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.


EMBASSY DOMES. This object should only be partially considered an alien artifact, as the Domes themselves had been built on Luna by humans between the Second and the Third Void Wars (construction started in 2182, finished in 2185; this was also when the Lo'ona Aeo embassy was moved to the First Dome). These structures look like cylindrical cavities eight hundred meters deep and one hundred and twenty meters in diameter. Each cavity is topped by a transparent spectrolyte dome (hence the name Domes) and is split into sixteen multi-purpose tiers. The cavities are buried into the lunar soil and rock and are located in the Kennedy Crater (the northwestern edge of Mare Imbrium, near the USF Lunar Base). The location of the Embassy Domes, meant for alien diplomatic missions, is considered to be extraterritorial; their inner volume is (or will be) equipped to the demands of a particular race.

Currently, out of seventeen Domes, only two (the First and the Third) are occupied. As indicated earlier, the First Dome contains the permanent embassy of the Lo'ona Aeo, while the Third holds the temporary Kni'lina diplomatic mission (from 2262). The First Dome is accessible to human diplomats, and its inner equipment, as well as the dealings with the biorobots that represent the Lo'ona Aeo race, are described in detail (see S.T. Lemine's Two Evolutions for an example). Very little can be said about the Kni'lina Dome and its equipment, as all meetings and negotiations with them take place in a special room at the Lunar Base.

Sources of information: Reports of the USF Research Corps, recordings of diplomatic meetings, works of historians and xenologists.

Xenological Compendium, section Artifacts. United University edition, La Sorbonne, Oxford, Moscow (Earth), Olympus Mons (Mars), 2264

Chapter 13

Lunar Base and the Floating Island

"So they gave her a forty-year sentence," Atigem said, staring at the raging holographic flame in the fireplace. "She's already served eight, leaving thirty-two… That's a lot, damn them to Vietnam! Although, for them, it could be a trifle. How long do they live, Chief?"

"A few centuries, but it's not their limit. We don't have the exact data."

Cro, having settled on the couch, stretched his long legs to the hearth. In it, crimson salamanders were dancing, bending their bodies, among the flaming tongues, embers, and burning logs. Valdez thought they looked like the short-tailed skink lizards that lived on his home island. His grandfather had brought them long ago, probably from Australia.

"A few centuries… hmm… wish I had that! In some lousy thirty-two years, rust will be falling off me!"

"In thirty-two years, you will be half my current age," Cro said. "Take a look, Stepan, there's nothing falling off me. Even the prosthetic looks good as new."

"You're a Navajo, I'm Russian. The sons of the prairies are known for their longevity, while my body has been eroded by fire water," Atigem explained, then headed for the auto-kitchen and demanded some tea. He sipped it with disgust.

"Don't drink. Who's forcing you?"

"I drank, I drink, and I will drink." Atigem splashed out the tea, and the vacuum recycler sucked in the liquid with a guttural smacking sound. "Can't do anything about that, my friend… It's a national sickness."

They were sitting in the Lancelot's wardroom, while their ship, as before, was nestled in the cargo hold of the enormous transport ship. The Ahiros was on her way to the Solar System. The path was long and dangerous, which was why the trade ship was being escorted by ships of the Sykes Convoy. The plan was for the transport to visit Pluto, then stop at the USF Lunar Base, with alien embassies hidden in the soil and the rock near it. There were only a few of them for now, just two: a tiny Kni'lina mission and the Serv diplomats representing Zantoo's people.

Unlike the Kni'lina, there were three hundred Servs there, and just as many at the recruiting center on Pluto. Some of them, particularly those who had dealings with humans, were highly-intelligent biocybers, made to look more human: their eyes had pupils, their heads had hair, and their general build was not as slender as that of the Lo'ona Aeo. They could pass for living beings: they ate and drank, wore clothing, spoke Earth Lingua, and reverently observed the diplomatic decorum. Without performing a medical scan, it was difficult to figure out that they weren't human, especially at a banquet, when the Servs smiled graciously, gave toasts, and obediently consumed oysters and champagne. But even these long-lived, sturdy, and fully sentient beings had their own secret weaknesses, like the need to contact their Masters at least once a decade. Otherwise, they fell asleep or, rather, shut down for an indefinite period. Obviously, it was a safety measure built into their loyal servants by the Lo'ona Aeo, to keep them from becoming too independent.

For this reason, the recruiters and the embassy staff were replaced on a regular basis, and, over the years, this had become a part of the diplomatic protocol. The replacement maintained the illusion that the Servs were not biorobots but living creatures, who had been born the natural way and, therefore, needed to return to their homes, meaning the incubation factories of the Pink Zone. That was where the Ahiros was supposed to deliver them, while their replacements, six hundred and twenty-two units, starting with the First Envoy and ending with primitive workers, were sleeping in their containers in her spacious cargo hold.

