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 17

The Patriarch

Rikkaraniji was sitting on the upper floor of his abode. His eyes were closed, his skin was drooping in heavy folds from his soft flesh, his claws were peeling and flaking off, and the floor around the mobile seat was covered in dry scales. He himself was now a dry scale that had fallen off the living organism of the clan and ready to turn to ash. He had not been receiving the life-extension drug for a day now, not eating or drinking anything, expecting the inevitable end. The end would be quick and painless; by the time the local sun set, his mind and feelings would fade, and he was unlikely to survive the coming night.

Niddakapar, now Niddakaparta, had been named the new progenitor of the clan. Rikkaraniji had settled his choice on him, as this first-generation elder seemed more active and experienced than Vittanihan. He had not even thought of Subyaroka; Subyaroka would leave this life along with him, and the new Patriarch would select his new Sidura-zong, and also decide the fate of Vittanihan. This was no longer Rikkaraniji's concern. His final and very brief life period would end here, in this empty space, without communication equipment, screens, or xilat-tlan crystals, which normally recorded important events and the Patriarch's orders. All that now belonged to Niddakaparta, who had settled in a smaller tower, as a sign of respect to the former progenitor.

For a brief moment of time, the life of the clan froze; each tower of Ho, each outpost and spaceship orbiting the Cold World was receiving the news of the change in Patriarchs. From the Elders-over-Big to the Elders-with-Spot, from the Elders-with-Spot to the Named Ones… In the warrior tribe, this was a short procedure lacking in ceremony, but it was extremely important: the unity of the clan and the order in it were based on the certainty that it was headed by a progenitor, a great Zong-er-zong, an Elder-over-Elders.

In the world of the Dromi, the change in Patriarchs was a rare occurrence, and not every Zong-ap-sidura or Zong-tii witnessed it. Usually, the transfer of authority was accompanied by a special ritual, which included a blood sacrifice to the Thought Giver, which confirmed the connection between all generations, from the Big-Elders to the mindless Hallaha. But the Splinters had rejected that custom long ago. They said in the Clans that their faith in the Thought Giver was shorter than a claw and lighter than a dry scale.

Rikkaraniji opened his eyes and moved closer to the aperture covered in transparent plastic. From here he could observe the renewed movement between the towers of Ho, timber being transported to the food factory, the prisoners being taken to the spaceport, and aircraft soaring up into the morning sky. The life of the clan continued, and that filled the former Patriarch with a feeling that was strange for a Dromi, which humans would call pride.

He was remembering the past. Like all Hallaha of his clan, he had first seen light not on a planet but aboard a space citadel, which floated in space near the border of the sector of the Secretive Ones, in an artificial spawning pool, where millions of larvae swam in brackish water. He had no memory of this period, but when he gained a consciousness and a name, becoming a Sinn-ko, his elders had told him that his birth was separated from the Catastrophe by approximately a Dromi's lifespan. The Catastrophe was what Rikkaraniji and all the other Splinters called their exile by the Secretive Ones, who had revoked their Defender status. This honor and all its privileges and income had been transferred to the human Hossi-moa, which was, of course, unjust, and, for a century and a half, Rikkaraniji tried to prove that the Secretive Ones had made a mistake. But he failed. And now his life was at an end…

Why had the Secretive Ones done it to them?.. Had the Dromi not been stronger and more numerous than the Haptors, the Defenders before them? And had they not obeyed the wishes of their masters? Had they not stood like a wall on their borders, repelling any attack? Had the trade ships not been safe under their protection? Had they not flown with the Servs of the Secretive Ones on all the roads of the galaxy that could be imagined? Had the payment for their service been too great? And had they asked for more than such a wealthy race as the Lo'ona Aeo had offered?..

And yet they had been exiled, replaced by humans, whose history of space flight was shorter than a claw. Why?..

Rikkaraniji had asked himself that question many times and could never find an answer. The elders of the Clans thought that the Secretive Ones changed mercenaries when they became dangerous to them, for they paid for their protection with technology, and the might of the race receiving it grew inevitably. At some point, the mercenary forces or the rulers of their homeworld could decide to attack the Lo'ona Aeo, turning their employers to ash, mere dry scales, and the Secretive Ones preferred not to let the problem reach that point. Rikkaraniji knew of this opinion of the elders, but it seemed preposterous, contrived, and humiliating to him. In essence, the elders were insisting that the decision of the Secretive Ones could not be changed, and no efforts by the Dromi would lead to the desired shifts, to their return to the status of the Defenders. This led to an unpleasant conclusion: the war on the border was pointless, as was the entire existence of the Splinters, which was devoted to this war.

Perhaps that was the truth, but Rikkaraniji could not and would not come to terms with it. It seemed to him that it was a trick of the Elder Council, who wanted to humiliate his clan and the clans of Korroningata, Sinvagatansher, and the other Splinter progenitors. As if their presence here, at the far edge of the universe, was not humiliating enough!

But now, when his life saw inevitably and rapidly running out, he no longer felt the same certainty. Common sense, so strong in all Dromi, suggested that the elders were probably right, and that the fight that had been going on for over two hundred years was as senseless as the muttering of Hallaha. Perhaps there was no need to fight those Hossi-moa who protected the Secretive Ones, for they were only a small part of their race, and the victories over them were worth less than a claw clipping… Perhaps, a strike at their homeworld, their colonies, and their battle fleets would have been a better option, especially in those early years, when they had been weak and few in number… Perhaps they should have united with the Clans back then and wiped out the upstart humans… Maybe it was not too late to grind them to dust even now…

Or was it already too late?..

But Rikkaraniji did not know that.