This is a fan translation of Invasion (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called Arrivals from the Dark (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called Trevelyan's Mission (Миссия Тревельяна).
I claim no rights to the contents herein.
Chapter 15
In space and on Earth
The names of the ships disappeared on the tactical screen, one after another: Sydney, Lancaster, Neva… The Sydney was the first among the dead; the Vultures were unable to stop an alien craft, and a stream of crimson fire struck the stern, directly at the reactor, protected by multiple layers of armor. However, it did not save the cruiser: a flash, an explosion, and an incandescent cloud of gas, fading away into the emptiness… Three of the aliens attacked the Lancaster, two went after the Neva; besides the numerical advantage, they also looked more maneuverable and faster than the ships of Earth. Not to mention their weapons! Watching the battle, Timokhin realized during the first few seconds that superiority was not on his side. These diabolical machines had turned out to be surprisingly dodgy and deadly, despite them lacking any missiles, plasma throwers, or even anything similar to a laser. Their only method of attack was a cluster of antiprotons, hitting the target from a long distance away and with deadly precision. Its energy and density, as the analysts reported, were so great that they caused the annihilation of the trace amounts of particles in vacuum.
Timokhin did not have any weapons equal in firepower, therefore he had to put his bets on the missiles. Main caliber, three hundred megaton, automatic target tracking and, just to be sure, three salvos... The flotilla had managed to launch everything before the skirmish with the alien ships, and all they had to do was wait, wait for the enormous starship to flare up in a nuclear fire. Its destruction would be a victory, just as sure as the deaths of Timokhin himself and a half of the Third Fleet; he understood already that the aliens could not be held off with the forces on hand. That had been his miscalculation, and he silently agreed that the payment for this mistake would be life. The Admiral's life and the lives of the people he had brought here, too confident in the might of his cruisers.
The Lancaster's turrets spat fire, bright plasma lines crossed with the streams of antimatter, and the blinding light of the explosion made Timokhin squint.
"Three!" one of the officers said. "She took three down with her!"
"The Neva is destroyed," another reported.
Timokhin furrowed his brow.
"UF losses?"
Commodore Shengelia replied, "Growing, sir. Seventeen percent... nineteen... twenty-three..."
"Eight seconds to missile impact," came an observer's voice.
Eight whole seconds... Timokhin thought. Space combat is quick, speeds are great, weapons destructive... A battle can be won in eight seconds. Or lost...
The Pamir, a heavy cruiser with a crew of two hundred, disappeared in a flare of furious flame, after colliding with a Faata ship; the Fuji became a dispersing cloud of gas, the dead Paraná drifted in the darkness, breaking apart. The Sakhalin continued to fight, firing lasers and swarms, and the Tiburon and the Rhine continued to hold their own in the upper sector of the celestial sphere, surrounded by a dozen alien ships. Timokhin realized that, a little longer, and he would lose these cruisers.
"We're attacking," he ordered. "The Viking will go to the Tiburon, the Suzdal and the Volga to the Sakhalin. Launch fighters!"
"Done, sir. Machines are in space."
Acceleration pressed Timokhin into his seat, and, at that moment, the universe, writhing in pain and silent moans, bore a new star. Filters dimmed its light, turning it into a ghostly shadow, but it still remained frightening. Molten masses moved in its depths, swelled on the surface in monstrous scarlet humps, thinned into strands of prominence, throwing clumps of glowing plasma into the dark; it seemed as if the whole world, only recently similar to obsidian covered by rare sparks of stars, had suddenly turned into a fiery inferno.
"Target hit!" an observing officer yelled out.
The staff compartment momentarily exploded into a hum of triumphant voices, then silence fell. The star created by the nuclear explosion dimmed, the prominence and plasma waves settled, the energy dissipated in the void in swarms of rapid rays. The peripheral region no longer blinded the equipment and people's eyes, and through its transparent haze the sensors hit upon and transferred to the screen a vision of the enormous cylinder. Undamaged and undefeated, it hung in front of the Suzdal, like a dragon coming from the galactic abyss. Saint George would not slay this one.
