This is a fan translation of Fighters of Danwait (Бойцы Данвейта) 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 third 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.
METAMORPHS or PROTEIDS (their name for themselves is unknown).
Galactic coordinates of the sector and homeworld of these mysterious beings are unknown. There is also no reliable information regarding their technological level, although it is assumed that it is high (at least B8-B9). A non-humanoid race, whose individuals are capable of radically changing their external appearance and, likely, metabolism and physiology. They are present on many worlds as emissaries (observers?.. spies?..), but, due to their nature, are virtually undetectable.
The only reliable case of a contact between a Metamorph emissary with humanity took place in 2088 (the Invasion era). During that time, the emissary had become active, attempting to urge Earth's armed forces to fight and, ultimately, destroy the Bino Faata. But that action was, effectively, performed by the emissary himself: when the Faata had landed, he delivered a container with micro-robots aboard, biomechanical insects, which then broke apart the tissues of the quasi-sentient device that had controlled the starship of the aggressors. The starship's destruction led to the deaths of the entire Faata crew. While the reasons for the Metamorphs' hostility towards the Bino Faata are still unknown, there is no reason to doubt the fact itself.
Note: While the Metamorph emissary did not show himself during the Void Wars, it is believed that certain valuable information was received by the USF Secret Service due to his involvement. Possibly, he had infiltrated the Service and holds an important position in it. The USF leadership has forbidden any attempts to test this theory. In the words of one of the top members of the USF, "Let's not spook the goose that lays golden eggs."
The Metamorph's known physiological indicators confirm that he is capable of altering his facial features, height, weight, skin color, and body shape within the limits of human appearance. He is also capable of teleporting objects no heavier than one hundred kilograms within the limits of Earth and several grams over cosmic distances (most likely, though Limbo).
All persons that communicated with the emissary note that he was capable of perfectly imitating human behavior and emotions: none of them had any doubt that he or she was speaking to a human. However, such tolerance, as well as the aid in opposing the Faata, do not mean that the Proteid emissary and his people are friendly towards humankind. We can, however, make a careful forecast that they, at least, are not hostile to humans. The race's other motives and psychological characteristics are unknown.
Sources of information: Extract from USF Secret Service File #112/56. Top secret clearance lifted in 2216.
Xenological Compendium, section Galactic Races. United University edition, La Sorbonne, Oxford, Moscow (Earth), Olympus Mons (Mars), 2264
Chapter 11
Escape
Of all the types and methods of hostilities, combat in space was the most violent. There were many reasons for that. The speed of such battles and the precise synchronization of weapons and defense shields exceeded the capabilities of living beings; their sluggish colloid brains lacked the necessary reaction time to track the microsecond intervals. Because of that, they had to rely on an intermediary, a computer and software interface with a limited intelligence; it translated every order of a slow living brain into the range of discrete commands. With all their advantages, concepts like mercy and charity were unknown to them, and a "destroy" order was interpreted literally, meaning a complete, total, and uncompromising destruction.
That was one of the reasons, while another involved the high concentration of combatants and the lack of natural cover. On a planetary surface, there was the possibility of scattering, digging into the ground, blending with the terrain, becoming invisible to the enemy sensors, but, in space, everything was visible, including the cramped eggshells of ships, holding dozens and hundreds of beings during a swift battle. The death of a ship led to the inevitable death of the crew, as another factor then came into effect: the hostility of the environment. Except for two or three unique races, no sentient creature was capable of surviving in space for longer than a minute, and all of them, no matter the differences in physiology, culture, or religion, would prefer an instant death in a cloud of plasma gas.
The other options were far more unpleasant and excruciating. In an irreversibly damaged ship, death came in various guises, both quick and slower ones, but equally horrific. To freeze or suffocate, die of thirst or hunger, rot away from radiation sickness, die of wounds or the gangrene caused by them – such was the list of the fates of the crew, who were left without power or communications far from any inhabited world. Fortunately, those were rare cases; the weapons used in space wars destroyed rather than damaged, turning things to dust. Or, more precisely, the mix of ions and atomic particles that human physicists called plasma.
