Maddrax: Volume 6 (English Edition)

By Stefan Hensch, Lucy Guth, Oliver Fröhlich and 2 more

The parallel world swaps continue! The Titanic of another world winds up stranded in our heroes’ dark future, and Archivist intervenes helpfully. Ydiel the Dinoroid stages a “big” comeback while learning the life story of another lizard-person, and at last reunites with Matt and Aruula. Then they get transported into a parallel world where they meet an astronaut named...Perry Rhodan?! Yet another Archivist helps out this time. (Those guys keep popping up with suspicious frequency, don’t they?) Finally, Rulfan’s marriage falls apart, Jacob Smythe escapes, Aran Kormak escapes, and Nick Brahmke investigates in the chaotic conclusion!

• Language: English
• Publisher: J-Novel Pulp
• Release date: May 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781718329508

Book preview

The Story So Far

By Ian Rolf Hill

This introduction is meant to give you a quick insight into the MADDRAX universe. For those of you who want to know the whole story, please check the extended synopsis at the end of the volume.

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On February 8th, 2012, the comet Christopher-Floyd crashed into the Earth. United States Air Force flight commander Matthew Drax was deployed to observe the comet’s approach. When Drax and his squadron made contact with the Comet, however, they were flung five hundred years into the future.

During this time, the world as he knows it changes drastically: human civilization undergoes extreme degeneration, to the point of now resembling the Bronze Age: the world’s once-great cities lie in ruins, there are no longer any official forms of government, and people regress to living in clans and tribes, moving through the wilderness like nomads and calling themselves the Wandering Folk. Earth’s plants and animals have also mutated in bizarre and dangerous ways.

Upon exiting the timeslip, Drax crashes alone in the Alps. His passenger, the scientist and professor Dr. Jacob Smythe, triggered his ejector seat out of panic and is now missing. There is no trace of Drax’s other comrades.

Attacked by mutated, semi-intelligent giant rats called Taratzes, Matt is saved by a barbarian warrior named Aruula. As she finds his name, Matt Drax, difficult to pronounce, she gives him the nickname Maddrax. A telepath, Aruula is instantly able to understand Matt, and the two form a connection. Soon after, Aruula falls in love with Drax and remains by his side throughout his adventures.

In London, Matt and Aruula meet a group known as the Technos, whose ancestors survived the comet’s impact in bunkers beneath the city. By avoiding the immediate aftermath of the disaster, the group has not only retained its twenty-first-century intelligence, but continued to invent and innovate. However, this knowledge has come at a price: due to their centuries-long stay in the bunkers, the Technos have depleted immune systems, and are only able to visit the surface in protective suits. The community in London offers to connect Drax with other Technos around the world. The journey brings Matt and Aruula to America, now known as Meeraka in the language of the Wandering Folk.

Along the way, they encounter the Hydrites, an anthropomorphized species of fish-people. Later, it is revealed that they are not mutants, but rather an alien race who initially settled on Mars, where they were known as Hydrees. When Mars began losing its atmosphere hundreds of thousands of years ago, the Hydrees traveled along a tachyon-based time beam to Earth, where they took the name Hydrite and settled the undersea frontiers.

One of the Hydrites—a man named Quart’ol—begins traveling with the pair, ultimately sacrificing himself to save Matt’s life. In the aftermath, Matt and Aruula are separated before they can reach Meeraka. While Aruula is forced to travel with the Neo-Barbarian Rulfan (son of a London Techno and a barbarian woman), Matt Drax reaches the coast of the former USA.

In Washington (now Waashton), Matt learns of another bunker-based civilization, one calling itself the World Council and claiming to be the true global political leaders. The council’s president—General Arthur Crow—is a power-obsessed dictator looking to cement his grip on the world. A rebel group, the Running Men, seeks to thwart his plans. The Running Men are led by Mr. Black, a clone of the last US President (and a certain beloved action movie star).

During the clash between the World Council and the rebels, an outside consciousness takes control of Matt Drax. This turns out to be Quart’ol, who at the moment of his death, transferred his soul into Matt’s brain. Quart’ol brings Drax to an undersea city of Hydrites, Hykton, in order to have his consciousness implanted in a clone of his original body.