"Sixteen degrees to the North Pole," an officer's voice came. "Enemy, two ships!"
"Attacking," the frigate's captain replied over the intercom, but this order went past Timokhin's consciousness. He was hearing something else now, which had been said by Gunther Voss, that strange reporter from the Spiegel, at the Chilean USF astrodrome. His words suddenly came back with amazing clarity, the kind that came to a person before death, "Do not use missiles or swarms, Admiral, the defense shield will deflect them. Try to cut it open with lasers, a sudden strike at full power. But beware..."
Beware? Beware of what?.. Timokhin thought, looking at the two snub-nosed ships growing on the screens. Then fire and darkness swallowed him.
"Let us never again see the darkness of an Eclipse!" Yata spoke. He said it out loud and was heard everywhere on the enormous Ship, in the hallways and in cavities where hundreds of Faata worked with their t'ho assistants, in the meal halls, in the t'hami compartments, where the crew was coming back to life, in the imitation wells with variable gravity, where olks were training, on the decks of battle modules, whose pilots were already coming out of their long slumber.
"Let us never again see the darkness of an Eclipse," the Pillar of Order repeated and added, "The Bino Tegari are destroyed. We are going to their planet." Saying that, he glanced at the observation sphere, at the center of which Earth continued to glitter, and switched to the psychic channel accessible only to the members of the Sheaf. Our losses, Strategist?
Kaya, the Guardian of the Heavens, squirmed in the viscous jelly of the contact substance.
Seven battle modules, Pillar of Order.
That is many.
Yes. But now I know more about their weapons. In the future, we will avoid such losses.
I hope. Modules, like the other technology aboard the Ship, were not irreplaceable, especially on the threshold of an inhabited and technologically developed world. Yata remembered that and, ending speaking of the battle's outcome, addressed Iveh. Speaker! Are there messages for us from the Bino Tegari planet?
No, but there soon will be. We are analyzing the reactions of the mass media... The Intermediary stammered, but then explained. That is what they call their means of spreading information. Not the authority of the Pillars of Order, not an enforcement organ, not a group owning raw materials and production, but a very influential layer with a high status. A structure similar to their religions and performing the same function but more effectively: the creation of an illusory reality and the dissemination of opinions that it is real. As a result–
Is the opinion about us also illusory? Yata interrupted the Intermediary.
In part. As I calculated, many see us as a symbol of retribution and justice.
Many?
The majority. Their strength is in their numbers and in that condition of the mind they call fanaticism. They believe in us, and, therefore, the other part of their population, the one controlling the planet, will collaborate with us. It is obvious that their message will arrive within the next cycle.
Do you imagine what it could contain?
Apologies. They will attempt to convince us that a mistake has been made, that their Strategist acted without permission, not on the order of his rulers. We will also be offered several areas for landing. Naturally, on the territories of the countries whose fleet we have fought, and in those locations where it will be easier to monitor us.
This issue needs to be discussed. Do you have suggestions?
Yes, Pillar of Order.
The inhabited world appeared in Yata's consciousness as an intangible but clear vision of a sphere hovering in the emptiness. The image sent by the Speaker with the Bino Tegari represented a map in natural colors: a green-gray ocean with enormous bays that delved deep into the depths of the two large landmasses, opposing one another on the planetary sphere; dark mountain ranges, numerous patches of greenery, gray-yellow twists of rivers, settlements scattered all over the planet, and vast spaces of unusual hues, white and red. There were also smaller landmasses; the largest of them, marked in white, was on a pole.
The red and the white, what are those? Yata asked.
Formations without analogues in the Old and the New Worlds. The red are plains covered by sand, the white are areas of ice. The continent on the south pole is completely covered in ice, and their depth is such that the Ship would be half-buried in it.
Much water... Good... The Ship requires water... Does this landmass belong to anyone?
