This is a fan translation of Counterstrike (Ответный удар) 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 second 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 4

Klaus Siebel. The Centuries of Loneliness

The name he'd been given at birth could not be said with sounds, but, like most names on any inhabited world of the galaxy, it had a meaning. Not a very pleasant one for Klaus Siebel, but not insulting either; from the viewpoint of his race, the name spoke of the main characteristic, the difference from the other Metamorphs/Proteids, determining the fate and occupation of whomever held it. There were hundreds of ways to translate this name into the languages of Earth, if one used words for describing people with disabilities. Lame, blind, deaf, armless... All that would, technically, fit Siebel, except for the fact that his people lacked arms and legs, ears and eyes. They could grow them if they wished, but their original form was that of a resilient, flexible, and ductile substance without a defined shape. For that reason, it would be better to use a term not connected to the absence of any particular organ, instead reflecting the problem in its entirety: cripple, defective, invalid... But that would also not be the truth but an approximation of it: the ability of the Metamorphs to modify their bodies precluded such concepts, just like any diseases, old age, or untimely death.

Not a cripple, not an invalid, but an Exile – that was how Klaus Siebel's name best translated into human languages. The definition of his occupation and status was also unclear, stemming from the human selfishness in the highest degree, the desire to see themselves as the chosen race, the focus of power and mind of the universe. Pandering to this ridiculous idea, Siebel, AKA the Exile, was more and more often calling himself an emissary during the recent century, which flattered the ego of the humans with whom he came into direct contact. An emissary meant a messenger, an individual with diplomatic authority or an important mission, and, therefore, Earth had to have been noticed among the other primitive worlds, recognized its uniqueness or, at least, showed interest in humankind. Which meant that they weren't so primitive after all! No longer bloodthirsty savages out in the galactic boondocks, but something more, almost civilized beings!

If one took into account the role Siebel, AKA Gunther Voss, had played in the fight with the Faata, one could recognize him as not only an emissary but the guardian of Earth. Even its savior! Like all Metamorphs, he had the ability to teleport, although somewhat limited: he could freely travel within the limits of the planet and send a small object beyond the Martian orbit or to the Asteroid Belt. A priceless gift! And had he not used it to aid Litvin, held captive aboard the Faata ship? Had he not cancelled their plans, and their lives along with them, when they barely landed? Maybe not with his own hands, but the deadly act had been thought up by him, and the guiding idea was important than the muscles of the implementer! Of course, there had been no way to avoid casualties, and they had been immense, but such was the world: one couldn't get nothing from nothing, neither sand in the desert nor water on the river bank. The mind of the Earth aborigines was not great, but they had assimilated this truth.

Had he been able to, he would have destroyed the Faata himself, playing the role of the savior without assistants. But one couldn't do the impossible… Although he had lived on Earth for many years and acquired a lot of habits, dictated by human physiology, killing was inaccessible to him. A useful instinct, but one lost by his people in times immemorial… The Metamorphs' primitive ancestors, possessing only the beginnings of sentience and psychic power, had already dominated their planet and, over ten-twenty millennia, had exterminated all the species threatening them, all the competition on land, in the air, and at sea, taking over the ecological niches of the predators. Existence had become safe, but they had paid for it with the disappearance of many animals, gaps in the food chain, and the scarcity of the planetary biocenosis. And not only that: in the absence of external enemies, their killer instincts had atrophied.

Then again, there was a simple alternative to killing: instead of killing, manipulate those who kept this valuable ability. And that was why the Exile, AKA Klaus Siebel, having gone through a thousand names in eight centuries, was not an emissary or a messenger, and, most definitely, not a guardian or a savior. On the world of the Metamorphs, which he had left so long ago that the memory of his home started to fade, he was considered to be a Protector. But he protected not Earth but that world he'd left behind.

Metamorphs did not have sexes. New life originated with the melding of several individuals: one of them, accepting a newly-formed bud, then grew it in its flesh and, after a length of time between three to five revolutions of the planet around its sun, produced an offspring. The connection between the child and the parent was extremely strong and was established even before birth. While the offspring was maturing (which also took a long time), the connection had a mental and emotional components, but, gradually, the center of gravity kept shifting into the intellectual area. The child received a certain volume of information from its parent, allowing it to determine its place in the world of the adult Metamorphs and realize that its lifespan was so great, that every inclination, every natural gift would have time to grow and reach its upper limit. These talents added variety to their existence and were the cure for boredom, as the Exile's race knew no other worries: in their natural shape, the Metamorphs fed on any organic substance and did not experience the need for clothing, shelter, or all sorts of little things necessary to other, not as perfect creatures.

However, their imperfection hid a tempting charm. Other body shapes, other organs and sensations, other joys and fears, other customs and pleasures; all that was so seductive! Creating an interstellar drive in ancient times, the Metamorphs had met with hundreds of races and gained a chance to play at being someone else. Changing their appearance had become habitual, then a tradition; it was believed that self-reflection was best done in the body of a Spolder, while, for example, the shell of a Dromi or a Haptor was more suitable for manual labor. If the matter had to do with serious things, then the appearance of an Eich was selected, for it was a laconic but deeply sensitive creature.

The Sorrowful, the Exile's parent, looked like an Eich today. His former name was Sliding-with-the-Wind, but he took a new name on that unfortunate day when there was no doubt about his offspring's defectiveness. Perhaps, the Exile thought, the parent's sorrow will pass if he gives life to another being, a more successful one, without genetic abnormalities? But when would that happen? In many thousands of Revolutions, in the distant future? Perhaps never? The act of conception was rare.