Matt returns to Waashton where he reunites with Aruula. Together, they are forced to flee from the World Council and end up in Los Angeles (now called El’ay). There, they meet the android Miki Takeo, who becomes one of their closest friends.

Meanwhile, the World Council plans a mission to the ISS, where they hope to find information about the comet’s impact. Matt is forced to travel on a repaired space shuttle to make the trip and recover the data. From space, Matt is able to see that life began evolving much faster near the site of the comet’s impact in Siberia than in other locations.

Together with Miki Takeo, Matt organizes an expedition to Crater Lake. The World Council also catches wind of the discovery and a team is en route. On the long and dangerous journey to Crater Lake, Aruula is possessed by a strange consciousness which calls itself GREEN and is a type of plant-based hive mind. Upon Matt and Aruula’s arrival at Crater Lake, the warrior reveals that she is pregnant, and that her child also possesses plant DNA. GREEN has apparently manipulated the embryo’s development, whereby its gestation is changed. Cruelly, Aruula’s child is taken from her womb by an unknown creature before she can give birth.

Shortly thereafter, Matt and Quart’ol make a shocking discovery: Comet Christopher-Floyd was actually a spaceship!

The ship was an ark belonging to an alien species known as the Daa’mures, who were searching for a new homeworld and crashed on Earth. The Daa’murian consciousness is stored in green crystals, whose energy is not only responsible for humanity’s degeneration, but also the mutations of other species. Their motivation is clear: the Daa’mures are using the mutations to find ideal host bodies in which to rehouse their minds. A further surprise comes in the form of information that the spaceship is also a cosmic being, known as an Oqualun or Wanderer.

When Matt accidentally destroys a Daa’murian egg, he is instantly declared enemy number one. Together with his friends, he flees to Russia. There, he meets with a group of Technos who have created an immunity serum from the blood of Mr. Black, allowing various bunker inhabitants to visit the surface without protection. They also confirm that Matt’s body has been flooded with tachyons, which slow down the aging process—possibly as a result of the time slip.

Matt annihilates the Daa’mures’ mutant army and couriers the immunity serum back to London, where he forms an alliance against the Daa’mures with General Crow.

The Daa’mures succeed at reactivating the Wanderer, which sends out a planetwide electromagnetic pulse (EMP) and takes all remaining technology on Earth out of commission. Chaos breaks out, and the Technos are forced to flee their bunkers without protection. As if that were not enough, Matt and Aruula learn that the Daa’mures themselves are only one of countless servant races created by the Wanderers to protect themselves from their enemies: the Warriors, cosmic hunters of unimaginable strength.

Matt and his allies are able to hold off the Wanderer, but the Warrior is quickly on his target’s trail. In order to overcome this threat, Matt searches beneath the Antarctic ice to find a long-lost legendary weapon created by the Hydrees: the Surface Reamer. A grand artifact of unimaginable destruction, it is naturally being pursued by General Crow as well. He attempts to force Matt to fire the Reamer at Washington, hoping to eradicate the Running Men in the process.

However, Matt manages to change the target coordinates at the last second. Instead of hitting Washington, Matt targets an area in the Appalachian mountains, where General Crow was operating a factory building organic robots. The shot effectively exchanges a region five kilometers in diameter with a bubble containing its counterpart from almost million years into the future, The Earth is left defenseless against the Warrior.

With the help of a converter that harnesses the Earth’s magnetic field, Matt is able to reload the Surface Reamer, only for it to backfire when the Warrior comes into range. The Warrior destroys the Earth, and Matt only has one chance left to fix things: entering the time bubbles created by the misfire, which lead to both the past and future.

While traveling through various parallel worlds, Matt meets the archaeologist and time traveler Tom Ericson in the year 2304. Ericson works for a group of evolved humans from the future who call themselves the Archivists. Their goal is not only to collect technical achievements from the parallel worlds but also to remove any dangerous time lines and continuities from existence. Matt, therefore, gains an opportunity to quickly reload the Surface Reamer and defeat the Warrior. Unfortunately, too late, and the Moon is launched from its orbit into the Reamer’s firing path, threatening to crash into the Earth.