The weapons were different from those used on a planetary surface. Nuclear-tipped missiles, torpedoes, swarms [A swarm is a weapon that fires a large number of tiny particles, usually steel needles or balls, which fly with a great speed. To avoid cluttering up space with metal, space-based weapons use tiny ice crystals.], and any solid particles, except for Lo'ona Aeo rounds, were easily deflected by defense fields, striking the attacking ships themselves. Only energy weapons could be used against shields: high-powered and highly-focused lasers, capable of punching through the screen and cutting the armor open, as well as plasma and antimatter throwers. Annihilators were the strongest argument in any space battle, but their firepower depended on the length of acceleration and the volume accumulating chamber. Only frigates and cruisers were usually armed with annihilators, as they were large enough to fit the bulky machinery and use it at a distance of half-a-megameter, which ensured their own safety. Pulse lasers and plasma emitters were close-quarters weapons and, with some luck, could cut a defense screen open. Usually, the result depended on the weapon's power and the distance to the target.
A battle between ships ultimately came down to power combat. A Limbo generator held a certain balance, and this energy could be spent on maneuvers, defense fields, and weapon recharge. The latter two factors played a key role: the flow of energy to the force screen reduced the power of the lasers and the throwers, while increasing that power inevitably led to the decrease in defense capability. Ultimately, the training of the crew and the level of combat software were determined by their skill in manipulating the means of defense and active combat.
Of course, all that concerned warships, which were dangerous to approach, as they could shoot back, answering each volley with another. A transport ship, capable of only hiding behind a force shield, was a much easier prey; defense fields, even the most powerful ones, could not protect the hull and drives from precise strikes. Especially at close range.
Sitting in the Lancelot's control room, in the cocoon's tight embrace, Valdez watched the island move down. A gleaming symphony of hues, bright glares, and colorful shadows, which were not destined to be heard in the Lo'ona Aeo worlds… Then again, he decided, the Masters have thousands of years of trading experience; they'll figure out a way to get some compensation.
Cro and Atigem were frozen at the gunnery consoles. Instead of two guns, the new Lancelot had four, at the bow and the stern; sixteen barrels, capable of blowing away any small ship, assuming sensible maneuvering and precise firing, of course.
He called up the hologram of the control panel and spoke loudly, "Senior Defender to the Flight Watchers. Connect me to the Driver. I'm taking over the flight controls."
The panel blinked and doubled in size. Valdez touched sensors keys with his fingers, feeling the warmth coming off them and sensing his mind and nerves melding with the enormous ship. The transport ship was now under his command, and the Driver, an artificial navigator brain, was his assistant.
Blips of an enemy squadron appeared on the viewscreen and the gunnery monitors. But Valdez no longer needed these indicators; as during the battle for the Rathole, his sight now pierced the ship's hull, and many eyes, scattered everywhere, brought information even from the other side of the planet. Two stations, the equatorial and one of the meridian ones, were currently in the shadows behind the sphere of Dust Devil, and the ships at their docking ports seemed to be frozen silver fishes. He sensed their cold emptiness: eight tubs near one station, seven at the other, and none of them were ready for battle. The other meridian fortress was hanging at the zenith, the rays of the two suns playing with its shining surface, but this light did not blind Valdez's strange eyes; they seemed to be able to adjust to any emission and make out even the tiniest details. He saw four ships at the station's ports and saw that they were the backup, ready to give chase. Four other tubs were hovering at the edge of the stratosphere, tracking the Ahiros's movements. They were currently above her, blocking the path into space and preventing them from accelerating for the jump. Obviously, they wouldn't vaporize the transport ship; they'd knock out the drives, disable her, grab her with magnetic clamps, and dock her to the fortress. And there…
He was flying the ship to a point equidistant from the three orbital stations. The four Haptors were flying above the transport, as if the moving the lid of a pot that was ready to be shut; they weren't in a hurry, given their speed advantage. Valdez gave them a closer look: not fighters, not corvettes, something in-between, capable of flight in both space and atmosphere: twin hulls, drive on external suspension, narrow sickle-shaped wings, and a pair of lasers. They were flying with their shields off, assuming the transport ship had no weapons.