He had gotten used to his parent's anguish, which seemed to him stronger than the realization of his own woes. A painful feeling, but what could he do? Parents always worried about their offsprings' misfortunes.

"I have contacted Cloudy Coolness," the Sorrowful spoke, ponderously moving his upper pair of tentacles. "Cloudy Coolness, Rainbow, Warm Waters, all those who have examined you… They insist that there is no hope."

"I am aware of that," the Exile said. Unlike his parent, he did not appear as an Eich, maintaining his natural shape, a stripe of matter shimmering in the sun on one of an arbor's seating columns. This structure looked like a woven basket made of flowering shrubs, dotted with spots of silver and pink soft moss. Metamorphs were an aesthetic people, with an irresistible craving for the beautiful, for elegant structures, for wide-open spaces and landscapes, to experience which it was worth taking the effort of growing eyes.

His parent stroked the Exile gently with a tentacle.

"Rainbow said that your omm cells, the ones that produce the hormones necessary for transformation, have atrophied. This means–."

"I know." The Exile coiled tighter around the column, feelings its smooth surface, heated by the sun, with his entire body. "This means that the transformation from the natural shape to any other will be my first and last. The omm cells will die out from the effort; not all but most of them. Those that remain will produce the hormones, but in too small amounts to allow for radical changes. The shape, the physiology, the genetic system, all that will stay unchanged… Only variations of the external appearance will be possible."

"A very rare genetic mutation," the Sorrowful noted sadly. "Rainbow insists that there are no more than a dozen like you. And all of them are in the Guard."

"Dark Waters informed me that such mutations had been noticed forty-eight times in twenty thousand Revolutions. Where are the other…" the Exile paused and said the unpleasant word, "the other outcasts?"

"Dark Waters was afraid to upset you. The others… the others, my poor child, were unable to take it. They did not join the Guard, wishing to stay on our world, among their own kind, but…" The Sorrowful's tentacles convulsed. "They were unsuccessful."

The Exile thought over this information. He did not want to die, at least now, when he had become a mature and sufficiently intelligent being. It was too bad he hadn't been destroyed when he was an unfeeling embryo… Perhaps that would have been an act of highest mercy.

"What happened to them?" he asked. "With those who were unsuccessful?"

"They died. Some tried to transform without enough hormones, but they were unable to create a viable organism. Others threw themselves out into space, into the emptiness… Dry Bark pointed his ship at the sun, Last Sunset entered a disintegration field… Another one, can't remember his name, programmed a sigga to destroy… Different means, same fate."

The Exile continued to reflect. The original shape of his race, the only one he knew, to which he had been attached his whole conscious life, did not allow much, for Metamorphs, not counting the brain, the digestive system, and the endocrine glands, did not possess specialized organs. Feeding and breathing, psychic exchange, teleportation, tactile sensation, locomotion, but not a very quick one, that was about it… Any biological systems and receptors: to perceive electromagnetic waves, for delicate and precise work, for flight or swift running, for acoustic detection, basically, everything they desired, was created and altered depending on the necessary goal. Using terrestrial analogy, the Exile was blind and deaf, lacking a tongue or limbs, unable to taste or smell or even crawl for a meter without the risk of hitting an obstacle. Of course, terrestrial analogies did not work completely, for the world of telepaths generously shared information with the Exile. He was now looking at a plain stretching to the mountains, at spots of moss and a shrub with lilac flowers, at the sky with the warm circle of the sun, looked through the eyes of his parent and talked with him soundlessly, not requiring either air vibrations or primitive speech organs.

But still, still… He wanted so much to see on his own! To see, hear, feel!

Naturally, there was a solution: perform the only transformation he would be able to do in his life, modeling it on a Lo'ona Aeo or a Haptor, a Kni'lina, an Eich or a Dromi. A sentient creature with a high degree of versatility, to avoid later regretting the lost capabilities and blaming himself for the rashness. To transform once and for all, to live in an unchanging shape and to become alien to his people in time, whose existence was not being oppressed by the permanence of the flesh. Ultimately, to steel himself and leave…

His thoughts were open to his parent.

"I do not wish to lose you and do not wish to push you towards the Guard," the Sorrowful said. "You could stay here, with me… you could, if you turn into a Spolder."

"Has anyone ever done this?"

"I don't know, but I can ask Stream-among-Stones. He knows several Spolders."

"If we must ask, then why not ask them directly? I would ask myself… I would, if they allow and wish to see me."

Long ago, the Exile's race had resettled the Spolders from their dying planet to their own world, giving them a fertile island near the equator. Spolders were few in number, and they were known to be reclusive, with a penchant for peace and quiet, refused to adopt technology, and did not seek contact with the Metamorphs. Of course, there had been exceptions.

"I will try to arrange something with one of them," the Sorrowful said. "With one of those who still maintains communication with us. Wait for me here, my child."

His shape started to change, the flexible tentacles disappeared, an Eich's dense, clumsy body became thinner and slimmer, the rough skin was covered by shiny scales, huge gray wings swung out. A moment later, he soared above the plain, ascended to the blue sky, and headed south along with the warm wind that was pushing the clouds. He could have gotten to the Spolder island faster, but he did not use teleportation, which meant that he wanted to think on the way.

The Exile, coiling around the column, was also thinking. Losing his link to his parent and submerging into the darkness, he thought about the Guard and his fellow sufferers, thrown into the faraway worlds somewhere in the galactic depths. Probably on planets of the most savage, bloodthirsty races, who had still managed to create interstellar ships and powerful weapons, and, thus, dreaming of conquering and ruling others. The Exile did not wish to find himself among such savages. The very thought scared him.

