This is a fan translation of Counterstrike (Ответныйудар) 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 7

Space near Ro'on and on the surface of Ro'on

The touch of the film burned, and it seemed that his skin would start smoking now, covered in flames, and burn through to the bones along with the flesh. With his mind, Corcoran understood that it was an illusion, but his senses tricked him, trying to convince him that scalding needles were being inserted into his nerve clusters, and his neck and spine were being stroked by a blowtorch or a hot iron. The pain knocked tears out of his eyes, blurred Klaus's face and the devices crowding the cabin, made it difficult to keep track of the guidance system, and yet the red dot representing the module continued to get closer to the green marker of the calculated trajectory. All they had to do was join, Corcoran anticipated hopefully, and his torture would be over! Then, they would merely follow the laws of celestial mechanics, on an elliptical orbit, which would, at the proper moment, slip into Ro'on's atmosphere, and then... Then pain will begin anew, he thought.

Despite the many similarities between the Faata and the people of Earth, there were, of course, differences, not very significant ones, if one meant the fully sentient and some of the higher-caste t'ho. But the pilots, those who controlled starships and those who flew in large and small modules, were a special category, very different from human standards. The examination of the bodies, found after the disaster in the Antarctic, had led to furious debates among Earth's scientists: some thought that the pilots were biorobots, while others assumed them to be natural organisms that had undergone radical genetic restructuring. Either way, no ordinary person, whether human or a Faata, could operate a flying module, becoming an annex of its equipment, like a living ANS, and, at the same time, the gunner and the psychic communication unit. Corcoran, who had undergone special training, was capable of withstanding half an hour, forty-fifty minutes at most, but that was his limit. Barely enough time to take the module onto the necessary course or land at some appropriate location.

He seemed like a rocket to himself, piercing the dense air layers. His skin/hull was red-hot, but the weapon, the drive, the regenerator, and the rest of the equipment hidden under its armor worked without fail: he felt the breathing gas enter the cabin, the powerful evenly vibrating gravitators accelerating his little ship, plasma throbbing in the tight embrace of the force field, ready to spill out into the emptiness as a thin burning beam at his wish. Besides his own eyes, clouded by the pain, he was looking at the world with dozens of eyes, and everything seen was being joined into a whole picture: the rapidly-receding frigate, the sun throwing ghostly prominences into the darkness of space, the stars burning in the velvety sphere of the heavens, the dark strip of the Void. It was a beautiful sight! And the flight under the sun and the distant stars would have been so wonderful, if not for the pain…

They had departed the frigate in Ro'on's orbit, leaving her two million kilometers above the planet. On the one hand, this ensured the secrecy, on the other, it increased the responsiveness: if Corcoran was unable to lift his vehicle from the surface, the Commodore Litvin would come for them within six hours or send the Peregrines to aid them. Radio communications were not anticipated, except in case of emergency, and a console with two data probes had been attached to the module for transmitting information. The probes, position sensors, a receiver, and a navigation computer were the only modifications made to the small Faata ship; everything else in it was alien, made in the New Worlds or at an unknown star, shining on the other side of the Void.

Everything is alien here, Corcoran thought, fighting the attacks of pain. Everything was alien, unearthly, even the crew: one was half-human, and the other even more of a freak, a crippled emissary of the Proteids… He forced a chuckle, sensing the even pulsation of the drive and adjusting course; only a millimeter separated the red dot from the green market. A millimeter on the screen, eight thousand kilometers in space, eighty seconds of flight time, a million searing needles piercing the skin…

The red dot melted into the green, the guidance system rang softly, and Corcoran, grasping the edges of the contact film, started to pull it away from his body. Falling out of the tight cocoon, he lay face down on the floor, stretched out his legs and sighed with relief. Siebel's warm, dry hands touched him, started to massage his neck, shoulders, and naked back, rub the back of his head.

"How are you doing? Alive?"

"Alive, alive," Corcoran rasped. "We're on course. Now I still need to land this bastard… took a lot out of me…"

The burning stopped. Invigorating warmth flowed out of Siebel's hands. A concave hemispherical screen glittered with the sparks of the stars at the front of the cabin, before the sagging spindle of the contact film. They were rushing towards Ro'on, getting a hundred kilometers closer to it with every second.

"It'll pass now," Siebel said. "There, it's all gone… You're okay."

Corcoran tried to sit up, but failed.