"They're flying without shields," Atigem said, peering into his screen. "They'll have their lasers at full power."
"We'll have time to shoot them up," Cro replied. "Patience is key. A hasty coyote runs with an empty belly."
The image wavered, a ripple filled the screen and vanished in an instant.
"A signal!" Atigem spoke. "Ours, and very powerful! Are the Servs playing around?"
"What's going on?" Valdez asked, continuing to stare at the four Haptors.
"The Flight Watchers have deactivated the equipment," the Lancelot reported. "The machines unloaded in the desert and the molecular scanners on the island. That is the rule, if payment has not arrived."
"Some comfort, at least," Cro uttered. Atigem burst into triumphant laughter, "Well done, Servs, well done, merchies! Can't put one over on them! No island, so no useful machines! Take that, you horned bastards! A pile of shit, eat it and choke!"
"We're leaving the atmosphere," Valdez informed them, increasing the pressure of his fingers. The ship's bow lifted, the planet fell down, rapidly turning from an enormous bowl into a spheroid, and then into a flat disc. The maneuver was unexpected, but the Haptors turned out to be excellent pilots: they immediately formed up on the transport ship, surrounding her on four sides, and started a slow approach. Then they saw the first laser flashes, absorbed by the defense field.
"They're aiming for the gravitators," Lightwater noted.
"Isn't it time for us…" Atigem started but fell silent, when no answer came. Valdez knew precisely when the time would come, and that knowledge was stuck in him like a nail in a board. He had been the second pilot on the Rome, but, in battle, he had been considered the first: the rank, experience, and merits of those senior to him had been no match for his intuition and luck.
The Haptors moved closer, there were more lightning bolts, probing the ship's shields. The transport was big and had four acceleration shafts and eight toroidal gravitators. They were aiming for the toroids; obviously, without them, they would be unable to reach the necessary velocity and make the jump into Limbo. The field was holding, absorbing the energy bolts, and Valdez, estimating their power, determined the safety limit: eight hundred and fifteen meters. A millisecond later, this calculation was confirmed by the Driver.
"Crew, get ready! Open the upper hatch!"
The iris of the enormous hatch over the Lancelot slid apart. Distant starts were shining through the film of the force field, holding the air in the cargo hold. The planet, which looked like an orange wrapped in a bright blue-green ribbon, was visible in the ceiling monitor. The nearest Haptor was eleven hundred meters away, the others were not much farther. All four were moving closer. In five or six seconds, the laser bolts would pierce the defense screen, taking away the ship's ability to move and maneuver.
"Defender to the Flight Watchers! I'm transferring the controls!" Valdez yelled out. "Gunners to full readiness!"
The grav-compensators whined a moment later, and the beyri shot out of the cargo hold like a silver dart. Her weapons started spewing fire as soon as she rose over the transport's hull; three of the Haptors were in weapon's range, but the fourth was blocked by the Ahiros, and, rounding her, Valdez took his ship towards the planet below them.
Their attack was sudden and devastating. The first Haptor's twin fuselage flew apart into tiny pieces, after being pierced by their rounds; the second one lost its wings and weapons and was floating away into space like a coffin drifting into the grave; the third tried to evade the deadly volley, but the rounds took off the suspension with the drive. This one was moving down, towards the planetary disc, crossed by a blue belt, and its fall was accelerating with each passing second. The last fighter had time to activate its shields and met the beyri with laser flashes. The Lancelot passed over it, sixteen barrels spat out streams of tiny rounds, and a crimson explosion blazed aft of them. As if echoing it, another flaming flower bloomed at the backdrop of Dust Devil: the Haptor ship without a drive was sliding through the atmosphere as a burning meteorite.