It is considered to be an area of joint ownership, Pillar of Order.
Doubly good. Do you recommend it as a landing spot?
Without a doubt.
Then tell the Bino Tegari that we will land here. Yata put a mental dot on the south pole and reached out to Tiych. We lost seven large modules in the battle, but, besides them, also sixteen small ones, right in the hold cavity. Its hull is punctured, the local brain is dead, and the Ship will be restoring it for at least a cycle. Explain, Keeper, what is happening?
Tiych was afraid. Sensing his fear, Yata mused that he was still young and incapable of hiding his feelings. Then again, all Keepers, closely communicating with the quasi-living technology of the Daskins, suffered from superfluous excitability, which was thought to be a compensation for their natural gift. A very rare gift, and so Tiych did not need to fear vaporization; they would have had to return to the New Worlds to get another Keeper of Communications.
And yet he was still afraid. Perhaps not the Pillar of Order's punishment, but something else?
The Bino Tegari was hiding in the storage, among the pilots, Tiych informed him, trying not to give away his fright. A very cunning creature… chose a place where he could not be found using thermal charts. I believe he activated the annihilator of a small module, even though that seems improbable. I would not be able to do that without a pilot's help… Neither would you, Pillar of Order.
Where is he now?
He is not in the storage. I am continuing the search.
This is becoming a problem. What do you think, Keeper?
Suddenly, Yata realized that Tiych was not afraid of him. The Ship and this escaped Bino Tegari, that was what filled him with such dread!
The problem is not in the search for the escapee, but in the quasi-mind's reactions, he reported. Until now, I deemed them normal, but now the situation has changed. I think… no, I am almost certain: the Ship does not wish for us to find him.
Astounding!.. Yata thought. Beyond belief even… His thought matched the opinion of the Intermediary and the Strategist, could that be possible!?
It could be, Tiych confirmed. It could, if the Bino Tegari holds a special value to the Ship. Do not ask me what value, I will be unable to answer that question. Do not forget, we are not the creators of the quasi-mind, were are merely using it, in the way our experience and common sense tell us. But the ways of the Daskins are unknown to us, and their thoughts are a mystery. What did they consider common sense? Why did they create living machines? And why do they have the gift of telepathic communication?.. I do not know, and no one does.
He disconnected without asking Yata's permission. After a long pause, Iveh, the Intermediary, asked, There is another problem, Pillar of Order: we have lost the human ksa. Ayn, a geneticist, wanted to check how the hybrid fetus was developing, but the ksa had disappeared, and, along with her, so did Yo, my assistant. We did not find either of them in the t'hami halls, and the Ship does not know where they are. Or it does not wish to inform us.
A stake in its nerve cluster! the Strategist uttered an ancient curse.
Ignoring him, Yata ordered, Do not think about those who have disappeared and the Ship, Intermediary, that is Tiych's concern. Continue the negotiations, promise, intimidate, and demand. We need a place for a base, supply of raw materials, and human t'ho, more t'ho workers! Send the recording of the battle to their Pillars, let them know that their fleet is dead. If that does not make them see reason, we shall destroy several settlements.
Cities, Pillar of Order.
Yes, cities. Select the appropriate ones.
Breaking the connection, Yata turned back to the observation sphere, a tiny image of Earth floating in its center. The Ship was moving fast, catching up to the planet running away towards the Sun. Two more cycles, and it would descend to its surface.
The recording of the events was short - about six minutes from the beginning of the attack to the final salvo which destroyed the medium cruiser Tiburon. On the enormous screen taking up an entire wall of the office, cruisers exploded, caught by a beam strike, fighters burned up like gnats in a flame, clouds of sizzling gas swirled, thin, impossibly bright plasma bursts ripped apart armor with predatory tenacity. The background for this picture was darkness, lit up by sparks of indifferent stars.