Atigem touched the auto-kitchen's buttons, causing it to emit a plaintive beep but refuse to produce anything, not even a saucer with a cup or a tray with glasses. Atigem punched it, and then the Lancelot's high-pitched voice rang out, "This order cannot be completed. There are no intoxicating beverages on the menu."

"What if you synthesize it?"

"Unavailable, Defender."

Sighing heavily, Atigem once again got some tea and sat at the table.

"Sorry, Captain, but I don't agree. I'm sad for the poor girl, of course, but to spend thirty-two years in these conditions… Go there, go here, and not a drop for months! And the time period is long, no matter what the Chief says… I'm a man in my prime now, but who will look at me when I'm eighty? Won't even find any whores in my native Tver, I'll have to go to Moscow, and I heard all they have are clones instead of normal chicks. No fun at all for an old man!"

"I'm not trying to talk you into it, either you or Cro," Valdez spoke. "I just informed you of the offered contract, that's it."

"What do you think?"

What's to think!.. Valdez groaned, but only to himself, of course. They were flying for five days now, and they'd spent them all discussing his meeting with Ghiaira and Ptayon. Cro was asking about the details, what he had managed to see in the astroid Anat, and what had been said about the Lo'ona Aeo genetics and other interesting things; Atigem hadn't cared about that, only sighing and grumbling, trying to balance out the gains and the losses. It did not balance out well, even with the promised wonders of their Masters' medicine; no matter what, they would never get those thirty-two years back, and there would be no way to buy their youth back. Of course, Cro did not have that problem: that time period was nothing to a thousand-year-old being. But he had not given himself away and discussed the situation like a bona fide human.

"I think," Valdez said, "that we could do it for three to four years."

"Or more," the Chief added. "Eight years is a sensible period."

"And what if the employers don't agree? A contract is a contract, you know!"

"Any numbers can be put into a contact, as long as one remembers clause 6/9A. It says that combat officers remain USF reservists and, if necessary, can be recalled to active duty, which automatically renders the contract with the Lo'ona Aeo null and void." Lightwater raised his finger meaningfully. "While we're listed as fighters of Danwait, were have not been sold to the Masters, only rented out. For the term specified in the contract or until extraordinary circumstances."

"Like what?"

"Well, there are plenty possibilities… Any large-scale interstellar conflict allows the USF to initiate the recall."

That old fox! Valdez thought. Very likely, Cro could not only control his metabolism and body shape, but differed from humans in other aspects as well. For example, he never forgot anything and had the ability to connive his way out of any situation. Which was not surprising, considering his thousand years of experience.

"We're gonna go gray in the hair, waiting for a conflict like that," Atigem grumbled and poured his second cup into the recycler.

Cro pulled his legs close, rose from the couch, and snapped his fingers.

"According to USF strategic forecasts, we are going to clash with the Dromi in eight years. The probability is almost one, the margin of error for the time prediction is fifteen percent. Get ready, soldiers! The war will be a long and bloody one."

He left the wardroom, leaving Valdez and Atigem scratching their heads. But the Chief's prediction did not surprise them that much; it was more a reminder that the universe was woven from many realities, sometimes nested ones, sometimes crossing or touching one another, or even completely independent ones, being located hundreds of light years from one another, but still connected by that mysterious unbreakable bond that gathered dust and gas into planets and stars, and stars into galaxies. The Ahiros was a small reality, the Patrol and Danwait were slightly bigger, but, besides them, there were also enormous realities, ones that had not yet come into close contact: the Dromi Empire and the Earth Federation. A clash of these titans could shake entire worlds, change fates, end lives, both theirs and that of a great number of other humans. Then again, after the wars with the Faata, none of that frightened them, only reminding them of the fragility of intensions and the ephemerality of plans.

They were silent. Taking a third cup of tea, Atigem took a gulp, then glanced at the now-empty couch, and muttered, "He's strange… Sometimes."

If you only knew how strange he really was! Valdez thought. Then he thought that eight years was also not a small term, although Inga would probably wait for him. But if he believed Cro, and he did, then the problem was not Inga, or Zantoo, or even himself, but the global events that would get closer day after day, year after year, like the inevitable explosion of a supernova. Eight years would pass, offenses and unsettled scores would accumulate, hate would flare up, enormous fleets would dash into space, and Sergey Valdez would fly in one of these human cruisers, as a combat officer ought to. No longer a pilot, but a first officer, or even a captain… But either way, it would be the end of domestic bliss!