Matt and Aruula travel through a wormhole at CERN and are sent to a far distant ring planet system. There they meet another alien species called the Kasynari. They offer to assist humanity with the evacuation of Earth through the use of a portable wormhole generator. In reality, their goal is to feed off the mental energy of human brains. Only by doing so they are able to maintain the camouflage required to protect their home planet.

Ultimately, it is revealed that the true threat is another Wanderer: like the Daa’mures, the Kasynari are servants of the Oqualun. However, their plan fails and the camouflage screen is nullified. In order to help the Kasynari and save the Earth, Matt and Aruula make contact with the species from whom the Kasynari adapted the wormhole technology: the Pancinovas. With their help, the pair are able to transport the Surface Reamer from the Antarctic to the ring planet system and give the Kasynari a weapon to use against the Warriors pursuing the Wanderer.

And that’s not all! The Pancinovas manage to perform the impossible: They create a gigantic wormhole that sends the moon back to its orbit, saving the Earth before returning to their own solar system. However, the wormhole passage to the ring planet system has collapsed. Contact is lost between Earth and the established colony on the moon Novis.

Before the collapse, a military hardliner named Colonel Aran Kormak also had a lucky break and escaped the collapsing wormhole. Doing so triggered a chain reaction with unexpected consequences: all across Earth, regions measuring exactly fifty kilometers in diameter have been replaced with their counterparts from parallel worlds, surrounded by near-impenetrable forests of thorns.

Course into Damnation

by Stefan Hensch

The South Pole, 14 December 1911

Dazzling brightness. Cutting cold that crept into the bones. Roald Amundsen had learned from the Netsilik Inuit about how to protect himself from both of them. For the cold, he had fur from caribou or seals that helped much better than the most modern of clothes against the cold. The brutal white presented the human beings with a special challenge. Snow blindness was just one of two possible dangers. The other was nature itself, because the white of the snow on the ground and the white of the sky above it could merge. It was just an optical illusion, but the effects could be fatal, leaving the victim with anything from complete disorientation to psychosis.

The polar explorer had also learned another trick from the Netsilik Inuit, about how he could protect himself from this state. He had to focus his senses as far as he could because the bright white wasn’t a completely uniform mass. Upon closer inspection, slight differences in the white became apparent. This made things easier on the eyes and enabled the polar researcher to reliably keep the sky separate from the ground below it. The language of the Inuit had several terms for snow and now it became obvious why.

Roald Amundsen took a deep breath—slowly, so that he didn’t overwhelm his lungs with the chilled air.

Then it was over. Finally over. Before his eyes, almost painful flashes of bright color flickered in the air. The colors red, white, and blue from the Norwegian flag dominated his vision. Amundsen contorted his face into a wide grin. The pain from his simultaneously sunburned and frozen skin was terrible, but that didn’t bother him at all. Not right at that moment.

He and his men were the first to raise the Norwegian flag at the South Pole!

Deep in thought, the explorer watched the piece of fabric dancing in the wind. They had beaten Robert F. Scott. Without snow motors but with huskies and Inuit clothing. How must their competition have felt?

Amundsen had imagined that very moment several times before now. However, the reality exceeded his imaginations by miles.

Without a word, five men stood next to each other and faced the flag. Each one of them had survived the competition to reach the South Pole; unfortunately, the same could not be said of the dogs. Amundsen felt sorry for the deceased animals, but they had fulfilled their duty in an exemplary way.

After a while, the magic of the moment broke as he turned to look at his rucksack. He could barely feel anything through his thick gloves, but after a little fumbling he soon held a bottle of aquavit in his hands. The best alcohol that Norway had to offer. He gave each of his companions a wooden beaker and filled his team’s cups to the brim.

Skål! Amundsen raised his beaker to Oscar Wisting, Olav Bjaaland, Helmer Hanssen, and Sverre Hassel individually. The men returned his toast and emptied their beakers. Amundsen hurried to refill them. We will never meet again at such a young age, he laughed.

But this time, his friend Oscar beat him to a toast: To the most successful fraudster of all time!

Amundsen smiled wryly, but then he raised his glass with his men. Wisting hit him on the shoulder. It might not be the North Pole, but we are still the first ones here!

The leader of the expedition nodded. Secrecy is everything! Their success made him right. There was no sign of Scott for miles. He had been beaten!