"Yeah, right, okay," he muttered. "I probably look like a corpse…"

"You look fine. Want to see?"

Klaus's features shifted, his face started to change rapidly: his chin narrowed, the iris turned lighter, almost melting into the whites, the lips brightened, the hair became black, short, and very thick. Corcoran was now looking at himself, the way he had appeared before his shocked crew yesterday. Vrba had not lied, no implants were necessary; the cybersurgeon, following the program, worked on his skin and eye pigmentation, and made his skin paler. There were almost no changes otherwise. Corcoran had no idea he looked so much like a Faata. The discovery was not very pleasant.

"Why so glum?" Siebel asked. "Don't like the face? It's all right, Paul, it's all right! Vera will still love you like that, and the girls won't reject their dad. Once again, you won't be a brunet forever. When we get back aboard, your red hair will return too.

If we get back, Corcoran thought, but, suppressing the seditious thought before Siebel could catch it, spoke, "This is me. What will you look like?"

His friend scratched his head. A completely human gesture, Corcoran thought.

"Considering my age, I should put together something more impressive… maybe six-eight hundred years. Well, for example…"

Klaus's hair grew longer, green appeared in it, his lips sagged slightly, tiny wrinkled ran from the eyes to the temples. Signs of age were not as noticeable among the long-lived Faata as they were with humans, but they were still there, appearing after several centuries, usually at the end of a millennium. Corcoran knew about this, but never tried to imagine how long he himself would live: the thought of living without Vera and, probably, seeing the deaths of his daughters, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, scared him.

Gradually, his strength came back. He stood up and, with Siebel's help, pulled on the lilac overalls, imitating Faata clothing. He had to be careful turning around in the cramped cabin, as the small battle module was not meant to transport passengers or cargo. In the wider aft part, near the entrance membrane, there were containers with food, water, and some equipment, while the guidance computer and the multiband receiver were located at the fore, on both sides of the screen. There was only enough room left for the two of them to lie down and stretch. No chairs, no cots, no tables… At least the floor was soft.

"Get some sleep," Siebel advised. "We still have a five-hour flight. You humans have a great advantage over the Faata and us… I mean my people…" He sighed. "You can sleep."

"And even dream," Corcoran added. "You consider it an advantage?"

"Of course. The ability to sleep is such a marvel, especially when your life is long! Time passes quicker…"

He moved to the receiver, sat cross-legged next to it, and ran the automated search program. A shimmering column of light flared to life, dark glyphs of the bands floated, rotating leisurely, a barely-audible crackling and a faint noise, like the roar of a distant sea, filled the cabin. The voices of the universe were whispering something, lulling Corcoran to sleep; the cosmic microwave background was spreading in a soft rustle [The cosmic microwave background is the legacy of the era when all the matter in the universe was in a state of expanding, extremely hot plasma. The cosmic microwave background permeates the entire observable universe and has currently been studied in the ranges between the fractions of a millimeter and 50 centimeters.], Gamma Malleus was humming, the stars were chirping and squeaking, and the gas clouds were adding creaks and rattles to this melody. The orchestra of the Creation was playing a myriad instruments, everything in its realm, from measly atoms to gigantic stars and entire galaxies, and only one thing could not be heard in this choir: a living human voice.

"They're being quiet," Klaus Siebel muttered, "quiet... Quiet in the millimeter band, in the centimeter, and on the longer wavelengths too... And really, what good is radio communication to them? It'd only give away their worlds... Useless at interstellar distances, it would take a hundred years to talk to their neighbors fifteen parsecs away, and there is nothing better than psychic contact within your own system... Grow a dozen Daskin beasties, stick them on all the planets, and talk as much as you need... effective, quick, and without any chips, holograms, or vibrations of the ether..."

"Their large ship had radio devices," Corcoran reminded him.

"The Ship, yes! To listen what you're shrieking to the entire universe, and to put in a clever word. Like how they will make you better... new technology, medicine, synthetic food... Enticing, huh? Remember the riots in India and China when the Security Council rejected their request to approach Earth? The rallies, the hunger marches, the self-immolation of the crippled? No, you don't… you hadn't been born yet… But you should know about the Binucks. What do they write on the fences?.. 'Tremble, ye cursed t'ho! We will be back to spill your blood!' That's the way it is, my dear boy… the seeds of evil have been sown, and we'll have to work hard to keep them from growing…"

Klaus kept on grumbling, bent over the receiver, and that surprised Corcoran: he was used to Klaus expressing his thoughts in a clear and concise manner. But the thoughts were now also unclear, blurred, as if his friend was thinking of one thing and saying another. Is he trying to calm me down?.. Corcoran thought. Or is he himself nervous and needs my support?..

