Kindle novel.

“They’re used to misery. Especially since climate change has made conditions on their island even worse. And then the financial crisis...” Marshall stopped short. These were topics he’d been concerned with in a former life. Back when he’d needed to know which crazy factors could impact share prices.

They reached the moss-covered wooden door of Lúcás Ó Ceallaigh. The blackened iron door handle squeaked as he turned it. The owner of the settlement—and the entire island—evidently had a strange flair for the romantic that in no way fit with his other behavior.

They entered the main room. A man in a white coat stood there. He had just finished packing his suitcase. Marshall nodded to him and received an equally silent greeting in reply. This doctor was one of the accomplices Homer G. Adams had gathered around him. Another sat in the darkest corner of the room with the appearance of a well-fed closet. Like the real item of furniture, he had a habit of never saying a word.

“Can we see the kid, doctor?” asked Marshall.

“Of course.” The doctor cast a scrutinizing glance at them. “He knows you two?”

“Better than anyone else here,” came Marshall’s straightforward answer.

“Then you’re probably just the medicine he needs. Talk to Sid. Make sure his mind stays focused. Stays with you.”

“I don’t understand.”

The doctor sighed. “From a medical point of view, the boy’s healthy. Weak but healthy. Whatever he has that’s keeping him from getting better, its origins are in his psyche. In a realm I can’t access.”

“Then he needs to talk to a therapist.” John Marshall was shocked by his own words. How could he be so brazen as to demand more help from their benefactor?

Their presumed benefactor. Homer G. Adams had proven himself a generous host; a savior in their time of need. A philanthropist who had dared to stand up against the might of Homeland Security and would no doubt reap the consequences of it before long. What else could he ask of the man?

Could he have gotten it all wrong, though? Had they jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire? Or were they about to be presented with a hefty bill?

No. Marshall trusted Adams. There was something about him that...tasted right. Or smelled right. Or however he should describe the extra sense he’d been grappling with more intensely every day.

The nameless doctor interrupted Marshall’s musings. “Give him strength. And be careful with everything you say. The psyche is a vast realm. Despite all the knowledge we’ve obtained about the human mind over the last few decades, we still know far too little about the mechanisms that drive it.”

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Adams is with the patient. Speak to him. He’ll be able to give you more information.”

“Adams is with Sid?” Sue asked. She looked confused.

“Since the early hours. If you’ll excuse me, my helicopter awaits.” With one last nod, he exited the large living room. Sue and Marshall were left alone with the silent closet-man, who showed no sign of looking up from his current occupation: intensively cleaning his fingernails using the latest model of Swiss Army knife.

“Well, let’s head in,” said Marshall.

“Yeah.” Sue, who had long since freed herself from his grasp, pushed closer again. “John?”

“What is it, kid?”

“I’m scared shitless! About Sid. Of Adams. Of the future. It’s all so...so...messed up and incomprehensible.”

“I really don’t like that expression.” Marshall attempted a smile. “But I’m scared shitless too. Only one way to conquer that, though.”

“Yeah?”

“We have to face up to it. Or would you rather run from it?”

“We wouldn’t get very far, right? We’d either drown in the ocean or drown in that damn rain before we got there.”

“You see! There’s only one way to go, and that’s straight ahead.”

Marshall crossed the living room with Sue in tow. The door was ajar. He entered the room where Sid lay in repose, maybe forever.

Sid was asleep. His forehead was sweaty. Several thin needles stuck out from the skin above his left shoulder blade. These no doubt penetrated deep inside to regulate his body functions.

Homer G. Adams was sitting next to the boy and dabbing his head with a wet towel. The old man looked at them with eager anticipation. Even though no tiredness was visible on his face, Marshall sensed that this fabulously wealthy man was teetering on the edge of exhaustion.

“I thought you’d come here sooner,” he said.

“We had a lot of sleep to catch up on.”

“No. You were afraid of this moment.”

“That too,” Marshall admitted frankly.

“The doctor says Sid is doing well, ‘given the circumstances.’ He wasn’t forthcoming as to what he meant by ‘the circumstances,’ however.”

“We’ve met him.”