Amundsen savored his triumph as if it were a drop of very special liquor. His right hand tightened around the now empty bottle of aquavit, then he drew his arm back as far as he could and threw the bottle far behind himself.

Seconds later, the men heard something they had not thought possible: the shattering of glass!

Here, where there was nothing but ice and snow? The bottle must have hit a hard object. In surprise, the polar exploration team turned around and looked in the direction that the bottle had flown in. Then Amundsen decisively strode off in that direction.

Once he had crossed the snowdrift, he immediately stood still as if he had been hit by lightning.

The flat piece of metal on which the bottle had shattered rose around two fingers above the snow, surrounded by other metallic rubble. Amundsen gulped, but his throat was bone dry.

What did this mean? Were they not the first ones here after all?

Oh my god, Amundsen heard his friend Wisting say next to him. "What on earth is that?"

The eyes of the polar explorers wandered over the field of debris. It spread over an area around fifty yards across. It looks like something...just fell out of the sky, Amundsen answered after a while. He took a few trepidatious steps into the debris field.

What he saw overwhelmed him. Some of the parts looked like they were made of steel, but had been drilled into each other in an absurd way. Other fragments looked somehow...organic.

They had nothing to do with the laws of space and time that Amundsen knew. The bizarre design was definitively based on some strange kind of geometry, the laws of which were completely foreign to Amundsen. Instead, the sight of the strangely shaped debris caused him to feel nauseous—or was that the shock?

What is that?

The eyes of the polar researcher followed his friend’s outstretched arm. Then he saw it. In the middle of the mysterious field of debris, they could see a lengthy object. As if they had been given a silent command, the two men walked over toward it.

Amundsen crouched down. Unlike the other pieces of debris, this one seemed relatively intact. It was a cylindrical piston around twenty inches long made of a shining material. In the middle, it bulged out slightly, but otherwise the cylinder seemed to have a constant seven-inch diameter.

It looked like the object had been made from two parts, because one half was smooth, while the other had a wavy texture. Despite his scrutiny, Amundsen couldn’t find any seam where the two very different materials had been joined.

Instinctively, Roald Amundsen stretched out both hands to the object—but hesitated for a minute. Fascinated, he looked at the long, deep scratch that went down the entire side of the cylinder. Then he grabbed it. He just had to touch the strange thing.

His gloved fingers wrapped around the cylinder. He immediately noticed that he could pull it out of its fixture. The cylindrical object was much lighter than the researcher had expected.

A grin spread across his face. They had made a sensational find, he was sure of that. This was, after all, the South Pole!

What on earth is that? Wisting asked with a frown. "Or better put: what was that?" he added with a glance toward the remaining rubble.

Amundsen could not let go of the cylinder; he stared at it in fascination. We might have stumbled onto an ancient civilization, he said, moved. An advanced civilization that had its zenith right here.

Then he looked up at his friend’s skeptical face.

But wouldn’t that mean that this stuff should be long buried under miles of snow and ice? Wisting asked.

Amundsen stayed silent. Wisting was right, of course. But that was something for the experts to worry about. He would have to take the artifact with him. Everything else would sort itself out. Maybe he could use the find to fund other expeditions.

When he walked to the huskies with the cylinder in his hands, he saw the animal’s get agitated with every step he took. It wasn’t him. It must be the object, Amundsen thought.

He was a mere few steps away from the animals when they started crying and yowling. Amundsen stood still, feeling his men stare at him. They had seen the whole thing. But he had to store the artifact in the sled, there was no other choice. But why did this thing make the dogs go mad?

One of the dogs ducked his head to the ground. The animal growled and flashed its teeth threateningly.

The Netsilik Inuit had also taught Amundsen a lot about huskies. That was why he knew that he had to act like he was the leader of the pack. Despite it going against his nature, he kicked the dog in the side, strong enough to confuse the animal. The dog yowled and pulled back.

The animals dug into the snow, panting and staring at the metal object in fear. They seemed to feel that there was a storm brewing.

For the first time, Amundsen wondered whether the find was a danger. However, it was too important a find to leave here, and so he pushed the doubt to the back of his mind. He pulled the oiled paper from the drawer on the sled and wrapped the cylinder in it before using a leather strip to tie it to the back of the sled.