He turned on his side and asked, "Tell me, Klaus, who else knows about you? I mean your true nature… Vrba? Some people in your service? Or—"

"There are no 'ors'. It's just you."

"Are you going to tell anyone else?"

"For example?"

Siebel was his usual self again: clear, dry, surrounding his consciousness with seven mental barriers.

"For example, a loved one. Selina, if it works out between you two."

"If it works out…" Sadness suddenly rang through Klaus's voice. "I'm afraid, Paul, that, sooner or later, I will bring her sorrow, many sorrows. By your count, I'm pushing sixty; a little longer, and I'll be an old man, and old men must leave… this is how things are for you… This means that something will happen to me, something that will cause Klaus Siebel to disappear and someone else to appear. I haven't figured out how it will take place, when and where, but it must happen. There won't even be anything to cremate, as the body will not be found… Basically, Klaus will be gone, and she will be left alone… no longer young and not as attractive as she is now. Do you understand, Paul?"

He had become human, completely human, Corcoran decided. Grumbling, feeling sad, regretting, and even thinking of the future with alarm, and not even his own future but someone else's. And that could be one of the most beautiful of all human qualities…

"If I vanished now," Klaus said, "and then appeared to her in a more… hmm… appropriate guise… It's easy to disappear now, the circumstances are very suitable, since our mission is dangerous… What do you think, Paul?"

Corcoran rose on one elbow.

"Drop it! Is that some kind of a joke? What are you up to, Klaus?"

"Nothing, really."

Siebel turned away and seemed to vanish, breaking the fragile mental link that had connected them for several moments. Corcoran's thoughts shifted in a new direction seemingly of their own accord. Now, listening to the rustling and rumbling voices of the universe, he was reflecting on the coming actions, thinking of their strategic goals and the plan that would need to follow. There were three plans. The first, put together by Vrba and the fleet staff, assumed that Corcoran would circle the planet and try to feel out targets for the initial strike. Not cities, which the enemy didn't have, but monitoring, communication, and control centers, vital production sites, defensive positions, astrodromes, and orbital bases. Having done this, he was to send a data probe and then, if the prize module did not rouse suspicion, land on the surface and proceed at his own discretion. From this vague wording flowed the second, more concrete plan, which he had put together himself: capture a prisoner and take him up to the Commodore Litvin. A t'ho, even one of a higher caste, would not do; Corcoran remembered that dear Aunt Yo had known very little about her planet. He figured that, after landing at an astrodrome, he would be able to find a space officer, a Strategist's assistant or some other knowledgeable person, who would follow him. He had convincing arguments: the paralyzing gas and his discharger. As a last resort, there may be a combat action with the use of robots.

Of course, these plans had flaws, as they always did with little information about the enemy. They were supposed to gather the data on the defense system and the overall situation by intercepting radio transmissions, but there were none, so everything came down to visual observations. It would be impossible to clarify them while flying the module: while the module was a good cover, Corcoran would be unable to pilot it for a long period of time and would lose to Faata pilots if he had to fight. Failure was also possible when searching for knowledgeable persons, who did not wear uniforms and did not look different from their civilian brethren. This was where Corcoran put trust in his psychic probing, which was also a double-edged sword, as the Faata could just as easily scan him, especially if he encountered a Keeper.

But he was not alone now, Siebel was with him… friend Siebel, a telepath and a Metamorph… This changed the situation, opening up nearly unlimited prospects. Siebel could transport him to any part of the world, cross any walls or force fields, protect him from mental invasion, and find a person capable of providing information. He could put them on the ground straight from orbit, could teleport them back into the module or into the Peregrines, if necessary, could deal with the prisoner or, perhaps, with a quasi-sentient symbiote, could… What couldn't he do?! Kill? Well, Corcoran would have to rely on himself for that.