The Metamorphs had no battle fleets, military bases, off-world colonies, or the drive to dominate other races and the thirst for limitless expansion. Such ideas, completely understandable to them, beings of intelligence and logical thought, were, at the same time, foreign to them, incompatible with their psyche and biological nature. However, the galaxy was not a land of justice and peace, and, after the disappearance of the Daskins, had become an arena of clashes and wars, constantly dying down and flaring up anew, whenever new contenders for the role of the masters of the universe wished to demonstrate their ambition and might. Any conflict in the vicinity of the Metamorph's system could end with their destruction or, also a possibility, the enslavement of their species, whose valuable property of mimicry was almost destined to be used for espionage, sabotage, or reconnaissance.

The opposition to such an outcome was not in the area of strength and military engagements, but in the area of secret diplomacy, in the control over aggressive civilizations. They needed to be pushed towards one another, to weaken their passionate impulses and keep them within the borders of their star sectors, sometimes using them for their own protection, destroying even more dangerous creatures using other warlike beings. Such delicate manipulations were performed by the Guard Corps with a small staff of Protectors; taking the shape of different beings, they infiltrated their power structures or sought the ways of influencing the authorities. Such policy had been tested throughout millennia, and, thanks to it, more than one star empire, having soared to the heights of power, had suddenly started to lean towards its decline under the blows of their neighbors or had used up its aggressive fervor in disastrous troubles, rebellions, and civil wars. The Protectors, most of whom were just as crippled as the Exile, were still long-lived beings, capable of influencing on their new world for many centuries, holding back and directing, sometimes even tossing in a useful idea or a technical innovation. In some ways, they protected not only their fellow Metamorphs, but also their charges, fully capable of leading the civilization into the dead end of ecological disasters, planetary wars, and pandemics. That would have been a failure for the Protector, as to hold back and direct did not mean to push towards global destruction.

Metamorphs did not have any public institutions and did not need them any more than they needed centralized authority, military, police, laws, and other fabrications of the primitive races. In their society, the Guard was a unique phenomenon, an organization that protected their planet, but the basis for the structure was not duty but, more likely, sacrifice, even though such an idea was as alien to Metamorphs as the concept of duty. Despite this, dozens of the incurably ill sacrificed themselves to keep their homeworld safe, and the sacrifice seemed enormous, as the lives of the Metamorphs, even in their transformed state, stretched for millennia. A human mind could not fully recognize the scale of their tragedy; maybe being trapped in the body of a snake, a dog, or a rat for a hopeless and indefinite eternity would be a fitting example. If one again used terrestrial analogies, then it could be said that the Metamorphs viewed the Protectors as great heroes.

The Exile, though, was not prone to heroism. Upon receiving his parent's signal, he transported to the Spolders on the southern island and found himself in a clearing overgrown with moss, where a hut, made up of unworked trunks, stood under the gimu trees.

He saw the surrounding landscape with the eyes of the Sorrowful, who had transformed into a Spolder. He would have to speak with them with his help as well, for telepathic communication was not possible for the locals: they spoke by vibrating the air, like most beings in the galaxy. The clearing, where the Exile had ended up, was carefully groomed, as it was just as much a part of the living space as the log cabin and the plantation of edible roots next to it. The white, pink, and lilac moss, covering most of the clearing, seemed like a rug with an exquisite pattern, the gimu trees with multiple aerial roots surrounded it as a living blue wall, and the intervals between the trunks were wider in two places, indicating the start of paths leading into the woods. Clear water glittered in a tiny round pond with a mossy frame, and silver olongs leaned to the water; several bumps were visible in their cool shade. They appeared to serve as chairs; the Exile's parent settled himself on the largest and softest one, next to the host, a Spolder of advanced age, looking like a furry ball with short arms and legs. Except for his beard, he lacked any facial hair; the forehead looked surprisingly high, his nostrils quivered slightly, and dark eyes gleamed under the bulging browridges.

"This is Herald of the Secret Meridian of Perfection," the Sorrowful said, and the Exile recalled that Spolders had very bizarre names. "Herald is a sage, the head of the local community and friend of Stream-among-Stones. He agreed to speak with us."

"The Exile, your offspring?" the Spolder inquired, reaching his six-fingered hand into his beard and glancing at one of his guests, then the other. "The one who wishes to join us? If I recall, you said that there was something wrong with his genes, but, as far as I can tell, he looks to be in full health."

"Most genetic disorders cannot be spotted with the eyes," the Sorrowful explained. "With normal eyes, I mean. To detect them, our specialists... how do you say?.. grow?.. yes, grow special organs to pierce into the nature of the event. Only with their aid—"

"I know, I know!" Herald interrupted him peevishly. "I'm not as ignorant as you might think. Genetic disorders could be reflected in the external appearance or remain hidden, that's all that I meant."

"Yes, of course," the Sorrowful agreed. "I apologize if my tone and words seemed too patronizing. My offspring's condition is that he is capable of only a single transformation. This requires a lot of thought. If he chooses the shape of a Dromi or a Shada, then he will stay like that forever, and if he take the form of a Spolder..."

"...then he will stay a Spolder," Herald continued. "I understand your problem. Your offspring would like to become a perfect being, strong and attractive, gifted with various senses and talents. But how can I help? I am a Spolder, and I am happy with that. I cannot transform into a Dromi, a Shada, or anyone else, to find out if they are better or worse than us. That is something you can do." He thought for a moment, then spoke, stroking his beard. "But does the Exile need a template for his metamorphosis? Why a Spolder, why a Dromi or a Shada, an Eich or a Haptor? One can imagine an ideal or something close to it, a creature full of many advantages that had never existed in the galaxy. Why not? That is an interesting task! Especially from a philosophical standpoint."