“He’s a narrow-minded fool with no imagination and no concept of anything outside his own field. That’s why I’ve sent him back to the mainland. I’m expecting some other...associates in the next few hours who will be able to help Sid.”

“More doctors?” Marshall cast another glance at Sid. A shockingly thin body was visible under the bedsheets. Who’d have believed that a few short days earlier, this boy had looked healthy, frankly even fat?

“Competent specialists,” Adams replied evasively. He changed the subject. “How are you two doing? Were you able to recuperate?”

“Yes.” Marshall only had to think about it, and he felt the pain in his calf again. The gunshot wound he’d sustained at the shelter had been given excellent treatment. Still, the memory of that moment, when something had exploded into his leg and he’d collapsed, powerless, just wouldn’t fade.

“And you, girl?”

“I’m used to worse.” Sue’s words rang true, as did the way she said them, and for good reason.

“Fantastic.” Adams stretched and yawned. His noticeably hunched back stood out even more than usual. “Then we had better take care of Sid.”

As if he’d heard his name, the boy awoke with a start. He heaved himself onto his forearms, stared past Marshall uncomprehendingly, and stammered, “No, Elmer. You can’t do that. Mamasita will find us for sure, and then...”

He fell back onto the bed and let out ragged breaths. A nurse—Where the hell was she hiding up till now?—came rushing over. After giving Marshall, Sue, and Adams a professional dirty look, she saw to her patient.

The old man stayed remarkably quiet. He stood, respectfully making space for the nurse, and said, “Don’t you worry. It’s not the first time today that Sid has sat up in a fright. He dreams. Hallucinates. Did he do that before, John?”

“He was always very anxious and...unstable. But talking in his sleep is new as far as I know.”

“Was there an Elmer at your shelter?” Adams asked as the nurse carried out her duties, just as she had undoubtedly done several times over the last few hours. Sid suddenly grew more peaceful. He closed his eyes. His breathing became more regular and his body relaxed.

“No. I’ve never heard that name before.”

“Sid mentions him in his waking dreams. Again and again. It seems to be an important figure in his life. Before that, he only talked about Clifford Monterny, as you know.”

“Then it’s either a fever dream, or Elmer’s someone else from his life before the shelter. One of his tormentors.” And what that meant, John Marshall didn’t even want to think about. Sid had been deeply traumatized when Marshall had picked him up off the street. “Sid was scared to death of a guy who wanted to catch him,” he reflected. “He wasn’t the only one of my foster kids who was like that. Not by a long shot. Plenty of them projected all their pain, their fear, their longing onto a single person.”

He could feel Sue clenching up beside him. She had a story of her own. All his children had a story.

“Perhaps the one who wanted to catch Sid wasn’t Clifford Monterny at all, but Elmer,” Homer G. Adams suggested. “Or his confusion is so great that he’s mixing up their names. Or his subconscious is giving us hints at great truths that lie behind these individual names.”

“Those are all possibilities.”

Adams’s thoughts were getting too abstract for him. The old man tilted his head and stared blankly at the ceiling, as if he might lose himself in calculations branching out ever further.

Then he came back to reality. “As soon as my professionals arrive, we’ll be able to take care of Sid.” He turned to the nurse and added, “Aoi a bhfuil fáilte roimhe, Rathfionna.”

The woman, whose hair was shaved into an audacious retro punk style, murmured some words that Marshall didn’t understand, then left. She withdrew through a door to the right that he hadn’t noticed until that point.

“Rathfionna is the best in her field,” said Adams the moment she had left the room, “but dealing with her is rather complicated. She refuses to speak English to me. She belongs to the Gaelinns, and as soon as she realized that I understand Old Irish, at least, she has communicated with me exclusively in her mother tongue. She told me that Sid has stabilized, incidentally.”

Marshall breathed a sigh of relief, even if he hadn’t actually needed this information. He could feel that Sid had calmed down.

“Gaelinn.” John had heard the term before. A little over twenty years ago, well-educated men and women, primarily from the areas of Connemara and Donegal in the west of Ireland, had founded a community together that was akin to a sect. Since then they had been preaching a radical return to their Celtic roots.

“That woman’s weird!” Sue blurted out, expressing exactly what Marshall felt.