After watching the recording, the man sitting in front of the screen raised his hand and imperatively snapped his fingers. The video started over, slower, with analysts' commentaries, who pointed out specific, gloomiest parts. The names of the destroyed cruisers flashed at the bottom along with the names of their captains, tactical and technical data, and crew complement; a mournful list, at the top of which were Admiral Timokhin and the Suzdal, the flotilla's flagship. Twelve warships, two thousand crewmembers...
The video ended, and the man said, "Connect me to Washington. Immediately."
He was alone in the room, a spacious office with oak paneling, but each his gesture and word was probably being monitored. A quiet rumble came from the speakers on both sides of the screen, then a woman's musical voice spoke.
"Administration of the President of the EAU, direct intercontinental communication channel, encoding LJ-34-B. Mister President is requesting Mr. George Grier to the screen."
"Soundproof the room," the man sitting in front of the screen said. "Asadin, ensure that it's done."
"Of course," a man's voice replied this time.
The President of the EAU, who was usually just called the Russian President, stood up, stepped away from the screen, and sat behind his desk. There were two sheets of paper in front of him marked "Received at 21:17". The large distinctive font stood out on the white paper like coal sprinkled in snow.
"Mr. Grier, the President of the United States and Canada, is on the line."
The screen activated. It was early morning in Washington. The sky in the window behind Grief was only starting to turn pink, and the man himself was in a bathrobe, thrown over his pajamas.
"Hello, George. Have you already watched? And read?"
The Russian stirred the papers on his desk, and the American nodded.
"Hi, Mike." They did not stand on protocol in private and very important conversations. "Watched and read. My condolences regarding Timokhin. He was a good admiral."
"Yes. Too bad we'll have to ruin his memory."
"It's necessary, Mike."
"Of course it is, George."
These two decided the fate of Earth. That was how it had been in the recent past, that was how it was now, and that was how it would be in the future. They were going to do everything in their power to maintain the status quo. Two superpowers ruled the world: one, taking up half of Eurasia, was strong by virtue of its enormous territory, its inexhaustible natural resources, and its people's artistic strength; the other had wealth and technological potential. The leaders of both countries had long ago figured out that their unity granted them power over the planet. Moreover, power over the Solar System, sufficiently spacious for any ambitions, plans, and interests. A third power, capable of competing with them, did not exist; the UN, the Security Council, the other international organization, Europe, Japan, and South America were mere appendages to their undisputed power or sources of human reserves.
There was no third power… But now one had appeared. Being experienced politicians, they had come to peace with that fact. Perhaps, if the consequences were calculated, it would not be that unpleasant.
"What do you say about their ultimatum, George?"
The American glanced to the side; there were also probably a few sheets of paper on his desk.
"Let's not consider this text as an ultimatum, Mike. A draft of a peace treaty, I like that better. The term 'ultimatum' brings back other, even less pleasant words: capitulation, occupation, reparation…"
"All coming from Latin," the Russian President chuckled.
"From Latin, damn it," the American agreed. "The wisdom of the Ancient Romans teaches us: those who refuse to admit defeat are not defeated."
"That is most certainly true. In essence, there was a minor skirmish caused by Timokhin's negligence. He misunderstood the Security Council's instructions, which we regret very much. We do not foresee any more incidents, especially since we need to preserve the strengths of our fleets for a decisive strike."
"When we find a vulnerable spot, Mike. For now…" the man on the screen got lost in thought. "For now, we will express our regrets and apologies. No aggressive demarches in the press, the articles must maintain a neutral or friendly tone. As for our proposals… Well, of course, our guests can approach Earth and land in the chosen region; the Antarctic works very well for that. Of course, we will allocate territory for cultural connection centers, somewhere in Siberia or Alaska. We will supply workers, materials, equipment, all the necessary resources, everything they desire. And we, of course, are not against the scientific research into the genetic compatibility of humans and Faata. Actually, that would be interesting… Well, what else do they want?"
The Russian President peeked into the papers on his desk.
"Freedom of movement for their flying machines."