"I will not risk undertaking such experiments with my body and psyche," the Exile entered into the conversation. "If only because your ideal creature would be the only one in the galaxy and, therefore, terribly lonely. I wouldn't want that."

"Do you think you will avoid loneliness in the form of a Spolder?" said Herald of the Secret Meridian of Perfection uncertainly. "I doubt it! I can't promise you company, for body shape does not make a Spolder, and you would still differ from us. More than likely, you would cause envy, and then dislike."

"Dislike? But for what reason?" the Exile was full of bewilderment.

"I'm old, I've lived for a hundred and twelve Revolutions and will soon leave our world into the Great Darkness. This is a long life for a Spolder, but you will live a hundredfold longer, which will reveal your nature... I would say, false essence... Do you think this won't be noticed? Do you think this won't cause envy or dislike? There are not that many of us, Exile, and all of us are visible... You can't get lost among us."

The Exile was shaken, for he could not even imagine such a turn of events. But he had no doubt that Herald was speaking earnestly: the Spolder's words came to him through the Sorrowful, but he caught the emotions and the general meaning of his words with his mental sense. Feeling confusion and indecision, he spoke, "Perhaps, I would not stand out so much, if I did what Spolders do. Perhaps that would reconcile us... You could tell me about this? What makes a Spolder?"

"Of course I will!" Herald brightened. "Spolders reflect. On different but inevitably the most important matters."

"For example?"

"For example, the role of sentient beings in the universe. This philosophical problem has two main concepts: according to the first one, sentience is a natural acquisition, appearing the evolutionary way, while the second states that sentience, intellect, individuality have been granted by the Creator, who, perhaps, continues to watch us. Each premise leads to a different notion of our purpose, and, besides, the original postulate itself can be interpreted several ways, in the narrow or broad sense, in terms of morality, logic, positive or irrational knowledge. Let's assume that the second concept is correct, which is my opinion. Then..." Herald brightened even more and started to rise from the bump. "Then we can ask such questions: did the Creator make only us, sentients, or all of Creation with us?.. which goal did He pursue?.. did His goal remain the same or did it change?.. who are we to Him now: a chance to have some fun, trash from a forgotten experiment, or beloved children, whose good behavior He wished to test?.. will we join Him after death, or will He bring some closer and reject the others?.. And, finally, the question of questions: is He knowable for our minds?.. If the answer is negative, then–"

"Creator," the Exile interrupted, stunned by this verbal stream. "You are speaking of the Creator or Creators... Perhaps, you mean the Daskins, the ancient rules of the galaxy?"

"No. Certainly not!"

"Why?"

"Because, if we were created by the Daskins, then who created them?"

Wordplay, the Exile decided, and its limit was obvious: if we were made by the Creator, then who created Him? He shifted, feeling the soft stalks of the moss tickling his skin, and asked, "What else do Spolders do? Besides reflections like this?"

Herald wilted. It seemed that he was not enthusiastic about the other tasks.

"They dance in clearings," he muttered, "grow fruits and vegetables and carve figures out of wood. The young... hmm... they also have things to do... But I don't think this will pique your interest."

"Thank you, Herald," the Exile's parent spoke diplomatically. "Thank you, for this conversation was useful to us... yes, very useful. We have learned many new things, even unexpected things. Now we have something to think about."

Having said good-bye to the Spolder, they transported to their arbor, the Sorrowful took on an Eich's appearance, and spoke.

"My poor child! I feel that you have rejected the thought of becoming a Spolder... And that means that you and I will soon part..."

"We will," the Exile confirmed bitterly. "I make a poor philosopher, and I don't like dancing either."

Thus, the Guard had gained yet another hero.

Despite the perfection of their bodies, the Metamorphs did not reject technology. They had ships for traveling among the stars, tiny mechanisms capable of erecting a city or, turning it to dust, grow gardens at the same place, devices supplying them with food that fit any bodily substance or metabolism type, means of monitoring space and the state of the star, which was known to be unstable, generating magnetic storms and plasma streams. Among this multitude of instruments and devices, there were analogs to terrestrial computers, not quite machines and not quite living beings, whose function was to remember mental images and reproduce them when necessary. The Metamorphs called them deintro, and some were used for learning, others entertained or helped to resurrect what had been forgotten, and yet others stored information about the universe, the galaxy, and the races living in it. The Exile connected to one such device, to study the possibilities of his upcoming and final transformation. This was a Guard deintro, and it could tell him which worlds were, at the moment, in need of Protectors.

If speaking of appearance, functional flexibility, and intellectual potential, then the Exile's preferences leaned towards humanoids. They were not as slender as the Lo'ona Aeo, and not as bulky as the Dromi or the Haptors; their bodies was more complex and perfect than that of the Eichs or the Shada, which promised greater versatility; he also liked their high rate of development, characteristic of humanoid civilizations. Of course, humanoids had the surprising tendency to push themselves into the dead end of global disaster, but several cultures were currently developing upward, and they definitely needed to be watched over. The Kni'lina were already being monitored; their homeworld had been host to a Protector for two hundred years, who had reached the status of Areopagus Shadow, the head of secret service at the imperial court, the Bino Faata also needed to be kept in check: having passed the decline of the Second Eclipse, they were expanding their sector, which, as forecasted by the deintro, could lead to a series of interstellar wars. Additionally, they had located an artifact of the Ancient Race on one of the planets, quasi-sentient beings, which played the role of translators and emotion amplifiers in the Daskin civilization. The find was fortunate, as it led to the development of new technology based on the symbiosis of the quasi-sentient creatures with the chosen Faata caste, capable of mental exchange. This could spur their continued expansion, and leaving such a forecast without attention was thoughtless.