He thought about the third plan, which, accounting for Siebel's talents, was more realistic than the first two. Enter Ro'on's orbit? Better not, the risk was too great, and visual reconnaissance was unreliable. Jumping down, quickly, swiftly, would be the best option! Not to look for astrodromes, but set down in some secluded spot… Ro'on was large world about the size of Earth, but the population was sparse… Yo had said that there were three million people on T'har, and this place had to have twenty or fifty, a negligible population for such a planet… One could hide here… hide, and then…

Reality blended with sleepy visions, and the dreams were winning, throwing a shaky veil over the cargo-packed cabin, Siebel's figure over the receiver, the column of light with the spinning dark symbols, and the transparent, star-filled lens of the screen. Corcoran was no longer lying on the soft floor; he was floating in weightlessness: his hands were wrapped around his knees, his head was lowered to his chest, his dark hair fell on his shoulders, his eyes were closed. A strange sensation gripped him: he was a man, hanging in a tiny room, entwined with tubes and wires, and, at the same time, was looking at him from the side, as if splitting into a participant and a spectator of some mysterious scene. It was static: nothing moved or stirred, and the naked dark-haired man looked dead or immersed in deep meditation indistinguishable from death. But Corcoran had no doubt that he was alive; that was evidenced by the weak but detectable pulses of the psychic field.

He sensed an empty space beyond the walls of the chamber, and an even larger one, full of sun and light, above, as if the chamber and the adjacent room were hidden deep underground. For Corcoran, a noncorporeal spirit, walls were not an obstacle; slipping through the one with the shimmering entrance membrane, he found himself in a room with a soft floor and a number of alcoves, some as narrow as slits, while others were wider, but just as dark; maybe they were hallways leading somewhere deep into the underground dwelling. He didn't stay here: he felt oppressed by the darkness, the silence, and the motionless, and the powerful premonition of freedom, which a bird got from the open sky, tormented him.

Piercing the soil with the interwoven roots, he soared above the flat top of the hill. The view turned out to be familiar: the circular groves, scattered over elevations, the trees with umbrella-shaped canopies, the prairie, overgrown with the blue-green grass, gradually descending to the river, the bright orange sun. Like a helium-filled balloon, Corcoran flew up, surveying the rivers and the valleys, the forests and the hills of the continent that opened up under him. To the south, it ended in a mountain range, beyond which lay the blue sea and the rocky shore of another landmass; to the west and east, beyond the oceans, there were other lands, which he had never seen but knew for certain that they existed and that they were not deserted or abandoned. There was no snow, ice, or tundra to the north; instead, there were rocky plateaus, cut up by gorges; their grey, yellow, ocher slopes framed the lush greenery of the subtropical forests. This northern land, stretching for thousands of kilometers in latitude, was almost barren and, therefore, uninhabited.

The feeling of motion did not leave Corcoran, but was it born of that fantastic flight that only happened in dreams, or of something more real? It seemed to him that he was flying with the stream of thought rushing into the darkness of space, to other worlds and the tiny creations of human hands, lost in the vast emptiness. For an instant, he managed to spot his own ship orbiting Ro'on, then angular, box-like craft, a transport caravan heading to T'har or, perhaps, to the outer planet; then the planet itself with a retinue of moons and the dark, grim rock of Obscurus. He slipped past a moon; the psychic waves drawing him farther and farther, to the very edges of the system, where he saw the human cruisers moving in battle formation. It looked like the Commodore was heading for the protostar to blockade the shipyard; Corcoran understood his decision, as if he saw it written in a report using glyphs. He didn't have time to marvel at this, as something changed, interrupting his flight: maybe the dream had been exhausted at this spot, or there was another reason to return to reality. He listened, still half-asleep. It seemed as if the tune of the guidance system had grown louder and more piercing… This made him wake up.

The warm gloom of the cabin enveloped Corcoran; Siebel's figure still lurked like a blurred shadow at the receiver, glyphs continued to float in the column of light, but the screen was showing a different picture: in it, blocking out the stars, was the white, green, and blue sphere of Ro'on.

He half-rose and inquired in a voice still raspy from sleep, "Do you hear anything, Klaus?"

"Nothing. Useless!" Siebel slapped the receiver's panel, then lifted a finger to his forehead. "We need to listen with this! We'll get in orbit and–"

"We won't," Corcoran said, pulling off his clothes. "We'll get on the ground and hide. In the mountains, I think."

"Why?"

"I saw a Dream. I saw a man in t'hami and a familiar place: the hill with trees by the river. Then, the entire continent… There is a suitable site to the north: mountains, gorges, plateaus. Basically, an uninhabited land. And…"

"And?.." Siebel repeated, instantly alert. "Was there something else?"