Valdez turned back to the Haptor drifting without wings. This one got lucky: it wasn't falling towards the planet but, following its initial momentum, was flying away into space.
"Let's finish the bastards," Atigem gave a predatory grin.
"We'll spare them. Let their people pick up the crew. Lancelot, I want to talk to them."
Two grim faces appeared on the screen; obviously, the Haptors already considered themselves dead men.
"Tell them something, Cro," Valdez suggested. "Something appropriate for their Thad."
"Canis timidus vehementius latrat, quam mordet [A timid dog barks more vehemently than it bites.]" Lightwater spoke.
"Something simpler. He probably won't understand that."
"All right. By the way, I know some of their language." The Chief peered into the Haptors' surly faces, croaked like a hoarse raven, listened for their croaking reply, and translated, "My words will go straight to the Thad's ears and they will be thus, 'a fool's shadow is short'."
Atigem chuckled, "Navajo wisdom, Chief?"
"Exactly."
The beyri dashed towards the accelerating transport. In the last moment of his visions, Valdez noticed four ships, surrounded by defense fields, dashing away from the space fortress. Clearly, the Haptors were still hoping to intercept them… A futile attempt! The enormous vessel had already gone up over the ecliptic and was moving out of Dust Devil's system. Seconds later, the Lancelot slipped into the hatch opening, turned around in the empty cargo hold, and lowered onto her perch.
"Report on the navigation situation," Valdez ordered.
"Ready to jump in…" The First Watcher gave the time that was approximately equal to seventy-five minutes.
"Those horned assholes will never reach us," Atigem said. "Cancel the alert, Captain?"
"Not yet. Let's wait for the jump."
After the appropriate time, the Ahiros slipped into the timelessness of Limbo, then came out in the cold, starry emptiness. From here, Dust Devil's suns looked like two dim sparks in the black cosmic abyss, so distant that it was impossible to determine their colors.
"Dismissed," Valdez said, shutting off the control panel's hologram. The navigation sensors, pilot rudders, communication and spatial orientation buttons, and the drive control unit were slowly fading, like a host of disappearing ghosts. He looked at the gunners, looking for signs of fatigue on their faces, and repeated. "Dismissed. We can rest now."
"I love orders like that." Atigem climbed out of the cocoon's tight embrace, stepped towards the exit, confirmed that he could go through the hatch every which way, and noted. "Well, we didn't get the island, but, at least, we got some of the Hornies. How do you think they'll count them? At the Dromi rate or higher?"
He disappeared in the hallway. The Chief turned to Valdez with his chair, tapped out a few measures of the marine march on the console, and waited for Atigem to walk farther away. Valdez realized he wanted to talk about something. The fever of the battle was slowly leaving him; the tips of his fingers were tingling, tiny hammers were still pounding in his temples.
"Have you noticed that all the machinery was rendered inoperable: the equipment for eruption control, for soil processing, and those scaling scanners?" The Chief spoke. "They just sent some sort of signal and that was it! All that stuff became a pile of junk!"
"A wise precaution, Cro. Zantoo told me that all their electronics stop working if used for something other than the intended purpose. To make weapons, for instance."
Lightwater's bushy eyebrows converged over the bridge of his nose.
"Built-in safeguards?"
"Something like that, but more complicated. Each element, the tiniest chip, seems to have an awareness of the entire system it's a part of, and, under certain circumstances, it becomes inert. It dies, as Zantoo put it."
"Really! What else did you find out?"
Valdez smiled.
"There's something for you personally, about the use of chips in weapons. Zantoo said to calm the Mzani down, as this will never happen."
"Mzani? What's a Mzani?"
"You. A Mzani is not human, but sometimes looks human or like a Lo'ona Aeo. Maybe like someone else too."
"Hmm… I've never been called that way before," Lightwater spoke slowly. "Well, as you Russians say, you can call me a pot, if you want, just don't put me in the oven. Let's not de asini umbra disceptare [Argue over the shadow of an ass.], especially since we've received some valuable information."