However, after conferring with the Guard experts, the Exile decided that infiltrating this culture would not be effective. The Faata civilization was too rigidly programmed and would be unlikely to succumb to influence from within, even if he became a member of the leading Sheaf, becoming a Pillar of Order or a Strategist, Guardian of the Heavens. He would probably be destroyed the moment he attempted to limit the expansion, as the Faata, having lived through the horror of the Eclipse, considered such policy to be the only means of preventing global crises. But there was still a possibility to influence them from outside, using another race, one potentially as aggressive, but flexible and more suitable for a contact with a Protector. The analysis conducted by the deintro revealed several civilizations capable of becoming a counterbalance, but only one of them was humanoid. A world whose savage inhabitants still called it different names, a planet that would eventually become known as Earth... It was currently in a state of ignorance, but the deintro's forecast promised a rise in seven or eight centuries, for humans were prolific, energetic, arrogant, and extremely resourceful. They were already drawing maps of their continents, knew geometry and medicine, forged steel, wrote books, built giant structures, traded, waged wars, raised cattle, and engaged in a variety of crafts. A very promising race, these humans! the Exile thought. When they invented science and reached the technological stage, someone would have to make room... A few thousand years, and the whole galaxy would recognize them as fully sentient beings!

The choice had been made, and one day, saying goodbye to his parent for the last time and taking the form of a human, the Exile teleported aboard the ship awaiting him at the orbital station. The vessel turned out to be small, for the jump to Earth did not take a long time; besides the pilot, it only fit a container with equipment. The tools and devices, taken by the Exile with him, were miniature and, for the most part, were stored as spores or mechanical embryos: initiating one of the seeds with a thought pulse, he could grow the necessary machine: a deintro, a sigga, a food synthesizer, or a psychic transmitter calibrated for a human brain. Unfortunately, they lacked a natural telepathic gift.

Obeying the Exile's command, the ship performed a jump, submerging into that dimension of the universe where there was no space, no time, no stars or habitable worlds, no light or darkness, no heat or cold. The distance between the planet of the Metamorphs and Sol was huge, but the wanderer had crossed it at the speed of thought. He emerged on the periphery of the system, and, when the ship found the right world, the third from the local star, transported to it with another, very short jump. Then they circled the planet, studying its oceans and continents with the optical devices suitable for the human eye. Being in a new and his final guise, he felt something like an emotional euphoria: the universe, even the tiny world of his ship, opened before the Exile in all the generosity of colors and sounds, smells and tactile sensations. For the first time since he was born, he saw, looked with his own eyes, could speak with the ship and hear its replies not only mentally but through the medium of the air filling the cabin. This seemed so delightful, so unusual and fascinating! Perhaps, the organs of his fellow Metamorphs were more sophisticated, but he no longer thought about his inadequacy: the human senses were sufficient to be a part of the bright, enticing, and uncharted reality, of the existence awaiting him.

One of the planet's hemispheres had two continents: the Northern one was enormous, stretching from the polar ice to the tropical zone, while the Southern one was equatorial, half the area, separated from the northern one by blue seas. The other hemisphere also had two landmasses, although they were smaller, besides them, there was a giant glacier at the pole, and numerous islands, one of which was almost the size of a continent. The Exile focused his attention on the largest continent. Its Western and Southeastern areas were densely populated, and there, using the ship's optics, he made out cities and roads, canals and fields among forests, stone masses of fortresses, as well as rowboats and sailing ships, sliding on rivers and along sea coasts. Both of these regions were, without a doubt, the centers of civilization, but the Western one, with the more capricious landscape and the complex coastlines, seemed more preferable: it was close to the Southern landmass, and, beyond the relatively narrow ocean, lay two more continents, reachable for the natives within a century or two. Besides these notable moments, the Exile noted that, from the Eastern steppes, dense masses of people were moving West on horse and on foot, huge herds of animals and thousands of wagons, an entire city, roving among the sands and the grass. Settlers, he thought, directing the ship into the depth of an enormous lake that, many centuries later, would be called Baikal.

By the terrestrial count, it was the beginning of 1219 AD. Genghis Khan's army was on its way to conquer Khwarezmia.

From the ship, securely hidden under the layers of water, the Exile teleported to the army that was moving West and lost himself in the countless crowds, taking on the guise of a warrior, a cattle driver, a shepherd, or a slave. The variations on the appearance of the base organism, a man's body, which he chose, were available to him, unlike radical changes; thus, he would be unable to turn into a woman or any of the animals populating this world with a surprisingly generous flora and fauna. Such a restructuring, requiring changes on the genetic level, the creation of new organs, significant modification of the skeleton and muscle mass, turned out to be beyond him; however, the ability of instantaneous transportation and many new faces made him virtually impossible to catch. He was safe, at least for now, when there were no devices on Earth more complex than a compass or an astrolabe and no weapon greater than a crossbow.