“Then you should wait and see my other associates.” A scant smile appeared on Adams’s face. “But don’t worry; you’ll like them. They’re just a bit different. Like you.”

Marshall knew that the man wasn’t trying to insult them. Quite the opposite: the words held awe and respect. Even so, he felt uncomfortable being described as “different.” True, he could sense people’s moods. He could tell what other people were thinking and was able to quickly react to their changing states of mind. Did that sensitivity or empathy really make him something special?

Yes. Because it’s more than just “sensitivity” or “empathy,” John. You hear other people’s thoughts. That’s what’s making you so scared.

Outside, a sound was growing louder. Spinning rotor blades. He looked through the window and saw that two helicopters were landing not far from the cottage settlement. The models looked vaguely familiar to Marshall; Adams had apparently bought them from the inventory of the US Army or Homeland Security. If he’d needed any more proof of this man’s wealth, here it was. Each one of these vehicles cost more than the average human would earn in his or her entire life.

Several people got out. One had dark skin that contrasted visibly with the rest of the group. The others were two Asians, a small child of maybe ten years old, a corpulent giant who lurched forward, and a woman with Caucasian features to whom Marshall took an instant liking.

“My guests,” said Adams. “Perfect. Would you excuse me for a while?” He didn’t wait for an answer before leaving.

Sue let out a relieved breath. “He scares me, John.”

“Why?”

“He acts so...overbearing.” Sue searched for words. “I can tell he means well. I’m pretty sure he saved Sid’s life, and ours. But everything he says sounds like an order.”

“It doesn’t just sound that way,” Marshall conceded.

“He probably only ever deals with people who jump at his every word. I don’t like it.”

“I have my issues with him too, Sue. But Adams has good intentions. He’s helping us. Helping Sid.”

“I’m just as grateful to him as you are, but...” She stopped, not knowing how to proceed. Her vocabulary wasn’t sufficient to formulate the dislike that had a hold on her. The dislike she felt towards all authorities and almost all adults.

A new voice piped up. “Trust is something that’s a struggle to acquire, and that always remains elusive.”

Marshall jumped. He turned around, alarmed, and looked Allan D. Mercant in the eye. This was the man who used to work for Homeland Security. The same bureau that represented true power in the US and stood for a fiercely conservative America. Whose distrust of all foreigners and strangers now characterized a country that had once valued freedom as the pinnacle of achievement and all that was good.

“How’s he doing?” the man with the conspicuously high forehead asked, without sparing a single word for the long, awkward pause that had followed his arrival.

“Pretty well.”

“Does he still have a fever?”

“Yes.”

Sue stepped back to the wall as Mercant drew closer to Sid at her side of the bed.

“He’s dying,” said Mercant.

Marshall jerked back. “Where do you get off saying something like that?” he shouted at the secret agent.

“Sid’s traumatized. Everything agitates him more than it would anyone else. You know how he reacted to the sight of the ruined Camp Specter in Narco County, in the border region of Mexico. He experienced something that tears at him. That poisons his soul. If he comes to in his current state, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him. He’ll go crazy. And you know what he’s capable of thanks to his curious gift.”

“That’s just speculation, Mercant! I’ve known the kid much longer than you have, and much better. He listens to me. If it looked like a crisis was happening, I could make him see reason.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, John! Sure, he may trust you more than other grown-ups. But you couldn’t keep him from going on his cross-country escapade, bringing you and Sue along with him. He took his best friends hostage. Or do you see it differently?”

John Marshall fell silent, equal parts uncertain, furious, and fearful. This man had an intimidating air about him. He seemed composed, absolutely focused, like the product of a system that had sculpted him precisely and spat him out at the end, not permitting any mistakes.

“Sid’s managing,” said Sue. It was what he should have said. “If you had his problems, you ugly, mean old man, you’d have called it quits a long time ago.”

“Sue!”

“You know I’m right, John!”

“Maybe, but we should keep our opinions to ourselves.”

“Leave the girl alone.” Allan D. Mercant sighed deeply. Suddenly he seemed almost human. “If you only knew how nice a little openness can be when day in, day out you have to be careful not to say a single wrong word. When everything in your life is nothing but deception, illusion, and camouflage.”