"Yes. The Commodore… I think he's planning to attack Obscurus. No, I don't think, I'm certain!"

His friend nodded.

"Fantastic! So, you've reached out to the comet cloud… Your power is growing, Paul!"

"Maybe." Naked and grim, Corcoran stepped to the contact film. "Let's check how powerful I am."

The flexible shell closed around him, and his nerve centers were instantly pierced by thousands of needles. If not for this torture, he would be feeling pleasure: the link to the ship was stronger and closer than in the most advanced human UFs like Peregrines and Harpies. It remained a mystery how the Faata had achieved this; perhaps it was done not through tricks of technology but by adapting the living organism to the flying craft. As for Corcoran, he was adapted poorly, even though he was descended from the aliens; then again, even they, besides their pilots, would be unable to operate this diabolical machine.

Fighting through the pain, he slowed down in the upper atmosphere. The appearance of the planet was changing with the familiar rhythm: first, an enormous convex spheroid with clumps of clouds, then a green-blue bowl whose edges rose up, and, finally, a flat surface, covered by multicolored spots of plains, lakes, and mountains. He raced along the meridian, from the South Pole to the North, barely having time to note the terrain features. He passed the narrow and long southern landmass, reminiscent of Cuba, but twenty times the size; beyond it was a sea, or, rather, a strait, separating it from the largest continent. It was exactly how he saw it in the recent Dream: a narrow coastal plain in tropical greenery, a mountain range and the area beyond it with forests and steppes, lakes, and rivers. Some of the bodies of water were large, and, streaking over them like a meteor, Corcoran watched the sun reflect in the crystal clear waters. He was unable to notice anything else: the flight was swift, and the pain clouded his thoughts. He did have time to muse that this world was at least as good as Gondwana and maybe even better; after all, Ro'on already had sentient beings making the planet more comfortable. And he, Corcoran, was a messiah, who had come to exile them! Or destroy them, if they refused to obey.

There was justice in that, dictated not only by thoughts of revenge but also, as it seemed to him, by the laws of the universe, independent of human will, defining the essence of Creation at the moment of the Big Bang. One of them stated that, for every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction, which meant that every race in the galaxy, every being, sentient or not, had the right to fight if attacked. The concept of retaliation had been an axiom throughout all of Earth's history and had never been called into question; the issue was never whether one should strike back but whether there was enough strength for a reciprocal action. Despite Commodore Vrba's words that they should not rush in with plasma throwers and annihilators, they did have both, which would serve as the most compelling argument in any negotiations and contacts. Then again, even if the weapons did not fire, the axiom would not change: the mere appearance of the flotilla from Earth would be a counterstrike.

The module, obeying Corcoran's thought, went down sharply. Its velocity dropped to several meters per second, the green carpet of vegetation under the craft was replaced by mountains, barren screes, gentle slopes, colored here and there by bright spots of moss or lichen. There were probably winds here, fighting the rocks for millions of years; Corcoran did not see any pointed peaks, but he did see bizarre-looking cliffs, reminiscent of Hindu temples or carved Chinese pagodas. The bumpy surface of the plateau was cut up by multiple cracks, which, from above, looked like a web of thin dark lines, thrown over canvas primed with brown, yellow, and grey. They continued descending, making the stone canvas come closer to the module, and the cracks turned to deep canyons; the sun lit up their upper part, making the quartz and mica particles glitter, but the bottom was not visible. Deciding that these cracks could serve as an ideal cover, Corcoran directed the module into one of the gorges, making it hover between the steep walls, and looked around. He thought he saw the bottom about a hundred to a hundred fifty meters below… It was difficult to estimate the distance: his skin was on fire, his head swam, and his strength was almost gone.

He set the craft down, got out of the cocoon, and froze, resting his hands on the wall. His legs trembled, his forehead was covered in sweat, and somewhere inside him there were strange perturbations: his heart was once again becoming his heart, his lungs returned to being his lungs, not parts of the diabolical machine. Corcoran heard the snap of a container, then cold metal touched his shoulder blade, and the skin pulled away for an instant; that was an ampoule's vacuum suction.

"Well? Feeling better?" Siebel asked, putting the medical unit into the pocket of his backpack.