"Important for whom? The USF Secret Service?"
"First and foremost, yes, but not just them. If the Lo'ona Aeo block all deadly functionality in their products, it's important for Earth and your whole civilization. There's no need to look for fears where there are none or try to make a sword out of someone else's plow… Both are costly!"
He'd said "your civilization", as if he himself was not a part of it, looking in from the outside, watching for mistakes and losses, take-offs, victories, and great deeds of humankind. What an absurd thought! Cro Lightwater, Chief Lightwater, had seen and participated in so many things, such frightening and great, violent, tragic, and bold, that not even the Lord of Emptiness himself could have separate him from the human universe. And if he, a cosmic god or demon, would still try to do that, he would have had to cut the living and the dead, destroying the Chief's memory of all those whom he had known and loved in his endless life.
But Cro's secrets had been and remained his alone. Valdez did not wish to pry.
He stood, inhaled the air with the invigorating scent of mountain herbs, and pulled on his jumpsuit zipper.
"I'll go take a shower. The water and the music will calm down my nerves."
"Wait, Sergey!" The fingers of his prosthetic once again started tapping on the console. "Is there something you want to ask me?"
"No, old man. You're a friend of our family, a friend of my great-grandfather's, and mine. That's enough. What else do I need to know? And why?"
Cro's dark eyes clouded over, the bronze skin of his cheeks grew redder. He stared at his gunnery monitor; it was showing several bright blue stars overlaid by the targeting grid.
"Your people are changing," Lightwater spoke, "you're changing so quickly! There was a time you saw me as an angel or the Devil… the latter was more likely, especially in Europe and the Shi'ite Persia… tried to burn me eight times… In the Orient, the Heavenly Kingdom, they thought I was a fox, a shapeshifter who took a man's appearance to disturb worthy men… During the civilized age, when you've mastered electricity, created the first computers, and reached the Moon, I seemed a clever con man, like a hypnotist, capable of tricking the mind and fooling the audience. Like that…" He took off the prosthetic, pulled up the sleeve of his jumpsuit, and the stump suddenly started to grow, forming a hand with strong, flexible fingers. "In those years, before the Faata Invasion, you knew so little of the galaxy, you thought it was only filled with stars, dead planets, and clouds of rarefied gas. But that was only a part of the truth. The other half seemed too dubious to you: at best, a plot for a science fiction film about aliens, and an intentional hoax at worst. The pearl of truth was drowning in the ocean of lies… Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," Valdez nodded, staring at Cro's left hand. The twentieth and the beginning of the twenty-first centuries had entered history as the time when miracle workers, astrologists, and so-called contactees were rampant; all of them had wanted fame and money, and so, a surprising number of flying saucers and aliens continued to fall down to Earth.
The Chief wiggled his fingers, sighed with regret, and started making the reverse transformation.
"You see, my friend, Cro, a gunner of the frigate Commodore Litvin, lost his hand in battle over Ro'on, and that happened in 2125, before the Void Wars. While I'm wearing this guise, let it remain this way… let's not confuse Stepan and our other friends… What was I talking about?"
"That we're changing quickly," Valdez reminded him.
"Yes, you are… quickly, very quickly… After the Faata attack, I was no longer a con man, a magician, or an adept of the supernatural forces. I became a completely real person, of interest to many for, shall we say, not very selfless reasons. But I was able to open up to some."
"My great-grandfather?"
"Yes, Paul Corcoran. He was very surprised." Cro re-attached his prosthetic and chuckled. "I had to tell him everything… My entire life, almost from the moment of my birth. And you, his blood descendant, you're different. You're not showing surprise, not asking questions…"
"I've seen Faata, Dromi, Haptors, Kni'lina," Valdez said. "I've met a woman, whose beauty has no equal. If there is something to be surprised at, it should be my feelings for her; after all, she's not human, and I don't even know how the Lo'ona Aeo love or if they even have a concept of love. And you, Chief… No matter who you used to be and how different you are from me, you remain my comrade-in-arms and my friend. I think that's understandable and natural."