They fell silent and looked past each other for a while. In front of the cottage settlement, the droning of the helicopters became louder again as they rose into the sky and disappeared into the horizon.

At last, Marshall said, “I think we’re all carrying back-breakingly heavy loads.”

“That we are,” Mercant murmured with a hint of a smile. “You know, Marshall, I have a gift that unsettles me sometimes too. On some occasions, I’m able to strip the facts of all unnecessary embellishments and see the situation before me entirely clearly. This ability helped me again and again in my life. At least, until I figured out that it was leading me astray. That I was aiming for the wrong destination and worshipping false idols.”

“Where are you going with this, Mercant?”

“Starting a few days ago, I’ve had a new perspective on the things around me. One that’s crystal clear and shows me the sword that might cut through all the Gordian knots in this world.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s Perry Rhodan. He’s capable of delivering us. He has a goal and vision. He seems to know how to pull us out of this big mess.”

Perry Rhodan. His trip to the Moon. The supposed discovery of alien life that was being discussed everywhere. His return to Earth and landing in the Gobi Desert a week ago. All this was dominating the headlines worldwide. It had also made the fires smoldering in the trouble spots of this world break out into open flames. It had seemingly driven people mad and made apocalyptic horror scenarios feel real in a way they hadn’t in a long time.

“Maybe,” Marshall replied quietly, for want of better words.

He heard several people entering the cottage. First came the heavy footsteps of the security guy, who rushed ahead. Next were the self-assured steps of Homer G. Adams. After that came the mixed clattering of people large and small, heavy and light.

Marshall could feel them coming. He sensed their thoughts. Their ideas. Dreams. Fears. They were like clouds that covered the sky all in one go and piled up into a storm. These people—they represented danger!

Or did they?

His breathing quickened and sweat suddenly caked his brow. They were people like him!

Adams walked into the room followed by seven, no, eight others. They all presented a demeanor that suggested a certain degree of self-confidence. And yet, Marshall perceived that this was not genuine. The new arrivals bore scars they were hiding at all costs.

“Mercant,” said Adams. “Lovely to see you here too.” He nodded in the direction of the sickbed. “We’ll need you as soon as we take care of Sid.”

The man from Homeland Security furrowed his brow as if he didn’t understand, but then immediately afterwards he put on a smooth, impassive face. He was a former secret agent through and through.

We become the masks we wear. That was the thought that flashed through John Marshall’s mind. He’ll never be able to switch off that part of himself. He’ll always be ruled by fear and distrust.

“May I introduce you to one of my most important associates?” asked Homer G. Adams, pointing to the muscular man with dark skin. “Ras Tschubai, who shares a similarity with Sid. Don’t worry, he always looks a tad cross. We’re still working on that friendly smile. Isn’t that right, Ras?”

Tschubai took Adams’s words without any sign of emotion. There was no indication of whether he approved of his employer’s attempt at humor.

“To his left: Wuriu Sengu.”

The Japanese man, slightly on the portly side and equipped with a distinctive gelled spiky hairstyle, gave a precise bow. He showed a thin-lipped smile that exactly matched Marshall’s mental image of a reserved Asian. Wuriu Sengu said a few words in his native tongue that Marshall took as a polite greeting. He bowed as well, though without knowing what to say in return.

“Anne Sloane. Stick close to her, John. I suspect you and her will have a few things in common.”

He nodded—and felt himself blush at the same time. Anne Sloane was the woman he’d taken a liking to the moment he had seen her. She had stood out of this odd troupe in an intriguing way. She was probably around thirty and had dark hair and only sparing makeup. Something about her made Marshall sense that under the conscious self-assurance she put on display, a host of conflicting character traits were hidden—shyness among them.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said quietly.

“You too, John Marshall.”

A handshake. Soft, yet powerful. As if she wanted to pull him over to her. And that voice, that timbre...

Other names followed. Marshall only half listened. He shook hands, made noncommittal remarks, smiled. His thoughts had gotten caught on Anne Sloane.

Adams cleared his throat, signaling that introductions were over. Sue, who had done nothing but wave, positioned herself next to Marshall as if seeking his protection.