"No problem, for heaven's sake! Our orbital platforms and the Lunar Base will be able to track them. Our specialists insist that, unlike their starship, their warships are not equipped with shields; it obviously requires an extremely powerful source of energy. Timokhin destroyed seven of them… I am certain Chavez will do no worse."
"We should inform them that we are unable to guarantee complete safety. Our influence does not extend to India, China, Borneo, a series African and Arab nations, and several other regions. We need to clearly mark them and inform our guests that these areas are outside our jurisdiction. Except, of course, when it involves acts of retribution."
They exchanged glances.
"Our precious guests…" the American said.
"Their interstellar drive…"
"Force fields…"
"Gravity manipulation…"
"Annihilator…"
"Wave therapy…"
"Life extension methods…"
"Yeah…" the Russian President intoned with a dreamy smile. "Fantastic, magical prospects!"
"If we could only remove the magicians… As you Russians say, 'porridge separately, butter separately'."
"I disagree, George, we might still need the porridge. Have your analysts properly study the protocols sent by Timokhin. There is a trend there… It seems that our guests have a problem with the workforce; at any rate, they consider it to be the most valuable resource. On the other hand, they don't seem to have any problems with habitable territories and food production. They have colonized many planets and can feed a large population… enormous even… billions, tens of billions… Do you understand what I mean, George?"
"A profitable export," the American nodded. "The people in Asia and Africa, who have become a burden and a threat to us. And these damned Neoluddites and Antiglobalists, the Children of Allah, the Crimson Jihad and the Assassins, the terrorists and the mafia, the separatists and the drug dealers. Our headache, Mr. President, which could turn into our commodity. An excellent idea, Mike! I do admire your foresight. Just take that trick with the Third Fleet's maneuvers… If not that, then these nonhuman Binucks would have fallen upon us like a tornado on the fields of Kansas!"
"Merely a lucky coincidence," the Russian President said. "A fluke, nothing more."
They talked some more about the fall elections in the EAU and the chances of this or that candidate for the second place. There was no doubt about who would take the first.
Angelotti was pleased; the latest issue of the CosmoSpiegel was adorned with Gunther Voss's sensational articles titled "They Have Screwed Us" and "Defeat of the Third Fleet, Beginning of the End". Most of the mass media, including Patrick McCaffrey, the JBC reporter, did not support Voss's idea, leaning towards the official version, stating that the fight had been a mistake and that Admiral Timokhin exceeded his authority due to his innate xenophobia or, perhaps, because he'd had a nervous breakdown. The press kept calling the incident either the crime of the century or the most tragic event since the Crusades and the two world wars, and Timokhin would occasionally appear in the list of the most famous maniacs, which included such people as Stalin, Hitler, and Pol Pot. Gorchakov, who knew the truth, had wanted to shoot himself, but, after much hesitation, decided that, in this momentous historical moment, when his country and the world were in need of his services, that would count as desertion. Thus deciding, he put his personal weapon, an engraved needler, back into the safe with a sigh of relief. Admirals Haley and Chavez were also aware that Timokhin had merely been doing his duty and followed the instructions of the Security Council, the copies of which were kept in their top secret staff documents. But, due to the impending events, the defense of Timokhin and the honor of the uniform had to be postponed. The admirals were busy; Chavez kept the First Fleet in combat readiness, while Haley had taken command the divisions of the Third Fleet and was redeploying them, along with the Second Fleet's squadrons, closer to Earth.
The cruiser Taiga took the geophysicists off Eros and, following Admiral Haley's orders, set course for the Lunar Base, rounding the Sun on an elliptical trajectory. Captain Degtyar announced a period of mourning for the dead, and, in their memory, the weapons of the Taiga gave a twelve-salvo salute. The Siberia, the Starfire, and the Barracuda, who did not make it in time for the battle, were also on their way to Earth and Luna, and mournful silence reigned on their decks. Joy was also absent from the other USF ships. Each had friends among the two thousand astronauts and marines, who had passed into the Great Darkness, and each was tormented by their doubts regarding the aliens. No matter how the media tried to play the events, the thoughts about the worst possibility itched like a mosquito at the temple: maybe the aliens had showed up not to give, but to take.