The dogs were still agitated, but they seemed to slowly calm down. In order to expedite the restoration of order among the animals, Amundsen turned to his friend: Oscar! Have you already packed the seal meat?

As an answer, Wisting gave him a fanny pack. It was filled to the brim.

Amundsen wrapped the bag around his waist, put his hand in it and threw a few pieces of meat to the dogs. That did the trick. In their hunger, the dogs gave up their panic and began to devour the meat.

Amundsen grinned. The Inuit understood how to deal with their hounds. Get on! He called out to the other men. We need to get going!

Already? Bjaaland called back.

There’s been a change of plans! Amundsen didn’t want to debate his decision. He wanted to get the cylinder to their ship, the Fram, before there was anything else that could stop him and while the dogs were still obedient. He couldn’t let them have a break.

The members of the expedition got on their sleds. Amundsen pulled out his whip and unrolled it. The animals had barely eaten the last strips of meat before the polar researcher vigorously cracked his whip. The leather strap whistled closely over the heads of his dogs in the ice-cold air.

His sled started and Amundsen sent a quick prayer to heaven, hoping that they would reach the ship in one piece.

***

The Royal Society, London, 1 March 1912

As soon as Amundsen and Wisting walked into the great hall, they felt it: the atmosphere was tense. The two polar explorers felt the skeptical looks of the professors who sat next to each other on wide benches.

An assistant silently showed them to two seats before the giant rows of black tables. Ebony, Amundsen guessed. His eyes wandered over to the object that was on an impressive side table between the professors: their find from the South Pole. From where he stood, he could see the deep scratch that stretched out across the entire length of the object.

Sir Archibald Geikie cleared his throat. As the president of the Royal Society, he would present the results of the commission of experts. Both Amundsen and Wisting were convinced that their find from the Antarctic was a sensation. Anyone who didn’t see that was a fool!

Geikie raised his brow, looked Amundsen up and down, and began his lecture. The first sentences were punches that took Amundsen’s breath away.

In the many centuries that the Royal Society has existed, it has been regularly challenged. However, never in our history has someone tried to pull a fast one quite like this.

Amundsen and Wisting looked at each other in horror; a look that Sir Archibald Geikie took as provocation. Yes, Mr. Amundsen, he continued. We haven’t fallen for your trick. You didn’t expect that, did you?

A tense silence spread out in the hall. Roald Amundsen’s mind spun. This could only be a complete misunderstanding!

I... I don’t understand what you think that we are capable of, Sir Archibald. This object—he pointed to the cylinder with his index finger—was doubtlessly found at the South Pole. I guarantee that!

The president of the Royal Society looked first at the person sitting to his right and then whispered something in his ear. Then he did the same thing to the scientist to the left.

Amundsen’s heart was racing. He had set such high hopes in the object. How could he be so disappointed?

Geikie’s lips twitched to become a patronizing smile. Amundsen began to hate everything about the man: the bald patch on his head, the deep-set eyes, and the damned beard.

As we know nothing of any civilizations that existed in the South Pole, things look rather clear to me. Sir Archibald took a break to underline the drama of what he was going to say. If you didn’t commission this crude deception, then it must have been someone else. That object cannot be authentic, that much is certain. It was probably produced in some backyard in China. The president of the Royal Society once again paused dramatically. The corners of his mouth twitched, hinting at a gloating smile. Do you have any idea who played this trick on you, Mr. Amundsen?

The Norwegian could no longer control his facial expressions. He now understood what the scientist was getting at. You mean, did Robert Scott get there before us and leave this object at the South Pole only to lead me astray?

Sir Archibald Geikie let out a loud laugh that all of the remaining red-faced scientists joined in.

Amundsen clenched his fists. He had wanted to have the cylinder inspected by experts. Instead, he felt like he was in a mental asylum.

Geikie had to pull himself together when he addressed Amundsen again. I can understand that this is unbearable for you, because it implies another problem. The president shrugged. You did not just fall for a trick, but you were also the second person to get to the South Pole. Isn’t that a perfect example of British humor?

Once again, the professors all started to laugh loudly. Amundsen could no longer stand it. Furiously, he got up from his seat and walked on over to the cylinder. He coldly stared at the chuckling scientists. And where is your famous Mr. Scott? he asked sharply. May I remind you that he is missing?