“I don’t want to beat around the bush,” said the old man, slipping into an old, now largely unused accent that may have had its origins in Greater London. “Sid González is truly a boy wonder. His gift is so strong that it’s as if benevolent gods emptied their horns of plenty onto him. But where there is light, there is shadow. That’s a truth of which we have all been made painfully aware.”

There were nods all around. Anne Sloane pressed her lips so tightly together that they turned white.

“Mentally, Sid is not especially stable. We fear for his life. The doctors have done everything in their power—and, as always, that was a great deal of nothing. Now it’s your turn. You must uncover what is going on inside Sid. What is burdening and inhibiting him. There may be secrets lurking in his mind that we must uncover as well.”

“Now, hold on a moment!” Marshall cut in.

Homer G. Adams looked at him, annoyed by the interruption. “Yes?”

“‘Uncover’? What the hell do you mean by that? Are you planning to brainwash Sid or something? To squeeze it out of him? I thought you were flying in specialists who would work on Sid’s psyche and help him find himself again as carefully as possible.”

“That would have been the plan if we had enough time, John.” Adams rested a placating hand on his shoulder.

The touch made him tense up. What was going on here? Was this the moment of truth where Adams would reveal his real face?

“The psyche is the most delicate and valuable instrument we humans possess. Some use it as a weapon; others are trapped by it. All of us here know both sides of the coin. We suffer at the hands of our possibilities, and at the same time we learn to make them blossom ever more. Very special powers sleep within us. They can kill us or elevate us.”

“You’re babbling. I wouldn’t have expected that. Not from you, Adams.” Marshall’s heart was pounding. Had he really said that? Where on earth had he gotten the courage to be so frank?

Homer Gershwin Adams nervously played with a decidedly unassuming ring on his right index finger. Apart from that, nothing suggested that he was irritated.

“You’re right,” he admitted, to Marshall’s surprise. “All this talking around the subject has to have an end. We should call it what it is.” Adams turned around in a circle to give a glance at everyone present, then said, “Each person in this room is gifted. A mutant. We possess abilities that other humans do not. The why and how are not important for now. What matters is that we must join forces to find a way into the world of Sid’s thoughts. By doing this, we can find the origin of his fear. We must do it to save him—to save one of us. Perhaps the enemy Sid fears is real; perhaps he stems from a delusion. As long as we can recognize the problem, we will succeed in developing a suitable treatment.”

“All of us are...gifted? Mutants?” John Marshall struggled with these new terms. He took little pleasure in them. And he felt afraid. His feeling of discomfort hadn’t deceived him. The people around him were different. Different in a way that he had noticed in himself—and that he didn’t like.

“Indeed we are, John. One and all, we are creatures with very unusual abilities. Sue, as you know, can heal at will. We needn’t spend any time talking about Sid’s gift of teleportation. You can read thoughts. Mercant’s gift and mine are less pronounced; it’s hardly even worth discussing them, but they do exist.” Adams turned to the new arrivals. “Wuriu Sengu can see through solid matter. Ras Tschubai possesses an ability similar to Sid’s. He too can jump from one place to another, albeit over far shorter distances. As for Miss Sloane, in times past she would have been burned at the stake if she’d been seen moving things around her without touching them.”

Was that why Marshall had felt himself so drawn to Anne Sloane? Or was there another reason? A far more personal one?

“In essence, we are members of a freak show, and we are by no means the only ones.” Adams smiled. “Over the last few years, I have taken great efforts to assemble gifted individuals around me. Not to use them for my own personal ends, you understand.”

“Am I really supposed to buy this fairy tale of a purely altruistic mindset?” Marshall interrupted. He felt rage growing inside him. He didn’t want to be special. Not now. Not here. This was his own business. It was entirely personal.

“Call it what you want, John,” replied Adams, unruffled. “Every now and then, I have brought my friends into action to achieve specific goals. To earn money and expand my sphere of influence. I admit that freely and honestly. However, I didn’t do it because I wanted to enrich myself.” He lowered his voice, almost whispering now. “I wanted to be prepared. For the arrival of a visionary like Perry Rhodan.”