The three inhabitants of Post 13 on the Tartarus Plateau were also plagued by the same suspicions, which turned into furious debates. Demeskis, a staunch pacifist, was of the opinion that peace, even a bad one, was still better than war, Sviridov longed for revenge, while Paul Durant tried to reconcile them, for which he was labeled a filthy conformist. Additionally, they received a radio message that the supply schedule had been changed, the next shuttle flight would be delayed, and that they should cut back on their rations. This happened during storms, but it was quiet on Tartarus, and the delay spoke only of the chaos and disorder in the USF supply division.
The Copernicus launched towards Earth, leaving the Mariner station after refueling. The planetologists aboard the ship were continuing their discussions regarding Jupiter's Great Red Spot. Traffic controller Kalikh and the station personnel, who were pretty tired of the scholars, sighed with relief: only their people remained at the café and at the bar, and no one was buzzing near their ears, no one kept them from drinking a cocktail and skinny-dipping in the pool. Although, they drank and swam quickly, hurrying back to the TVs for the news. There was no astronomical division on the station, but the observatory on Phobos, which had a large telescope, tracked the alien starship, sending hourly updates. The ship, after destroying Timokhin's cruisers, was on its way to Earth. Admiral Haley's fleet followed, leaving Mars defenseless.
Miners Sydney Birk and Juan Arego were a lot less bothered by it than by the prices on beer and gin. Due to the embargo on space flights, declared by Earth, the mine's production was not being exported, while prices had gone up and promised to eat up daily wages in the near future. Their mining spirit would not accept such a breakdown of stability, and Arego and Birk's colleagues were prepared to smash the tavern to pieces, block the road used to export the ore, and bang their hardhats on the rails. Whoever was invading Earth, three-headed spiders or intelligent octopuses, the working man would get his own! That was the opinion of the union leaders and the gangster syndicate supplying the mine with liquor.
Lieutenant Stig Olsen and his team reached the lair of the Tigers of Islam, knocked them out of their caves, and discovered the remains of Instructor Serov and his cadet. He stood like a statue in his combat suit over the mutilated bodies, gritted his teeth and pondered how to send the captured terrorists into the afterlife. The soldiers surrounding their commander were silent, but Olsen knew that the sentence had already been passed and was not subject to appeal. He could have, naturally, repeat what was done with the victims, put out the prisoners' eyes, skin them alive, then draw-and-quarter them, but that was not the marine tradition. Taking his beam rifle off his neck, Olsen nodded to his people and walked towards the crevice where the prisoners had been herded. The PT-36 plasma thrower was durable and heavy, like an ancient mace. The stocks containing the batteries were especially durable.
The house on the outskirts of Brussels was, as always, dark and quiet. It was believed that its owner, as expected from a reporter, was flying around the continents, cities, and countries, spending nights in hotels, eating in bars or on the plane between the take-off in Paris and the landing in Rio, and writing articles on his lap; or rather, not writing but dictating into his pocketpute. That was a good cover explaining his unsociability, sudden disappearances, appearances, and other strange things that could be written off as the quirks of a busy man, extremely enthusiastic about his work and career. Belgium in general was a land of oddballs and the inviolable freedom of the individual, where everything that did not interfere with the lives of others was permitted, from voluntary euthanasia to same-sex families. A very comfortable country! Although, during the Middle Ages, when he'd first appeared on Earth, this place was not very nice: squabbles between the barons and the cities, wars with Germany and France, then the Spanish occupation and the pyres on which heretics were burned. They'd tried to burn him too, eight or nine times, considering him to be a warlock.
