This is a fan translation of Dark Skies (Тёмныенебеса) 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 fourth 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

Ensign

Olaf Peter Carlos Trevelyan-Krasnogortsev was overflowing with joy; an hour ago, he had introduced himself to Commander Juna Malkovich, after being transferred to the new ship. Not the Captain himself, of course; Captain Prokhorov was too important a person to devote his time to junior officers. But Commander Malkovich was still the Pallas's first officer, not the second or third, so the Ensign assumed that he had been granted an honor. As expected, he had been assigned to the weapons section as a junior gunner, which meant that he was now only a hair's breadth away from the coveted annihilator button. This circumstance, as well as the being rid of Commander Rakov, filled the Ensign with genuine enthusiasm.

But fortune rarely came alone. Commander Malkovich informed him that the cruiser would, most likely, be sent to the Far Worlds as part of a powerful task force, which was being assembled in the Solar System. It was assumed that the Pallas would jump for Earth, join up with the main flotilla, then head through Baal and Gondwana to Gamma Malleus in order to strike at the Dromi. The Ensign was being informed of these plans due to a possible change in his duty station: Malkovich noted that, in case of an assault on Ro'on or T'har, he would be transferred to the marines. "No objections," he replied, remembering what he had been taught at the Academy: the need for additional troops usually rose during ground operations.

Leaving the auxiliary bridge, where he'd spoken with the first officer, the Ensign descended to the junior officers' tier, peeked into the living section, and confirmed that his cabin was a quarter of a meter wider than aboard the Ural; he could actually scratch his ear here without hitting his elbow on the wall. His luggage, a container with his uniform and a few personal effects, was already in a box of the cargo lift, but he did not start unpacking, choosing instead to polish his dress uniform: he adjusted his collar, blew away each and every speck of dust, examined his shining boots, and clicked his heels several times. Then, remembering Commander Rakov's lessons, he shifted the belt buckle so that it sat exactly at his center mass. He needed to pay his respects to Patrick Lowe, the chief of the weapons section, and the Ensign hoped to make the best impression on him.

He spent the remaining minutes in pleasant reflection. On Earth, he would be able to visit his parents or, at least, exchange a few phrases via holo-communication; if he were to get some leave time, then that evening, after having dinner with his family, he would rekindle his acquaintance with Lucía Méndez, a passionate Mexican girl. Or with Angelina Jolie, or with Kitty Turner, or with Goldie Hawn, or with Monica Bellucci, or with Michèle Mercier; the list of his acquaintances among the fairer sex was fairly long. Remember the past, excite the blood, and then to Baal and Gondwana! Thanks to his unpleasant experience with the Valkyrie Marina, Baal did not attract him much, but Gondwana, a wondrous world of palm groves, golden beaches, and amazing tanned girls, was a whole different matter! After having fun there for a few days, he would feel perfectly fine about going into battle to die…

Of course, the Ensign did not think that such prospects were likely; like all twenty-year-olds, he thought he would live to ripe old age, that his life would be full of glory, adventure, and victory, and that the worst of it, like cleaning the head or Commander Rakov, was in the past, and most definitely not in the future. A few years would pass, and he would lose these delusions, for it was not fun, not the beaches of Gondwana, and not tanned girls that awaited him, but long years of war, which would last for almost a century and a half, blood and wounds, the deaths of his friends and comrades-in-arms, and the occasional joy of seeing the women who loved him. And also his own death awaited him in a battle against the Dromi at the giant star Betelgeuse, and that death would be glorious and worthy. He would die along with the very same cruiser he had stepped on board today, except that future battle would be faced not by a young ensign but by an experienced admiral, the leader of warships and squadrons… But there were still many, many years until that happened, an entire time abyss.

Leaving his cabin and the living section, he came down to the combat decks. The Pallas had four of them: the weapons deck with the attached laser and emitter turrets, as well as torpedo launchers; the first and second marine decks, which served as bases for UFs, ground tanks, robots, and Marine Corps detachments; and the lowest deck with the annihilator control rooms. This was where he found Commander Patrick Lowe's duty section, where the Ensign had to report to at 1620 hours, ship's time.

At 1615, he stopped at the airlock leading to the section. The armored lid was slid slightly, and the Ensign heard a familiar yell, "Look at your posture, maggots! Why are your asses sagging like you're pregnant? Draw yourselves up! Puff out your chest, pick up your ass, heels together, toes apart! And I want your belts on your waist, not on your balls! Keep your buckle on your belly button! You bastards have gone soft! I'll school you… I'm not Lowe, I have no intention of being sentimental here, I punish ever the slightest faults! You'll be pissing boiling water here! You especially, freak! You, long pole! What's your name?.. Torvald Schär?.. Well, I'm going to call you Torchère!"

Hearing this voice, the Ensign's blood ran cold, and he peared into the compartment. There, he saw thirty or forty young officers, his future colleagues, lined up along the wall; they were standing, wide-eyed, looking at Commander Rakov with terror in their eyes.

The timer on the Ensign's wrist beeped. Exactly 1620… He stepped into the compartment, marched into the middle, clicked his heels, and saluted crisply.

"Ensign Olaf Peter Carlos Trevelyan-Krasnogortsev, Commander! I served as a junior gunner on the cruiser Ural! Reporting my transfer to the Pallas!"

Commander Rakov examined him, scratched his beard, and grunted in approval, "Here's an example for all you idiots. Look at this kid! Neck like a bull, belt on his belly button, gleaming boots, and a uniform without a single wrinkle… And an Academy graduate to boot! All my boys on the Ural are like that. You could say that Lowe got lucky!"

He could be reasonable, the Ensign thought. But he did not relax for a moment, continuing to stand with his shoulders straight and his face like a statue.

"Look at how he's standing! Look at his posture!" Rakov said admiringly. "Christ as my witness, there can be no better! You look, maggots, look, this is my education! A granite obelisk of a man! A Komandor!"

"Commodore…" someone dared to correct him.

"No talking back to your superiors!" Rakov roared. "I said, 'Komandor'! Commodore is a Fleet rank, and Komandor is something else, which you can't understand due to your illiteracy." He raised his thick finger didactically. "The Komandor, a stone guest from Pushkin's eponymous play… Who's read it? No one? Ass-holes!.. Read it and report to me tomorrow at noon! Dismissed! You too, Komandor! Who was your superior on the Ural? Ho Wen-yan? Then you're going to him, at the second annihilator."

Since that time, Olaf Peter Carlos Trevelyan-Krasnogortsev would receive the nickname "Komandor" and carry it for seven decades, until that final battle at the giant star Betelgeuse. His death would be glorious, his experience tremendous, and his combat merits undeniable, and so he would receive the greatest honor possible: to have his personality preserved on a memory crystal to help and advise his descendants.