Atigem emptied the full cup into the recycler and said, "All right, that's enough talking! I'm off to my bunk to get some sleep before the jump. As for what the Chief said, I'd sign up for eight years, as long as they lift the prohibition on alcohol for long-distance flights. Or my soul will smolder and burn before its time."

He vanished in the hallway. Valdes started after him, but the closer he moved to the exit hatch, the slower his steps got. His heart was being ripping apart; one half was pulled towards Inga, his dear T'haran, while the other half was longing for Zantoo. He had not seen her since the beginning of the flight, and, if he added the three eight-day periods he had spent on Danwait, it would be almost a month. He didn't know what to say to her or how to comfort her, how to explain that thirty years was an enormous time period for a human, enough to go crazy or curse his love. Then again, after the Chief's words, the situation had cleared up, and he took that with relief. There was a threshold now, beyond which he could not look, could not promise anything, for personal wishes and plans were incommensurable to duty.

Valdez went down into the cargo hold, which was full of sarcophagi; frost glittered on the pale faces of the robots, the cryogenic equipment was gurgling quietly, serving as a reminder that their contents were not a pile of metal with crystal chips but something relatively alive. He passed the first row of the units, then the second, third, stopped for a moment near his container, a large chest holding the cargo of precious metals, rounded it, raised his head, and froze in shock: the hatch of the habitation pod was wide open, and Zantoo's thin frame was visible near it. Servs surrounded her: the Trader and the Trader's Assistant, the Half, the Quarter, and all sixteen Overseers. Zantoo was wearing a smart gray jumpsuit and a helmet, which hid her golden tresses, but she did not look like she was here to inspect the goods; she was standing and looking at Valdez with her blue eyes, and her gaze spoke without words: you have come… Finally!

"To see you and know happiness again," she spoke with a chiming voice. "Come closer, Sergey Valdez of Earth."

The Servs parted. He walked closer, a narrow four-fingered hand touched his cheek and slid to his lips, as if sealing them. She knows, she knows!.. Valdez realized in a sudden flash of insight. She knew about Inga and that night under the silver Castle towers, she knew about his doubts, about the arguments aboard the Lancelot, about what Cro and Atigem had said, she even knew about the war that would come in eight years and the time they had. The psychic gift of the Lo'ona Aeo did not allow them to scan the minds of the others without the other person's knowledge, as well as invading another person's feelings, so he had to have wished for her to know that himself. And, even though the news were sad for Zantoo, he did not sense sadness or grief in her mental waves, only tenderness and a strange feeling of tranquility that surprised Valdez. Without knowing how, he guessed that the longing and the terror of loneliness tormenting her had vanished.

Zantoo's slim fingers remained on his lips.

"Don't say anything," she whispered, "don't speak, remain silent and listen. My trla and tayos ask for the impossible, for their knowledge of your people is as much an illusion as the sky in the astroids or that ocean that roars under our gazebo. They think that every human is ready to sell his freedom, even his life, for food and shelter, for a place under the sun, for metal, or for new knowledge, that each of you can be bought, like the Haptors, the Dromi, and those who preceded them… Do not be angry at Ptayon and Ghiaira, I beg you, don't! They are Lo'ona Aeo, they do not know what they ask for, what they do, they are unaware that not every life is for sale and that–"

"You're a Lo'ona Aeo too," Valdez interrupted her.

Zantoo straightened, and her blue eyes flashed.

"Yes, I am a Lo'ona Aeo! A Lo'ona Aeo who wished to become a female and carry a child! Who was sent into exile and sentenced to loneliness because of that! Who learned more about humans than those who live in the astroids!" The spots on her temples grew dark, as if from a rush of blood, then she suddenly smiled and said, "At the very least, I know one human very well. I also know that he will not stay with me until time melts away and the stars die out, but he is with me now! And he will be here for as long as he wishes it. Come, Sergey Valdez of Earth!"

Valdez followed her across the pod's threshold. The heavy lid slid closed, cutting them off from the enormous cargo hold, from the silent crowd of the Servs, from the Lancelot, frozen on her pedestal, like a silver dart. They passed the empty charging alcoves, the ivy-wreathed columns, the devices, the statues, and the wondrous decorations, walked through the rustling curtains, under the sky that covered the ocean like a transparent blue bowl. Zantoo stopped near the gazebo, raised her pretty face to Valdez, and said, "Soon, we will arrive to the world where your race was born. I will not be able to come down to Earth, but the Ahiros has equipment that makes what is distant closer. Will you show me your island?"

Valdez nodded silently and embraced her.