He spent several months in Genghis Khan's army, using his psychic gift to learn the Mongolian, Chinese, and Uyghur languages, spoke with Chinese engineers handling the catapults and ballistae, and learned of the Heavenly Kingdom, currently under the heel of the nomads. A valuable information about terrestrial affairs! Assimilating it, the Exile decided to continue moving with the host, but that was not meant to be; the Mongols crushed Shah Mohammad's army, fell upon the Khwarezmian plains, and a nightmare began. Theoretically, the Exile had been prepared for acts of violence, but the practice turned out to be too bloody, too excruciating for a being that had never known the many horrible faces with which death came to man. The ferocity of the victors frightened him, he jumped West, to the Slavic lands, and found himself in the middle of a conflict between the Prince of Kiev and Veliky Novgorod. Although, this fight was not as brutal: here, in the woods, one could hide, and people were cutting down one another with as much zeal as in Khwarezmia.

For the next several years, he lived through several of Batu Khan's invasions of Rus', the storming and the destruction of Kiev, the Battle on the Ice, and several small wars and clashes, ending with hundreds of people dead, settlements burned to the ground, and prisoners taken away to be enslaved. As the years passed, he got used to the corpses and the blood, fires and permanent devastation, visited the Holy Land, where the Crusaders were fighting the Saracens, went to the countries of Europe and set up several bases in Hanseatic cities, which were the most peaceful and quiet. Now he was Tverdislav of Novgorod, a wax and hemp dealer, the Hamburg merchant Kurt Zee, Peter Albach, the owner of a rope shop in Antwerp, he also kept a loan office in Gdansk under the name Falk the Copper Coin. The flesh of a human had become familiar to him, as did terrestrial landscapes and city views: Venice and Damascus, Granada, Cairo and Paris, Shanghai, Samarkand, Ryazan, and Constantinople. He spent some time in each of them and acquired connections, but gained no friends or lovers. He was lonely, a speck of dust from an alien world, thrown into the sands of Earth's humanity.

Decades had flown away into the past, and, finally, the turbulent 13th century had come to an end; the 14th century was beginning and with it came the Hundred Years' War. That would be its name in the future, and people would say that the French had fought the English, horrify the times of the Jacquerie, praise the exploits of Joan of Arc and the great knights, Chandos and Edward the Black Prince, Bertrand du Guesclin and Rodrigo de Villandrando, Gressard and Bedford. But the Exile, watching these events unfold firsthand and not in one region of Earth, believed that the war had lasted longer than a century and grasped all the nations on the Eurasian continent. The Poles and the Russians fought the Teutonic Order, Dmitry Donskoy battled Mamai and Tokhtamysh, Tamerlane conquered Persia, the Caucasus, Mesopotamia, and Syria, Bayezid's Ottoman Turks reached the Danube and the Hungarian borders, in China, the rulers of the new Ming dynasty were quarreling with the Mongols, civil wars raged in Japan and India, weapons were clanging in Spain and Scotland, in Germany and Italy, Switzerland, Bohemia, and Scandinavia. The wars were accompanied with uncanny regularity by earthquakes and floods, hurricanes, downpours, invasions of locust and pestilence; plague and cholera took away millions of people, and only rats, crows, and wolves remained on the deserted land. Peace and quiet could only be found at cemeteries, and even that was not a guarantee.

Terrible times! But civilization continued moving forward, human existence did not dry out, and the local aborigines, showing their adaptability, survived and even bred and multiplied despite the woes that befell them. That was a stubborn, predatory, hungry, but promising race! But, with all their imperfections, the Exile liked humans. He understood that their shortcomings gave rise to their virtues: thus, for example, greed and thirst for wealth spurred progress, pride and stubbornness were the source of bravery, which, in turn, bore self-sacrifice. He spent many years studying humans, analyzing their past and present, trying to imagine the future with the help of the deintro hidden on his ship; he examined and assessed their motivations, desires, dreams, and that which they considered their mind and their spiritual lives, learned to understand them and correctly anticipate the reaction of their social structures and separate individuals. This was a subtle art; by perfecting it, he was slowly becoming a human himself. However, he was still lonely: even those great minds, to whom he revealed his true nature, were unable to comprehend it, believing that they had met an angel or a demonic messenger.

The Renaissance was beginning, and time started to move forward faster. Hurrying it along, the Exile took up a number of projects: he opened a shop in Nuremberg, where mechanical clocks were being made, invested several hundred thalers into the first printing press in Mainz, suggested the idea for an aircraft to one Florentine painter, and supplied a self-drawn chart, showing lands beyond the ocean, to a young sailor from Genoa. He sailed West with this navigator in the hold of a fragile caravel in the guise of an ordinary sailor named Juan Alvarez. He thought that the first expedition beyond the ocean was too serious an undertaking to leave it to chance, and the Genoese man may have been extremely stubborn, but he still needed mental support in moments of despair. One way or another, they reached the islands near the coast of America; rather, the as yet unnamed continent that, as the Exile hoped, would be colonized within the next several centuries. The colonization was so rapid that, by the 16th and 17th centuries, the newcomers had reduced the native population by a huge margin, and those who survived were being pushed into the deep forests and prairies. The place did not remain empty, however; Indian hunting grounds gave way to tobacco, cocoa, and sugar plantations, and slaves started to be brought in from Africa.