John Marshall didn’t feel comfortable with the words of this old, hunched, and impossibly powerful man. There was an almost religious reverence in his voice that in no way matched his usual bearing.

“Let’s return to our most pressing issue,” Adams continued. “We’ll attempt an experiment that has already worked with a smaller group.”

“What kind of experiment?”

“We will combine our powers, John. We will make contact with Sid’s mind. Under your guidance.”

“My guidance?” Marshall repeated, baffled. “How’s that supposed to work? What are you expecting from me?”

“Concentrate on your ability to detect other people’s thoughts. Search for Sid’s voice and try to isolate it. We will form a circle and attempt to project all our powers onto you and create a kind of array.” Adams shook his head. “There are hardly any words to describe what people like us are capable of achieving mentally. We shall try it and find out.”

“You know about my reservations,” remarked Ras Tschubai in a booming voice, speaking for the first time. “We have several unknowns. Sue and John are hardly even aware of their powers and are even less able to control them. There’s a risk of creating a feedback loop. Of overwhelming Sid.”

“I know, Ras,” Adams interrupted impatiently. “Some small measure of risk can never be ruled out. But I’m relying on you and Anne to intervene as needed.”

Tschubai’s face was grim. He looked decidedly unconvinced, but even so, he reached for Marshall’s right hand.

“Let me guide you,” he advised. “Cast off all your reservations. Forget your fears, your confusion. The more ready you are to accept the impossible, the better our chances are of creating a successful circle.”

Marshall wanted to pull his hand back. To him, all this felt more like a summoning ritual by some kind of cult than a serious attempt to explore Sid’s psyche. And yet...in the tapestry of thoughts that surrounded him, he could detect almost exclusively positive resonances.

He marveled at Homer G. Adams’s prudence. There was no way he’d brought them to this godforsaken place just to keep them safe from a possible pursuer. Here, they were completely uninfluenced by anyone else, by normal people.

Strange. How quickly he had accepted being different after all. How quickly he had gotten his bearings in the role of a gifted person. Was this the place he’d been searching for in vain for so long? That had turned him from a stockbroker serving the god Mammon with abandon into a foster father to severely struggling youths before finally ending up here?

He felt a small, delicate hand gently touching his left. The touch was electrifying; it was full of barely subdued power.

“Have faith, John,” said Anne Sloane. She looked at him for a moment. “We’ll make Sid better. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” he echoed. All at once, his worries were swept aside. What was it about this woman that absorbed him so much, and so quickly?

Sid groaned, as if he could sense that everyone’s interest was focused on him.

Sue took Ras Tschubai’s hand, Mercant grasped Wuriu Sengu’s right, and Adams put his hands on the shoulders of the two Asians. All of them stood there, apparently lost in thought, as if they were waiting for something specific.

For what, though?

There were faint flashes that obfuscated his view of reality. They laid themselves over his perception and made him perceive something entirely different. A world beyond the material one. A universe of terrifying size and depth.

They’re waiting for me! Marshall was suddenly aware. They want me to take over and lead them! I’m the only one who can read Sid’s thoughts, so I’m the focus of all their efforts.

There were delicate cotton wool clouds, only visible to him, that could clearly be ascribed to Sue. They remained amorphous and drifted steadily, while Adams’s powers arrived with far more fanfare. Like a fanfare played on miniature instruments; his powers don’t add up to much.

Ras Tschubai’s mind spilled over him like a sluggish wave, while Mercant drove at him with knife thrusts. Anne Sloane was sand. A steady trickle of sun-warmed sand; the kind you’d see in a beautiful vacation paradise and really know you were on vacation.

So many influences. So many different ways of communicating. So much potential...

And it all belonged to him. Marshall just had to find a way to mold the raw masses of mental power into a suitable form and use it to penetrate the world of Sid’s thoughts.

Where was Sid, anyway?

He was outside of the circle, presenting himself as a wriggling worm all too aware of how small and helpless he was.

Marshall closed his eyes and sought out that mind. All of a sudden, everything worked as if by clockwork. Had he really lived another life once? Was he like Adams, a man who just needed to wait for a messiah to draw out the best in himself?