Chuckling at the memory, he went down into the basement and stood there, looking at the walls painted with knight's castles, caravels sailing at sea, groves where fairies lived and creatures that looked like Spolders. In his world, the Spolders lived separately from the dominant race, to which he belonged; they lived on an enormous island near the equator, banned for his kind, except for several trading posts and ports. The Spolders did not possess the gift of change, did not recognize technology and did not strive towards close contact, considering his people to be too restless and fussy. They were great philosophers; well, some of them, at least.
Smiling again, he stepped towards a wall and slid a panel, behind which was a cabinet filled with junk left over from previous owners. Children's sledges, toys, a pair of roller skates, a box with a construction set, cubes, a model rocket, colored beads the size of a fingernail… Nothing valuable to burglars, if they could even be found in this quiet, prosperous country. He pulled out the box with the beads and touched his finger to one, then another, then a third, until he felt a prick. Technically, the sensation was not tactile but mental; the finger, the skin, and the nerves were entirely human and unable to feel what his mind could.
Pulling out the bead, he put it on the floor, put his hands close to it, and, concentrating, sent the "open" signal. Then he stepped farther away. The bead, the embryo of a sigga, was one of the few devices which he'd kept for over eight centuries. Not really a weapon, but a device that could be used as such on a rainy day. And that day was coming, for the human flotilla had been unable to deal with the Bino Faata, and, without a doubt, there would not be any other attacks. The leaders of Earth really were thick-headed! Then again, they were following their own experiences, which were the experiences of merchants, not thinkers… One couldn't deal with the Faata like that. A culture that had experienced decline twice was not inclined to trade, it would take what it wanted in other ways: deception, force, rational violence. Humans would eventually be convinced of this… very soon, if he failed.
The room grew colder, gray frost settling over the walls; the sigga, requiring energy, was sucking heat out of the air. The ball was now the size of a soccer ball and continued to grow, taking the shape of a flattened ribbed sphere. Its outer surface gleamed steel blue, and, from its upper point, a thin flexible proboscis reached out, coiling. This visible part was not the device itself, merely a container made of carbon film. The container was durable, the device was inactive, but he still stepped towards the door with apprehension. The sigga was not as terrible as a powerful nuclear warhead, but it was still scarier than the fires of the Spanish Inquisition; if the uncontrollable device were to be activated, the ashes of Brussels would fit in a thimble.
He started the calibration, telepathically setting the parameters of what would need to be destroyed. Not plastic, not metal, not mineral, not living organics… almost living, similar to living, but not carbon-based… When properly programmed, the device's selection unit could distinguish millions of substances and choose the correct one. But the calibration process was subtle and complex, and he hadn't performed any such operation in a long time. He could make a mistake, and then…
The growth of the sigga slowed down, then stopped. Now it looked like a large, knee-high pumpkin with a shiny gray-silver peel and bulging ribs. The proboscis, coiling twice around it in even circles, ended in an injector tube, now securely blocked. The device was not yet activated, and there were no sounds coming from the container. He tensed, the flattened sphere rocked and grudgingly lifted above the floor. The device weighed at least a hundred kilograms, which was the limit of his transportation capability. The distance was also not small, three-eighth of the equator, if the Ship landed in the Antarctic, but he was certain he could do it. The transportation would not present difficulties, unlike the activation.
Lowering the device to the floor, he reached out with his mind to the Ship and immediately detected the captive. After the painful shock, he was not in the best condition, but was gradually coming to. A hardy being, and a very, very stubborn one! Although the captive had not figured out the kaff completely, had not subordinated the Daskin creation, he still had his good qualities. There was no need to list them; the main things were that he remained alive, that he was aboard the Ship, and that was where the sigga would end up. Soon, very soon…
At the moment of the device's activation, it would be better to be far from the Ship. He could have done it himself, but he valued his life too much, as long as the entire history of Earth's civilizations. It would be unfair if it was interrupted on this faraway planet, where he was, in essence, as alien as the Faata. Let the captive take the risk. After all, he was human and a native of Earth, which meant he could give his life to save it.