The Ahiros and the two Convoy ships were hovering in the artificial gravity field over the Lunar Base spaceport, extending their docking ramps. The smooth surface, filled with plastconcrete and painted with dark lines, stretched for over forty kilometers, splitting the wall of the circular crater and seemingly resting against the enormous gleaming disk of Earth on the horizon, partly covered by clouds, partly showing the blue film of the oceans and the green-brown tracts of land. The Sun was burning in the dark starry sky, forcing one to squint and avert one's gaze. The crest of the crater was topped with sockets of heat emitters and masts with clusters of floodlights, antennae, and radars of the traffic control service, while the outer force shield, which covered about thirty percent of the crater cavern, was glittering with diamond flashes. There was air under the shield, a fairly decent heated atmosphere, which increased the safety of loading and unloading operations and other activities on the spaceport's territory. As for the Lunar Base itself, it had grown in size and depth over a century and a half, and new levels had been added to its underground tiers: a crew rehabilitation complex had been built, repair docks had been equipped, and the First Fleet of the United Space Forces was no longer based on the surface, but in giant hangars, which were buried into the lunar soil.

But the Embassy Domes, a small diplomatic city that stretched along the western edge of the spaceport, were still considered the primary and the most important addition. They had been designed with a big margin of error, shaped like cylindrical cavities, drinking glasses that went several stories deep into the rock and covered by transparent hemispheres on top. This type of structure had been successfully used on Venus, but the alien habitation modules were significantly more spacious than the Venusian stations and could fit a staff of several hundred with any equipment and all the supplies needed by fellow sentient beings. All that was left was for the races, who wished to establish diplomatic ties with Earth and maintain them in the name of peace and tranquility in the galaxy, or, at least, in a particular portion of it, which was the Orion Arm, to send their envoys. But the majority of these races did not hurry with declarations of friendship, which was why fifteen of the seventeen future embassies remained mothballed. One module was occupied by the Kni'lina, a trio of Poharas xenologists, but it was still unclear who they represented: their governing body, their own clan, or only themselves, meaning individuals with a scientific interest and no official authority. The module next to it held the Lo'ona Aeo embassy, but it could also hardly be called populous; there was not a single Master there. Of course, that did not stop the Serv diplomats' flurry of activity, which included discussions of mercenary recruitment quotas, signing of trade agreements, settlement of disputes, which occurred whenever a country attempted to sell an artifact that was considered a heritage of humanity or gain some other, not entirely legal, benefit. Besides that, the Servs never failed to congratulate the leaders of the World Parliament with the various important dates or throw banquets, where champagne and green Tintakh wine flowed free.

Along with the new staff of the embassy mission, the Ahiros had delivered various goods and equipment, as well as exotic delicacies and beverages, pharmaceuticals, fabrics, miniature electronics, and other trifles for resupplying the assets of their representatives. After spending decades dealing with human power structures, the Servs had mastered two axioms: the first stated that business was not done in offices but over meals and drinks, and the second insisted that everybody liked gifts, and that a token of appreciation that made its way to the appropriate hands could rapidly speed up consensus. Naturally, all these subtleties needed to be passed from the former diplomats to their replacements, which was why the Ahiros, after visiting Pluto and the recruiting center, had lingered at Luna. According to the First Envoy, the training would require three or four eight-day periods, and the crews of the Lancelot and the Convoy ships were on liberty for most of them.

For the people of the Sykes Convoy, who had been recruited on Danwait and the Frontier worlds, this was a rare opportunity to visit their ancestral home and see for themselves that China, Brazil, Arabia, and India had not vanished off the face of the Earth and, while they were not thriving, they continued to produce population at the same rate, supplying the legions of potential colonists. Some of the Convoy mercenaries had experienced severe stress, having found themselves in the terrestrial whirlwind: giant metropolises, hundred-story tower buildings, million-strong crowds, and multi-tiered highways hanging overhead, the noise, the rumbling, and the smells of the human anthill gave a cold sweat and suppressed anyone who was used to the solitude and the open spaces of virgin planets. Valdez understood them; once, his own ancestors had fled the crowdedness and, while they did not reach the stars, they had settled in Pacific Aquatoria. Although, even in the great terrestrial ocean, space was also at a premium, with no more than a hundred and fifty miles between any floating island.

However, one did not choose one's homeland, and each encounter with it brought happiness and joy. Remembering that, Atigem left for Tver, while Valdez flew to his own island; he took a Lunar shuttle and landed in the Sydney spaceport, where his entire family was waiting for him: Mother, Father, brothers, sisters, the sisters' husbands, and the three little nephews. Along with him, there were six strong men there, so they managed to deliver the container with the precious metals to the harbor without difficulty and loaded it onto the fishing glider.