In the 18th century, the progress sped up even more: the law of conservation of matter and the seventh planet of the Solar System, called Uranus, were discovered; besides that, the overseas colonies were freed, and the list of inventions was joined by the lightning rod, the railroad, graphite pencils, and democratic ideas. The latter echoed in Europe with a great massacre: there, under the motto Liberté, égalité, fraternité, the champions of freedom were decapitating aristocrats, and one another at the same time. This bloodbath continued into the following century, when the Exile, pretending to a minor official, followed Napoleon on his expeditions: first to Egypt, then Spain, Italy, and Austria, and, finally, to Russia. He remained in this enormous Northern empire until the end of the century, settling down in the Urals as a mine owner and making occasional sorties to the Western countries, to the East of the continent, to Africa or America. Everywhere, especially in Europe, he saw signs of civilization, growing in leaps and bounds and giving birth to the telegraph and telephone, the internal combustion engine, dynamite and machinegun, spiritualism and the theory of surplus value. On the one hand, the progress was undeniable, on the other, it could not end well: new ideas of world domination and social equality, coupled with dynamite and machinegun, were a diabolical explosive mixture.

During the time of World War I and the Russian Revolution, the Exile moved to the quiet Australia. There was no sense in being in the thick of the events he had seen many times before, and he did not wish to risk his life, as it was not only the ideas that were new but also the weapons used to implement them. Neither his psychic gift, nor the ability to alter his face, and not even telekinesis would protect him from a sudden and instant death, a sniper's bullet, a mine explosion, a machinegun burst. He was not afraid of getting wounded, if he retained control over his body and if there were no irreversible brain damage, but who could guarantee that? With a mangled skull, he would be just as dead as an ordinary human; having lost consciousness from the shock, he would bleed to death, while, stepping on a mine, he would be ripped to shreds. And that was why the Exile sat it out in Australia, taking on the appearance of an old farmer named Pete Jones or young Clive Tyrell, studying journalism at the University of Canberra. This profession was promising: according to the deintro forecasts, the appearance of television and radio networks was only a few years away, at which point the influence of mass media on the authorities would grow exponentially.

That was indeed what happened. Besides one more big war and many small ones, the 20th century brought both useful and terrible things in equal measure: on the one hand, quantum theory, airplanes, computers, chemical synthesis, television, nylon, and insulin; on the other, nuclear bombs and missiles, chemical warfare, deadly virus strains, and the unprecedented rise of tensions, for the world had already been divided, but not everyone got the riches and the power. Earth, with its limited supplies of raw materials, was becoming hungry and cramped, and the Exile was already thinking about supplying a few useful hints about the exploration of the Solar System and the manufacture of synthetic products. But he did not have time to do that, as humans came up with ideas like genetic engineering, cloning, the fusion drive, and the planetary computer network on their own. Less than a century after the first Moon landing, human expeditions were reaching Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto, while settlements were being established on Mercury, Mars, and Venus, and industrial development began in the Asteroid Belt. The problems remained the same, but, accounting for the rapid technological progress, the breadth of the Solar System and the enormity of its resources, these problems no longer threatened the existence of humankind. In general, neither internal unrest and local wars, nor the depletion of ore deposits, not even asteroids or comets, which could approach Earth and destroy civilization and lives. Just a little longer, the Exile thought, only two or three hundred years, and we'll reach the stars, settle suitable planets, build cities in space, and forget about squabbles and wars. The galaxy is enormous, there's enough room for everyone, including a new star-faring race! A little longer… just a little…

And then the Faata came.

The Exile, or rather Gunther Voss and his other terrestrial incarnations, had no information about them for the past eight centuries. A large time period for humanoid civilizations! During that time, humans had moved from the shores of Europe to Pluto, from wooden sailboats to interplanetary ships, from pathetic superstitions to the true picture of Creation. However, the Faata had also not remained idle and were not being stagnant. This seemed obvious within the first several minutes, when the Exile, under the guise of Liu Chang, caught the distant flash of antimatter annihilation and, using the Kepler Observatory's telescope, recorded it on pictures. The Faata technology was superior to that of Earth, and, obviously, their development had also been exponential; after all, they had managed to cross the Void between the galactic arms! This was not too impressive in itself, as a ship, submerging into Limbo, could cross enormous distances, but the necessity of such a step was evidence that the Faata sector was expanding and that the sphere of their interest had reached the Solar System. In this situation, the humans' chances of creating their own empire dropped down to zero, which meant that they would not eventually become the counterbalance to the Faata.

In Gunther Voss's opinion, the most frightening thing was their genetic similarity to humans. If humans and Bino Faata could produce offspring (of which he had little doubt), the absorption of the human race by the highly advanced aliens was unavoidable. The fact that there were billions of humans and few Faata was irrelevant: their ship was likely equipped with a sperm bank and incubators for accelerating the reproductive cycle. In the eugenic sense, the policy of their leaders was extremely strict, and Voss believed that it hadn't changed in eight centuries: the Faata reproduced the ruling caste and several soldier and worker castes, being reminiscent of a beehive or other social insects. At the same time, they remained physiologically humanoid and retained a human-like appearance, which also brought danger: humans would rather trust other humanoids than a shapeshifting creature.

He would have destroyed them if he could. But, besides the psychological inability to kill, Voss lacked weapons capable of striking down the Faata at interplanetary distances. He acted as a Protector should: using the strength and might of the race which he had grown close to in all these centuries, he attempted to stop the aliens far from Earth, in the Asteroid Belt or beyond the Martian orbit. It was possible that he would be able to deal with them on Earth (he had several backup options in that case), but that would result in destruction and casualties. Earth, with its giant population and metropolises, was hardly a place for space battles: a plasma or an antimatter strike would kill millions, without distinction of who was right and who was wrong.