Amundsen picked up the object and left the hall without a sound and without waiting for Geikie’s answer. Wisting followed him a few steps behind.

That is outrageous, Roald! His friend ran after him, caught up, and walked alongside him. What on earth are these eggheads thinking?

Together, they left the building and walked out into the London evening. Before they went on, they had to let a car go past.

I had such hopes for what we found, Amundsen murmured quietly.

Wisting looked at him from the side. "What if the cylinder really isn’t from this planet—do you really think that those narrow-minded idiots would even recognize that?"

Amundsen shrugged. If not the Royal Society, who else?

You’re thinking in the wrong direction, Roald, Wisting retorted excitedly. Of course there are people who would be able to recognize the value of what we have found, because they have dealt with this kind of artifact for their entire lives!

You mean private collectors? Amundsen pressed his lips together and fell silent for a while. He had never thought much of those people, men who used their wealth to keep scientific or artistic treasures from the public eye. However, it might be the only way of selling the finding for a profit.

He looked at Wisting intently. And how do we find these people?

His companion hit Amundsen hard on the shoulder. You let that be my worry. He winked at the polar explorer conspiratorially. I actually know the very person. Let’s see what he can do for us!

***

Travellers Club, London, 3 March 1912

Oscar Wisting had kept his word. Evening had fallen on the Thames metropolis, and Amundsen stood before building number 106 on Pall Mall. So here was the legendary Travellers Club. His right hand clung to the grip of his leather suitcase. It was ridiculously heavy, but Amundsen had long gotten used to the weight.

He pressed the bell. It took a few moments before the door opened. A bony looking man wearing a dark gray suit squinted back at Amundsen as if he was miles away. What can I do for you, sir?

The Norwegian gulped. He had never been to a gentlemen’s club before. Hopefully, the man he faced wouldn’t notice that. Mr. Charles Wolfe is expecting me.

The other man thought for a second, then nodded. So you are Mr. Roald Amundsen?

He smiled back and nodded in confirmation.

A drastic change occurred in the bony man. The once distant and cold doorman was now a warm and friendly host. My name is Victor Montague. In the name of all members of the Travellers Club, welcome. Won’t you come in? Montague took a step aside to make place for Amundsen. A well-known name could open any door.

After taking his coat, Montague led the polar explorer into the smoking lounge. The term was fitting, because it was a large hall with oversized paintings that were probably hundreds of years old. The floor was adorned with oriental carpets, and a cozy fire glowed in a fireplace.

Amundsen only saw three people who were spread out through the entire hall. One of them sat on a couch directly next to the fireplace and looked at the newcomer curiously. That had to be Charles Wolfe.

Montague led Amundsen to the leather sofa. Mr. Wolfe? he nodded his head in a bow. Your guest has arrived. With that, he left the two men to their talk.

With a fluid motion, Wolfe stood up and stretched out his hand to the polar explorer. Mr. Amundsen! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. He shook Amundsen’s hand vehemently. The man looked aristocratic, with high cheekbones and short dark hair.

The pleasure is mine, Amundsen replied.

Wolfe gestured to a spot on the couch, and the two men sat down. Amundsen put his suitcase next to himself on the couch. When he looked up, he felt the assessing look of his partner.

Our common friend Mr. Wisting has told me that you discovered an interesting...object on your last expedition.

Amundsen nodded. He was not there to beat around the bush. He opened the suitcase, pulled out the cylindrical artifact from the South Pole, and handed it to Wolfe.

His partner’s spiderlike fingers grabbed it. At the same time, an almost reverent look came over his face. He gazed at the artifact with quiet movements, his hands running over the obvious scratch on the surface and the wavy structure on the one half. Then he looked at his guest, but continued to hold the artifact. As you may know, I am a lawyer. My client is Daniel Tarrance; he works in the steel business.

Amundsen nodded, even though that piece of information was new to him.

Wolfe continued: Mr. Tarrance is an enthusiast and collector of strange objects. Artifacts like this here, for example.

The researcher frowned. So there are more like this?

Wolfe smiled quietly. Mr. Tarrance’s collection is quite extensive. But he is always interested in gaining more.

At that point, Roald Amundsen’s negotiating strategy imploded. He had put arguments together to support the uniqueness and preciousness of the artifact. The way things looked, he didn’t need to worry about that.