The kids were hanging on Valdez's neck, his sisters were chirping happily, his mother was smiling, but the men occasionally glanced at the container with glum expressions, and an unspoken question could be read in their eyes: how much blood had you spilled, our son and brother, to save us from ruin? But Valdez preferred not to talk about the battles, clashes, chases, and how many times he had been within a hair's breadth of death; instead, he spoke of the wonders of Danwait, of the crystal and silver Castles, of the cities and the fruit groves, of the moons floating through the night sky, of the magical roads and the park-like forests, of the tiny flying dragons and his loyal comrades-in-arms. Based on these tales, life in the Patrol sounded like paradise.

He spent the next two weeks enjoying domestic bliss, eating breakfast in the morning on the eastern veranda, drinking wine and jasmine tea on the western veranda in the evening, playing with the boys, splashing in the sea, swimming with the dolphins Zig and Zaga, going fishing with his father and brothers, talking, hearing news, laughing. He also walked the island, which suddenly seemed so small: the central meadow with the desalination plant, small groves, a few hundred paces from the house to any shore, and there were strips of sand, palm trees, the dock, and the boulders he'd known since childhood. Like every other astronaut, he had gotten used to cramped spaces, as even the Rome, a heavy cruiser with two dozen decks, had been merely a birdhouse, hurled into space, compared to mountain ridges, river valleys, steppes, deserts, seas, and taigas. But, when landing on the ground, he, like all celestial warriors and workers, preferred wide-open spaces, healing him from the oppressive closeness of the decks, sections, and cabins. Here, the only wide-open thing was the ocean, while the island could have fit into the Ahiros's cargo hold without any technological tweaks.

His leave over, he said goodbye to his loved ones and left for Luna. He was being tormented by strange thoughts; he realized that, if he stayed alive, he would come back here many times, but only as a guest, not as an heir or a master. He felt himself like a branch of the Valdez family tree that had been irrevocably broken off and carried away by the winds to take root in foreign lands and give new shoots under other suns, on another land, which he might not have even seen in his dreams. Perhaps the blood of Corcoran, a warrior and a wanderer, had affected him to a greater degree than his brothers, sister, and father; could it have been the cause of his visions and the vague sense of a telepathic link to the people he loved? And not just humans, if he recalled his flights with Zantoo to the glow-filled abyss… He could not yet imagine where his path would end, on Danwait or any other planet, but he knew with certainty that it would not be on Earth. Definitely not on Earth! T'har, Inga's home planet? Why not? In the war with the Dromi, predicted by Lightwater, T'har would need to be defended, just like any border world, which meant that Commander Valdez would head straight to the new Frontier Fleet. Or the old one, if the cruisers Rome, Moscow, Gascony, Santiago, and the others would come out of their peaceful sleep, take off from their bases, and decide to prove that their powder was still dry and that the veterans were still strong.

At the landing field, Cro was waiting for Valdez by the Ahiros's ramp. A chain of Servs stretched past the Chief. Dressed in dark jumpsuits, with frozen faces, they walked one after the other, measuredly shifting their feet, not looking around, dozen after dozen of them were moving and disappearing in the transport ship's cargo hold. Those were the workers and the clerks of the former mission staff, not as human-looking as the First Envoy and the other diplomats. However, their eyes had pupils, their heads had close-cropped hair, some blond, some dark, and their figures and faces varied, creating an illusion of individuality. And yet, to Valdez, they looked like a throng of identical ghosts that rushed to the cemetery, to the place of eternal rest in the cold and the darkness of deep crypts, at the first rooster call. A vague foreboding prickled him, as if the encounter with the end-of-service Servs had been a bad omen.

Straightening his shoulder bag, full of gifts from home, he approached the Chief.

"Have you not gone home yet, Cro? Or are you already back?"

The Chief raised his head and turned his face towards the bright disc of Earth, hovering over the Lunar horizon.

"I don't have a home there anymore, Sergey. I went there for a short while… one day… That was enough to bring flowers to Selina and sit by her grave."

"So what did you do? Stood here and watched the Servs load?"

"No! I had business to take care of." The Chief was now looking in the direction of the domes above the upper tier of the Lunar Base. "Business at the fleet HQ, at the Research Corps management offices, and the other services. When's the next time we will be in Federation space? Who knows where they will send your girl to next time?"

He had been getting debriefed, Valdez realized. He had sat at a Secret Service computer and unloaded his bottomless memory: everything that he'd managed to find out about the Dromi and the Lo'ona Aeo, about Danwait, Tintakh, Dust Devil, and the other worlds, about alien races, their strengths and secret weaknesses… His Mzani friend, a Metamorph who had become human and who was protecting Earth… How long would his duty continue? When would he return to his real home? And could he even go back?