"Natural…" Lightwater repeated musingly. "There's the evidence that you're changing. Your great-grandfather was a citizen of Earth, while you live out in the galaxy. A big change, a very big change! And it took place quickly, over a mere century and a half!"
"That's a big time frame."
"Not for me. I've been with your people for over a thousand years."
A thousand years! The enormity of that number amazed Valdez more than Cro's nonhuman nature. He had assumed that an alien being could pretend to be human, live among humans for a time, and, who knew, grow to like them. There had been persistent rumors that the USF sent spies into the Kni'lina sector and that this operation was going fairly smoothly. The presence of alien emissaries on Earth and its colonies was also a possibility; perhaps the Secret Service new about them, tracked but did not attempt to eliminate them, maintaining parity in the unspoken information exchange. But the Chief did not fit these classifications in any way: an emissary with a thousand years of experience was no longer an observer, a spy, but a natural phenomenon.
"So, you came to us during the time of Genghis Khan," Valdez said, sensing an involuntary thrill.
"I was walking west with the Mongol army on the great Siberian plane." Cro half-closed his eyes, remembering. "They fell upon Khwarezmia… It was an orgy of death, a bloody nightmare! I was hiding under the guise of a slave, a servant, a camel driver… I didn't know how to kill and had not come to Earth to kill. But I had to learn, and now I am more human than this… what do you call it… Mzani. You can't live among humans for a thousand years and not become one, Sergey. I've eaten your food, drunk your water, loved your woman, and killed your enemies… Judge for yourself whether I'm human!"
Valdez gripped his shoulder tightly, bent down, and looked in his dark eyes.
"I'm not demanding proof, Cro. I just don't need any."
Cro's palm lay on top of his hand, and he sensed a return grip.
He and Zantoo were sitting in the greenery-woven gazebo over the sea. Each time they met, the phantom ocean was more and more reminiscent of the one back on Earth: the jade-green surface, turning into a gentle blue in the distance, delicate foam patterns, flocks of playful dolphins, and even distant islands covered in palm thickets visible on the horizon. Valdez did not know where these increasingly new details were coming from; maybe Zantoo was selecting them from films, recordings, or his stories?.. Maybe directly from his memory?.. However, either way, with each meeting, the ocean seemed more familiar, near, and dear. At times, Valdez caught himself peering into the vast sea, hoping to see his own floating island. It came alive in his imagination: coastal rocks and sand, a palm grove, a pair of blossoming magnolias, a pine tree, and an old two-story house, a veranda to the east, a veranda to the west…
Zantoo held his palm in both her hands, stroked it, smiled, and cooed.
"Humans, Defenders… you are strong and fear no one, not the Haptors, not the Dromi… with your people, with you, I am also not afraid… I saw how you fought… you…"
"My people and I are afraid of many things, but our fears are different from yours," Valdez said. "I'm afraid of losing my island, fear, like many humans, for my loved ones. Some are frightened by poverty and hunger, scared of the new world where they were forced to move, escaping those very same hunger and poverty… Others are tormented by memories, the longing for the deceased and the fallen, the fear before retribution for their sins, the terror before death… Zantoo, the world is built to have more fears than joys."
She shook her golden-haired head.
"There are fears and then there is the Fear… Your race, Sergey Valdez of Earth, does not know the Great Fear. You are young and strong, maybe even stronger than everyone else." Zantoo fell silent, pressed to him with her delicate shoulder, and Valdez, gripped by tenderness, lifted her up and put her on his knees. "We have a legend about what happened at the dawn of time, when the light had been separated from the darkness, and the stars started to gather into galaxies. At that time, the Lords of Emptiness had an argument, which of them was the most powerful and the wisest, and they decided that each of them would create one kind of living sentient beings, and they would put them on a single world to see who would come out victorious. And the Lords created numerous beings, the predatory Llyano and the fearsome Haptors, the powerful Dromi, the wise Daskins, the elusive Silmarri, Eichs, Shada, Kytes, Kni'lina, and thousands of others, and one created humanity. And, after some time, all others were defeated by humans, exterminated, and their dust scattered by the wind. Then then Lord who created them said 'I am the most powerful and the wisest!' But the others did not agree with him and decided to continue the game, settling the sentient beings to different stars and galaxies. The argument of the Lords continues to this day, and we are mere participants in it, but it has not been forgotten who had been victorious at the dawn of time."