Wolfe gave the artifact back to its owner. A devious smile crossed his face. You’ll have taken a thorough look at this? Amundsen had the impression that the lawyer’s eyes were now darker than they had been. Slowly, he nodded.

And? Wolfe continued. Does it have...special abilities?

Amundsen had predicted he would ask that and so came prepared. He had noticed an interesting ability. The Norwegian took out a small paper tissue. Open your hand, please, he asked Wolfe. Wolfe did as he was told.

That’s iron powder, Mr. Wolfe. Amundsen took a small bottle, tipped a little of its contents onto the lawyer’s hand, and held the cylinder out to him. Now sprinkle some over the artifact!

The man frowned, but ultimately did as he was told. Then his eyes widened. The iron particles sprinkled downward—and stopped in the air a few inches above the artifact! The flickering firelight reflected off the iron filings and gave the whole scene a very dramatic atmosphere. Fascinated, the lawyer followed how the particles almost weightlessly and elegantly started to rotate around the artifact.

Wolfe gulped and stared at Amundsen. How much do you want for this extraordinary piece of equipment?

The polar explorer took a deep breath through his nose. The scornful expertise of the Royal Society had made him more insecure than he cared to admit. Did those buffoons really not notice the obviously magnetic effect of the object, or did they just not care to notice? He was suddenly gripped by nerves. He found it difficult to think clearly.

Wolfe saw what was going on and smiled; he was still impressed by the demonstration. The thin man bent over the table and wrote something with a pen on a serviette. Confidently, he passed it over to Amundsen.

The Norwegian saw the sum of money and stared, flabbergasted, at his negotiating partner. Are you serious?

Wolfe nodded confidently. As serious as I am standing here before you! He waited for a response. Do we have a deal?

At first, Amundsen looked at the fireplace; then he nodded. His heart pounded in his chest. Who was he to refuse such an offer?

***

London, 5 March 1912

Ian Getty had cleaned up. It had been a dirty job anyway, and he had put up with a lot. That’s just how things were as a private detective. It often depended on who was taking the punch. It was no use having a great one-two when you had a chin made of china.

Getty grinned. He looked awful, but his opponent was worse off. These guys won’t be a problem for Mr. Wolfe anymore, you can bank on that!

He stumbled down Exeter Street. A few minutes ago, it had been pouring rain, and now the chill wind made the soaked Getty shiver. Disgruntled, he tightened his coat and hugged his arms around his body. That made him feel the Colt 1903 under his left armpit. He had only used the weapon to turn off a streetlamp. Under cover of darkness, he had been able to ambush his adversaries.

Unfortunately, one of the men had given him a hefty punch in his face. His nose had been broken—again—and that was why his coat was splattered with blood. On top of that, his knuckles were also bloody.

He finally saw his hotel. Mr. Tarrance expected nothing but the best for his people, so Getty had the privilege of living in the Savoy, one of the best hotels in the city. Getty didn’t care much, though. He needed coffee, black if possible, and hot. He never had managed to get used to the damned tea that the English constantly waxed lyrical about. In addition, he needed a hot shower.

He finally reached the entrance. One of the porters, wearing a black uniform and a top hat, recognized him, greeted him, and opened the door. When he walked past, he saw how the staff goggled at his messy and shabby appearance. He looked more like a homeless man than a guest at the hotel. That said, at least none of them dared to make any rude comments.

Mr. Getty? Is that you?

The private detective heard a voice and turned around to face the speaker. The pale concierge Niles Harrington stared at him with raised eyebrows.

Who else could I be? The emperor of China?

The liveried hotel employee chuckled exaggeratedly. Is that kind of suit in vogue in the States right now?

Getty heard the mocking tone oozing from the concierge’s words and walked over to the reception desk. The concierge seemed to feel safe behind the desk. His impression was wrong.

Getty’s steely gray eyes fixed upon the receptionist. Are you trying to pick a fight with me, Niles? he asked in a soft voice, then gestured threateningly with his chin.

Harrington thought for a second and then shook his head. No, of course not, Mr. Getty. He cleared his throat. You have a letter, sir. He put his hand under the desk and brought out an envelope made of the finest paper.