Questions, questions… Many questions, but Valdez felt that he shouldn't ask them.

"By the way," Cro said with a smile, "to stand and watch is also useful. You can always see something interesting."

He shifted his eyes in the direction of the dome over the Kni'lina mission. A figure was visible under its transparent ceiling, wearing motley clothing, his hairless skull glistening, decorations on his chest and shoulders glittering.

"Is he watching?" Valdez asked.

"Watching and probably recording. We brought equipment and slightly more Servs than we are taking back, which means that the commodity turnover with the Lo'ona Aeo is increasing. Useful information! For them!" He nodded towards the dome.

"You think they might strike while we're busy with the Dromi?"

"No. They're not going to help us, but they won't stick a knife into our backs either. The Dromi are dangerous to us, but they are equally dangerous to the Llyano, the Haptors, the Kni'lina, and all of them will be happy if we deal with the greenskins. You could say it's a form of silent solidarity of mammals before the threat of invasion from egg-layers."

"What do you mean?"

"The Dromi are dangerous to the humanoid races, and even other species. Enormous population, space expansion, high rate of reproduction, great biological potential, and, as a result, pressure on the borders of adjoining sectors… Besides, they've learned much from the Lo'ona Aeo, and their current technological index is fairly high. Our employers parted with them just in time. Although, they probably should've done that two-three hundred years ago."

Valdez's forehead became wrinkled. Glancing at the Servs coming up the ramp, he furrowed his brow and said, "Are you saying that you know the reasons why the Masters replace their Defenders? That it's no longer a secret?"

Cro wiggled his prosthetic fingers, as if playing some tune. His face was calm and thoughtful.

"It hasn't been a secret for a while. Under such circumstances, the Romans used to say, 'cave canem,' which means 'beware of the dog.' The Lo'ona Aeo are just as cautious and wise. They hire some barbaric race to defend their sector, to protect their planets and trade routes, and the barbarians for many centuries fly in their ships, fight with their weapons, receive payment in the form of equipment and advanced technology, adopt some tricks… Their contact with the Masters progresses them willy-nilly, and, after a time, they are no longer barbarians, but a new powerful civilization, young and hungry for the riches of others. It's the right time to part with them, for, given their possession of the bases and the fleets of the Outer Zone, they are dangerous to the Masters. Ambitions, my friend, ambitions and an irrepressible greed!" Cro's prosthetic clanged. "As soon as the ambition, greed, and power of the Defenders reach a critical mass, the characteristics of 'cane canem,' if you will, they are immediately replaced. Haptors for the Dromi, Dromi for humans… A sensible strategy."

"It is," Valdez agreed. "But it might not work with us. We've got too many teeth."

"The toothy ones get their own surprises," Cro said. "At least, that's what I think."

"Like what?"

"Hmm… Well, our Masters might end up having Masters of their own, as powerful as they come. In puris naturalibus [In a purely natural state.]."

Valdez stared at him with suspicion.

"You're not talking about the Lords of Emptiness, are you? Of the fairy tales spoken by that Haptor, the one we had an argument with on Dust Devil?"

"The world is big, and there are more wonders in it than are dreamt of in your philosophy," the Chief replied.

Walking monotonously, the last of the Servs disappeared into the Ahiros's cargo hold. The Kni'lina, who had been observing this procession, also vanished, and only blue trees with white flowers and the streams of water irrigating them were visible under the transparent dome of his embassy. The four-fingered paws of the grav-loaders floated out of the lower hatch and carefully carried containers full of fruit and wine to the Lo'ona Aeo mission. Then the figure of the Trader's Assistant appeared on the top step. He made sure that the transportation was going well, saw Valdez, and informed him that he was glad to once again meet the Defender's gaze.

Cro nudged him forward.

"Go, Sergey, I've held you up long enough. Go, rest up from your trip, drink some tea, grab a bite to eat. Our auto-kitchen is loaded with Earth food, Dutch butter and cheese, French eggs, Chinese tea, and, I believe, Russian cottage cheese from Kostroma." After a pause, the Chief added with an unusual tenderness. "You must be missing our girl? Want to pay her a visit?"

"I do," Valdez said and stepped towards the ramp.

They were standing by the gazebo's handrails. Valdez's hand was on Zantoo's waist, her hair with green stones braided into it was touching his lips and smelled like a lilac garden blossoming in spring. Before them, above, below, on all sides, there was a dark space, full of stars, the solar disk was burning in its zenith, and the enormous terrestrial spheroid, blue-green and ocher-brown, streaked by the white spots of clouds, was below them. Orbital stations, defensive citadels, docks, power plant mirrors, the toroids and cylinders of terminals gleamed here and there, reflecting the bright rays of the Sun; not as massive a swarm as the rings circling Fayo, but still, fairly impressive and indicative of the human civilization's power and might. This picture was not a recording; the devices of the Ahiros, the ones that made the distant appear closer, were relaying real-time images, which were fantastically clear and colorful.