However, there was a hope to avoid these terrible options, taking control of the Faata ship. The ship was controlled by a quasi-sentient beast, similar to a bio-computer; this legacy of the Daskins, abandoned as unnecessary, obeyed those of its new symbiotes more readily who had a higher psychic potential. Actually, this circumstance is what separated a portion of the Faata into the ruling caste, capable of controlling the quasi-sentients; all the others served as their appendages, connecting to the psychic link using a special device called a kaff. It didn't work too well for humans, but the arsenal of the Exile/Voss had a more powerful device, the tiny sphere of a mental transmitter, which he teleported aboard the ship.

A chance!.. Voss thought, sending his Greek gift. The universe was full of chances, and the one who used them, with reasonable care, of course, would win out. The human cruiser, which accidentally encountered the Faata, had been destroyed, but three humans had been taken captive: two men and a woman. One of men had died, resisting a psychic invasion into his mind, while the woman, after being artificially inseminated, had been placed into an incubator; the third captive remained, surprisingly stubborn, embittered, but not at all stupid. Also a chance! If he ended up using the psychic transmitter, then…

But that's where the favorable chances had ended; Pavel Litvin, the Exile's protégé, had been unable to subjugate the quasi-mind. After that, there was a battle with a human flotilla, its destruction, and the landing in the Antarctic. Everything was following the worst-case scenario, and the Exile/Voss resigned himself to the fact that casualties were inevitable. He transported a sigga, a container with eating minirobots, to the ship, Litvin activated them, and destroyed the quasi-sentient creature. The resulting cataclysm was terrible… Forty-three million dead, hundreds of cities in ruins, irreparable losses: ancient temples and palaces, paintings and statues, films and books, works of art… But the main loss was the forty-three million people! But he was able to save Litvin, Litvin and the women, Yo and McNeil, the former captive, who was carrying a Faata fetus.

At that, Gunther Voss, a reporter for the CosmoSpiegel, put an end to his activities and vanished; astronomer Liu Chang, diplomat Umkhonto Tlume, and USF ground base officer Roy Bunch disappeared along with him. But other personas appeared, seven or eight of them, among them were Klaus Siebel, a trainee of the Secret Service, and the miracle surgeon Chaim Dayan, a nasolarynx specialist. At the appointed time, Dayan performed an operation on Klaus Siebel; where and when, in which Israeli underground clinic, remained a secret, but the result was evident: Seibel was now able to speak Faata'liu, the language of the aliens. Now his career was secure: advancement, access to any materials, contact with Litvin and Yo, supervision over Abby McNeil's offspring, and anything else that had even a remote connection to the Faata and the Metamorph Gunther Voss… As an officer of the Secret Service, he persisted in searching for himself, not forgetting to age when necessary and improve his mastery of the Faata language, speaking with young Paul Corcoran. "What did you say, boy? T'taia orr n'uk'uma sirend'agi patta? Yes, I understand… A sirend came out to the sun and is basking in the warmth of the stones… My pronunciation is good? Well, thank you for that. Eit t'tesi… I am glad…"

Time no longer crawled, didn't drag on, like in centuries past, but ran forward at a rapid pace: one moment, and young Paul was no longer so young, another moment, and he was a space fleet officer, a married man, then a family man. Two little girls were climbing onto the knees of Uncle Klaus, interrupting one another to tell him how they had found a frog or a lizard in the garden… Two women, Corcoran's mother and wife, were looking at them from the terrace, smiling, setting plates, preparing breakfast: Abby was holding a coffee pot, while Vera was carrying a plate with pastries… Where was Paul? Soaring somewhere in the cosmic abyss on the way to Baal or Sirius, Telemachus or Barnard's Star… And he was no longer Paul, for a long time now, but Commander Corcoran, First Officer aboard the cruiser Europe…

Something was maturing in the heart of Klaus Siebel, the Protector of Earth, something partly human, partly inherited from distant ancestors, from his sad parent, whom he would probably never see again. Such a strong and unfamiliar feeling! But, turning to the past, to that half of him that remained a Metamorph exile, he understood; his ancient instinct of procreation was waking up. As a cripple, he would be unable to procreate himself, even if he returned to his true nature, but that was a different connection, spiritual, not corporeal, and he felt these connections grow stronger year after year.

Perhaps he had turned into a human. Perhaps he had remained who he was, but the time of his loneliness was over.

"Thank you," Corcoran said. "Thank you for telling me this. I'm touched by your trust."

Siebel nodded, seemingly as a sign of gratitude. For the next two or three minutes, they sat in silence and quiet, then Corcoran, glancing at the timer, reached out and turned on the intercom.

"A change of the watch is coming, Klaus. Tell me… all this time… all these insanely long centuries… have you ever had anyone? A friend, a pupil, a woman?"

"No," Siebel said, "no."

"Has something changed?"

"Possibly. I–"

A rustling noise came from the communication device's vocoder, followed by Executive Officer Praagh's voice.

"No incidents during my watch. I stand relieved!"

"I have the conn," Nikolay Tumanov called back. "There's fresh coffee, Selina. Still hot."

"Thanks. I'm going to enjoy it."

Clicking the intercom key, Corcoran looked at Siebel. Or was it the Exile? Does it matter? he thought. It wasn't about the name and not even about the physical appearance. Trust and understanding, these things were much more important.

There was a smile on his friend's face. Tilting his head, he was listening to something, as if Selina Praagh's voice continued to be heard in the small cramped cabin.

"I wanted to say that this face," Siebel touched his cheek, "is not a constant. If I grow younger by ten… maybe twenty years… if I tell her everything… Do you think she will be scared?"

Now it was Corcoran's turn to smile.

"She won't." After a beat, he added. "Eit t'tesi… I'm glad that you're having thought like that."