He saw Sid’s mind. It was like a mesh of gauze-like scraps, the thoughts seemingly fragmented and disarrayed beyond repair. Where the hell was he supposed to start? How could he free Sid’s personality and find out what was causing the boy so much grief?

Accept the impossible, Ras Tschubai had told him.

Marshall got to work. He created mental sewing needles, dreamed up storage compartments, concocted a categorization system. He had all the ideas he needed, born out of pure instinct; he knew what he had to do and how to do it. And if he doubted himself even for a moment, he had a circle of supporters ready for battle, there to give him tips or simply to resharpen his spiritual tools.

How much time had passed in reality since he had begun to dig through Sid’s buried memories? Should he release himself from the mental network and give in to his curiosity, he wondered?

He decided against it. He was pretty sure the searching still to come would demand all his strength. He was dealing with the mindscape of a teenager who was fighting back against the intrusion with every tool he had—and Marshall couldn’t blame Sid for his panic. Who would want to give up that last most intimate refuge of freedom?

It’s me! thought Marshall as intensively and warmly as he could. But Sid did not react. He continued to wander. Kept running from the invisible enemy whose memory he had conjured up again in Narco County after such a long time. Who just wouldn’t leave him alone, even after all these years.

John Marshall followed, going deeper and deeper into the chasms of a truly injured soul. To get to know an adversary who had once been Sid’s friend.

3.

At the Garden Fence

July 8, 2036

Silence reigned. The Chinese military was giving them a few hours of quiet contemplation. Not for humanitarian reasons, for sure. Bai Jun, the general, was expecting something from them. Clearly, he wanted Rhodan to take this time to be conscious of his own situation and take stock of it. It was a sign to say: “See here, you little foreign spaceman! We, the People’s Army of China, are the ones in control. Your dreams are nothing but that. Even in the face of your superior technology, we will prevail. Nothing will stop us from extinguishing the last, miserable remains of your fantasies. When we’re done with you, there’ll be no trace of you left.”

“You’re daydreaming,” said Bull.

“I’m deliberating,” Rhodan replied.

“Stop lying to me, man. You know I can see right through it. We know each other too well.”

They were silent for a little while. Then Rhodan asked his question. “What now?”

“What are you asking me for?”

“Our cause is as good as lost.”

“Is that doubt I hear in the voice of the ever-confident Perry Rhodan?”

“The Aetron’s been destroyed. Thora is dead. We’ve lost almost every piece of equipment the Arkonides gave us.”

“But Crest is still alive! He promised he’d support us.”

“Where is Crest? Where’s Manoli? They should have come back ages ago.”

“Searching for a cure to Crest’s illness and for this Dr. Haggard took more time than we thought, I guess.”

This was just one of the main uncertainties in their plans. They didn’t know what had happened to the elderly Arkonide and the Stardust’s doctor.

“Do you want to give up?” Bull added.

“The idea has occurred to me.”

“You’d be sentencing us both to death. China doesn’t exactly handle people like us with kid gloves.”

People like us. What a strangely meaningless euphemism for dreamers and fools who believed they could keep the world’s great powers at bay.

“There’s no way back,” Bull asserted. “If we give ourselves up to the Chinese, we, along with Nyssen, Deringhouse, Baturin, and Morozova, would be the stars of a trial encompassing the three most powerful nations. The consequences would be disastrous. No side would want to lose face, and we’d all be one step closer to a world war and a doomsday scenario. Maybe the last one ever, if you know what I mean.” Bull took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. “We have to keep going. Come what may.”

“By what means? With what vision?”

“Look outside, Perry! How many people are waiting outside of the energy dome begging to be let in? Ten thousand? Fifty thousand? More? They’ve come here and suffered all kinds of hardships to be part of your vision. Are you trying to tell me you don’t believe your own words anymore?”

Rhodan pondered in silence. He wavered, unsure of himself. “It’s all turned out to be far more complicated than I expected,” he confessed.

“For God’s sake, Perry!” Bull blustered. “When are you going to finally get your ass in gear and officially welcome our guests as citizens of Terrania? You always did throw the most miserable parties on the Nevada Fields compound. It’s time to prove you can do better! I want us to get this damn city off the ground. For you to make your dream, our