"Where is your island, Sergey Valdez?" Zantoo asked.

"The Pacific Ocean is below us, and we'll definitely find the island. But first…"

Valdez bent down to the bag lying on the parapet and pulled out a shell. It was a magnificent Aplysia depilans, huge, shimmering with a gentle golden sheen, with white spots and patterned edges, a marvel created on Earth but not by a hand of man. He handed his gift to Zantoo, and she breathed a sigh of delight.

"I know that the Lo'ona Aeo value beauty," Valdez said. "One day, you will return to your home and take this with you. You will look into it and remember me; for many, many years, after my ashes have been scattered among the stars, and my soul has departed into the Great Emptiness."

"I will have another reason for the memories." She slid a finger on the shell with a smile, and it echoed with a gentle drawn-out sound. "Thank you, Sergey Valdez of Earth, my… my love. May my life be a payment for yours!"

The enormous sphere of the planet moved closer, the cloud cover melted away, as if seared by the Sun, but there was something white under it, a new cloud layer or a snow-covered plain. Its edges rose, turning into the line of the horizon, and the gazebo hung over the cold icy expanse, where hurricane winds roamed, white whirlwinds spun in a furious dance, and spiked helmets of hummocks threatened the grim gray skies. This portion of the human world, when seen from above, seemed vast and empty, wild and uninhabited, like hundreds of thousands of years ago. Zantoo, who had been caressing the shell's surface, stared at it with big round eyes.

"This… this…"

"This is Antarctica, the continent on the South Pole," Valdez spoke. "There are glaciers here, which were believed to be eternal, but they started to melt in the twenty-first century. Fortunately, we were able to deal with that, or there would've been a global flood. I'll tell you about that someday, but now…" He peered into the panorama that had opened up before them, "now, let's move a little to the south, towards the pole. I want you to see…"

His voice trailed off. There was a monstrous structure sticking out in the middle of the plain, a tower, frozen into the ice and reaching up into the clouds with its top. The icy hills and hummocks, mountains and entire ridges surrounded its foot with a high rampart, the hull was partly intact, partly mercilessly ripped off, and the wind burst into the holes, tormenting the beams and ribs of the carcass, covering the decks and corridors, halls, sections, lift wells, and the cracked titanic tube of the acceleration shaft with snow. But, despite the traces of devastation and the rampage of the elements, the tower continued to stand straight and looked as much a part of the landscape as the ice, the snow, and the low-hanging dirty-gray clouds. It seemed as if this structured had appeared back in the time when mammoths roamed the planet, and half of Asia and Europe was covered by the great northern glacier. This impression was deceptive: the tower had only been at the South Pole for a hundred and seventy-eight years.

"A Faata ship, one of their gigantic starships," Valdez explained. "It came down here during the Invasion, and here is where it was destroyed, even though the aliens were more powerful than all the space fleets of Earth combined. Now it's a monument, Zantoo. It's protected by all the nations of our world and by the icy Antarctic desert."

Zantoo was staring at the broken starship in horror, pressing the shell to her chest.

"You stopped the invasion… How?"

"There are forty different versions and even more legends and myths on that account. Some even insist that we had help: maybe from an alien from a distant galaxy or from some other cosmic forces… The truth is in the USF archives and is still classified. Even I, a combat officer and descendant of a hero, who died in the wars with the Faata, don't know it. Maybe Chief Lightwater–"

"These ruins frighten me." Zantoo's temples went dark, she waved a hand, and the tower moved away, becoming a thin line on the horizon. "Let's leave this place. I wish to see the warm ocean and your islands. There is life there and only death here!"

The snowy plain rushed past them sharply, an icy coastline with the black dots of penguin colonies, the gray surface of the sea, and the white puffs of the icebergs flashed by. Then the water started to gradually turn blue, and soon Valdez was able to make out a scattering of small pebbles, possibly the Auckland archipelago. Then a large piece of land appeared beyond it, the torn-in-half long boot of New Zealand.

"Here," Valdez said with a broad smile, "here, from the fortieth degree of south latitude to the fortieth degree north are our floating islands. The independent territories of Pacific Aquatoria, excluding dry land, Fiji, New Hebrides, Nauru, and the other Hawaiian Islands. This is my homeland, Zantoo. A pontoon island, a few meters of bulk soil, and the blue sea around it. It's here somewhere. A bit farther to the north, I think, past the Samoa archipelago."