Getty snatched the letter and left the hotel employee where he was. He had wasted enough time with Harrington as it was. When he got into the elevator, he looked at the envelope. There was no sender’s address, but still he knew where the letter had come from: Charles Wolfe. The lawyer was the right arm of Getty’s boss, Daniel Tarrance. Both were men neither Getty nor anyone else should get on the wrong side of.

Full of curiosity, Getty ripped open the envelope. It contained a folded letter and a ticket. The private detective frowned and looked at the ticket. His stomach tightened a little. It was a ticket to cross the Atlantic. By ship!

The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and Getty stood still as if he was rooted to the spot. His hands shook. He had never really liked sailing. Not too long ago, however, something had happened to make this dislike get worse: Max, his brother, had drowned when the Général Chanzy sank in the Mediterranean.

Getty gulped several times. He wobbled out of the elevator and opened the letter. Immediately, he recognized the handwriting that confirmed it was indeed from Wolfe.

After reading the letter, he felt even worse. His commission was clear: he was to sail across the Atlantic in a ship and take care of a piece of luggage while he did so. In his stress and tension, he had forgotten to read the name of the ship. He looked at the ticket: the Titanic. He had never heard of it. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Getty hated every ship!

***

In the Domain

│┼╟║│▌┤│ had stood for a while in front of the console with his right hand on the computer interface to link it up to his nervous system. To any observer, the tall amber-colored creature would have seemed like a statue, so completely absorbed in his work was he.

During his time as a traveler, the Archivist had already calibrated several gateways for missions, but this time, the process was much more complex, because the target destination was mobile. When the gateway was programmed, all of its parameters had to be calculated exactly, otherwise the Archivist himself and the entire mission would be in danger. The latter would be much worse, because a lost artifact would be a wholly unacceptable outcome.

Finally, he worked out a time window of a mere few seconds. That had to be enough.

He lowered his elongated head with its tentacles and checked the parameters one last time. Every point of data looked present and correct. The traveler stretched out his elongated finger toward the console in front of him and transferred the coordinates from his hand computer to a device on his belt. A quiet electronic chime told him that the process was complete.

In his youth, he was a huge fan of the famed Karanor Blyzz. As an agent, this figure had taken on the most difficult jobs; no enemy could defeat him. It might have been Blyzz’s example that made │┼╟║│▌┤│ also join the service of the Domain.

As usual, he had chosen a normal name for the mission. After analyzing the research material he had, he decided that he was going to be Archibald Mountbatten. That combination made use of names that were quite common at the beginning of the twentieth century.

Now he just had to worry about his outer appearance. He navigated the steering unit to his mobile holoprojector. Before his eyes, individual elements of his wardrobe appeared. As a traveler, research was part of his job. So he had an entire collection of fashionable trends from the era on the hard drive of his projector’s memory bank. Now he tested a few combinations, threw most of them away again, and ended up with a two-piece suit from red tweed, a white shirt, and a cravat tied in a large knot. As accessories, he chose a watch chain and a noticeable broach shaped like an antique sun.

Mountbatten had already decided on his physical appearance. While he perused the data for the period, he had constantly seen the name of a famous person, a writer called Oscar Wilde. Of course, Mountbatten had modified his face so that he didn’t attract any unwanted attention. At last, the Archivist activated the mobile holoprojector on his belt. A disguise field fell over the tall creature and turned the Archivist’s visage into that of a hominid from the period. Now he was ready for his mission.

The only matter that remained was the details of his commission. He mentally reviewed all the information that he knew about the artifact. It was made on one version of Earth by an ancient people that had settled on the planet. But then a terrible accident happened in the parallel world, causing parts of the extraterrestrial technology to unfortunately find their way into human hands. It was only a question of time before the human scientists would be successful in their analysis. The humans of this time were not ready for such a technological leap. Mountbatten would have to stop this development at every cost. This mission was indeed worthy of the great Karanor Blyzz!

***

Southampton, 10 April 1912

Myrna Harper had just learned the true meaning of the word ambivalence.

On the one hand, her journey through Europe was coming to an end, and that made the young lady sad. She had seen the beauty of the ancient continent and had greedily lapped up everything that she could find. Spain, Italy, and France had been of special interest to Myrna; the Austrian capital of Vienna had also fascinated the young