"A very flattering story for Sabaoth," Valdez said. "And for Allah, Zeus, Buddha, and Amun."
"Who are they?"
"Human gods. Or, rather, incarnations of a single god, the one Lord of Emptiness who created us to the peril of the other races. By the way…" He bent down to Zantoo, as if he wanted to drown in her bottomless blue pupils. "About the Lords, my dear. Have you seen the recording of my conversation with the Haptor?"
"Yes."
"Is it true what he said? That the Lords of Emptiness are real, and that the Lo'ona Aeo know how to contact them?"
Zantoo's eyes grew dark.
"Many races have served us, defending our worlds and our peace. Never seeing a Lo'ona Aeo, never knowing how we live, they created legends about us, and each legend can seem real, if millennia have passed, and it has been repeated for centuries. The Haptors have their legend, the Dromi have theirs, even you humans will have your own." She sighed and pressed to Valdez even tighter. "Maybe it will be about a human who fell in love with a Lo'ona Aeo female and gave her an unexpected gift. But if…"
"If?.." Valdez repeated, when the silence stretched.
"If the Lord of Emptiness existed, I would not, if I were a Haptor, seek out an audience with him. It is best not to disturb the Lords."
Yet another fantasy, Valdez decided, but another thought immediately caught up with it. Not all of Zantoo's fantasies were fairy tales or figments of imagination; she had, after all, spoken the truth about Lightwater. Thinking of that, he smiled.
"My Mzani friend thanks you. I passed your words along to him, and he calmed down."
"I am glad. I sense his psychic field. He…" Zantoo closed her eyes for a moment, "he is a special Mzani. He is human in almost every regard."
"He's more human than I am," Valdez said. "He has lived with us for a thousand years and has known my ancestors. He loved a human woman, and she was happy with him."
Zantoo lifted her sad face to him.
"Unfortunately, I cannot give you the same happiness, Sergey Valdez of Earth. You must have already understood… the Lo'ona Aeo lack the organs that…" She paused, then continued decisively. "The ones humans, Haptors, and Kni'lina have. We're different. We are similar to you in some ways, but not in others."
"But how do you bear children?" Valdez muttered in a daze.
She took his hand and put it under her clothing. His fingers touched some skin of her belly, elastic, even, and smooth, like the side of a porcelain bowl. Suddenly, Zantoo's muscles tensed, and Valdez felt a small swelling under his hand, like a scar that reached slightly below the waist. It was about as long as his hand.
"This is the edge of the birthing pouch," Zantoo said. "When a child is ready to see the light and the darkness, the pouch opens, and the child climbs towards my breast. We nurse our children. In that, we are similar."
"Have you already had children?"
"No. I…" Zantoo's voice cracked. "It so happens that I have been forbidden from having children. They wanted to forbid it, but I…"
Another secret, Valdez thought, looking at her drooped head. There was some sort of truth growing in him, reaching out like an unborn child, hinting that it was ready to see the light and the darkness with its movements. There was Cro Lightwater, an alien creature, capable of altering its appearance, but which had become human and a friend of Valdez's… There was Zantoo, not human, his lover… But did that mean that the feelings of closeness, attachment, and even love were not dependent on body shape, appearance, or physiology? That love was something greater than a surge of hormones and a copulation of the flesh? That it was possible to love differently than humans had been doing since the ancient times, so that the difference in bodies was not an obstacle?
He was pondering that, submerging into the bright abyss, where Zantoo was leading him.