A scattering of islands appeared in their view. No two of them were alike, even though they differed very little in size and shape. These parameters were dictated by the environment: a round pontoon with no angles was more reliable during a storm, while the diameter of two-three hundred meters provided sufficient living space. Otherwise, the landscapes of the islets depended on their masters' whims and their financial capabilities: some preferred a bungalow, a log cabin, or a light bubble-home on a hill, some bred tropical fish in a pond or planted flowering bushes all over the island, some were more partial to a pine grove, banana trees, or a tiny laurel, citrus, or palm plantation. From up above, the islands looked like lush flower baskets, scattered on a blue-green rug, and, looking at them, Valdez thought that each of them was a special world, in some ways similar to the Lo'ona Aeo astroids: this tiny world also had a single family that owned and decorated it to its taste.

"You said that there is a large dwelling on your island," Zantoo spoke. "Look, is this it?"

"No. This is the family nest of the Giamatti, our neighbors. We're a little east of them… like that, good… You see the islet with a pine? It's a tree with bundles of green needles instead of leaves… Come down there… lower… lower…"

His heart stopped beating; he was home once again. A stream of water from the desalination plant flowed into a small pool, palm leaves fluttered in the wind, the wall of the veranda with open windows rose beyond the yucca and hibiscus bushes, and he saw his mother and sisters busying themselves with cleaning up the table after breakfast. They were talking about something, but Zantoo's magical telescope could not relay sounds, not the gurgling of the water, not the rustling of the leaves, and not their voices. Then again, it was not difficult to figure out that they were remembering him; both Mother and his sisters kept looking up into the sky and smiling through their tears.

Zantoo's cheeks went pink.

"Are these your females, Sergey Valdez?"

"Yes. The one that looks older is my talde, and the two younger ones are my…" He didn't know what to call his sisters and explained. "The young ones are females of my blood. My talde gave birth to them after me."

"Your rini," Zantoo said, and he memorized the new word. "I have no rini. My family group does not wish to have other offspring."

"Why not?"

"They were advised not to. There may be genetic abnormalities, like with me." She pushed herself even closer to Valdez and whispered. "Did you leave someone on your island or some other? Not talde, not rini, but a female who…"

"No. All my women are in space, like you. I met all of them in space or on other worlds."

The view changed; they seemed to slide from the clearing and the house through the bamboo growths, finding themselves on the oceanic shore, where Valdez knew and remembered each and every stone. And not just a stone! Each branch on their only pine, each crack in its bark, each palm tree and bamboo shoot… He saw the dock and the fishing glider, with five men slowly walking towards it, he saw dolphins jumping out of the water, and the old swimming area at the edge of the pontoon, surrounded by a sturdy shark net. The young ones were playing there, throwing around a bright-colored ball, sometimes throwing it over the fence. The ball would immediately fly back, thrown into the air by the dolphins.

"The males of your family group?" Zantoo asked. "I know you don't have ones like Ptayon… Is your trla among them?"

"Yes. He's the one walking in the front."

"And the others?"

"Two of them were given birth by my talde. Two more were brought to the island by my rini. My rini are beautiful, aren't they? And those younglings playing with the ball are their offspring. My little relatives."

"Younglings," Zantoo said. "Little humans, offspring… You can hold them in your arms, stroke their tender skin, look into their eyes, and think that your life will not scatter into dust but continue into eternity. Younglings…"

The glider cast off from the dock, rose over the water, and sped away into the sea, escorted by the dolphins. But Zantoo was no longer paying any attention to the fishermen and their little vessel; her gaze was riveted to the children. She was looking at the kids' swarthy bodies, at the splashes caused by their actions, and was quietly, serenely smiling. Valdez sensed the mental waves streaming off her, but there was no longing in them. No longing, no sorrow, no grief, no regrets about her own fate… Just the opposite, he felt a strange calmness coming off her, as if she had reached her goal or had, perhaps, come to terms with her destiny once and for all.

Bending over the parapet, Zantoo reached out her hand, as if she wanted to touch the heads of the children in the water with her slim hand. Then she said, "I will also have a youngling. I will, I am certain of it now! In forty eight-day periods."

Valdez's heart started beating faster.

"You broke the prohibition and went to an astroid?" he asked. "And you managed to?.."

Her blue eyes flashed, then she made the gesture of negation.

"No, my love, no. The way to the astroid is closed to me, and I did not violate anything, not the prohibition, and not the will of those who had punished me. But a fetus is growing here." She touched her belly with her hand with such tenderness that Valdez caught his breath. "A gift is growing, one of which I dreamed… your gift, Sergey Valdez of Earth."