"This damned tin can…" Corcoran muttered and started to get dressed. He put on his overalls and boots, feeling the tranquilizer return elasticity to his muscles, and asked. "Were you able to notice anything? Structures, landing pads, crews, any interesting object… What did you see, Klaus?"

"Structures… yes, structures, crews, machines, farmland," Siebel replied slowly. "There is something, but on a modest scale, shall we say. On the surface, there are t'ho dwellings and small distributed industry. No astrodromes or enterprises comparable to what we saw on Obscurus. We…" He paused, then clarified. "My people know little about the Faata civilization of the Third Phase; I don't mean technology or ambitions of their leaders, but ordinary life. Now I know a little more. While we were flying, I scanned the local mental fields on the southern and northern continents. There are cavities and caves, especially in the mountains by the sea, and all of them are inhabited… there are about three hundred brains, small and medium-sized Daskin beasts, also hidden underground… there are arsenals with machines, there are mines for extracting raw minerals, there are reproductive centers, which you call incubators… there are places similar to laboratories… What else interests you?"

"The planetary control center, if one exists. Well, and the place where they grow brains. The largest quasi-sentients."

"These are present on the coast. I noted several… large, larger than others, but still in the development stage; they are probably being grown for the shipyard on Obscurus. As for the control centers, each continent has its own. Three continents, three Sheaves, three governing bodies… The local one, I think, is hidden deep under the coastal range. You can check for yourself. If you've managed to reach our flotilla, then it's no trouble at all for you to probe the planetary background."

But Corcoran did not wish to check anything, since the landing had taken a lot out of him. They activated the guard robot, left the module, looked admiringly at the silver spider nimbly climbing up the wall of the canyon, and, when it reached the plateau and made measurements, discovered that darkness would fall in three hours twenty-seven minutes. Then they opened the box with canned goods, had a bite in the twilight and the coolness, among the picturesque granite boulders, scattered here and there, after which Corcoran started working with the combat robots, while Siebel began to program the data probe, inputting the map taken by the guidance computer into its memory and dictating his own comments.

The two combat machines were the bulkiest cargo in their gear. Activating the unfolding program, Corcoran watched as the metallic chests turned into massive giants with six limbs, finger-claws, and weapon hemispheres bulging where the upper pair of arms joined the torso. After the metamorphosis ended, he sent one of the robots up, to the spider guard, leaving the other one in the gorge. Their main task was to protect the module, but, if necessary, they could also be used as modes of transportation, cargo carriers, diggers, and mobile labs for physical and chemical analysis. Of course, they could only be used at the landing site, as it was doubtful that Siebel could teleport these machines, each weighing over a metric ton, somewhere else.

It grew dark, and stars flared in the narrow strip of the sky visible from the gorge. Siebel finished his work: the thin cylinder of the data probe silently rose above the module, froze for an instant, and sped away straight up like a silver arrow. Corcoran's strength had returned; opening the weapons container, he affixed a miniature laser discharger on his right wrist, a recording and communication device in the form of a bracelet on his left, hung a plasma thrower on his belt, put batteries, food concentrate, a flask, and a med kit into his backpack. Then he closed his eyes and listened.

A silent roar of voices, rapid incoherent mumbling, blurry images, a surge of others' emotions filled his mind. Mental waves flowed over the planet, whirled in eddies, mixed, overlapped, and, for a time, Corcoran felt deafened, as if he suddenly found himself in the middle of a huge crowd, where each person was saying something different, and his ear caught only bits of phrases, separate words and shouts. It was very different on Earth, where mental emissions did not attack him with thunder and roar, but rustled quietly, and he could always tune himself to the right wave. It's not easy being a telepath in on a world of telepaths, Corcoran thought, trying to concentrate and feel out an order in the cacophony sounding in his head. The term "sound" did not completely fit here, neither did the other related terms, such as "see", "hear", "feel", but the languages of Earth lacked more appropriate words; perhaps, they would appear in a century or two, when telepathic communication was no longer a rarity.

And so, he listened, and, gradually, in the chaos of the signals, powerful clear pulses appeared, streaming from southwest, from the farthest tip of the continent. These waves seemed to support many others, which were weaker and less clear but more understandable, for the information they carried was in Faata'liu. For the most part, they were brief orders to t'ho, but he was able to make out something more interesting: five or six people were discussing some problem related to genetics, and these words reached Corcoran's consciousness along with the sense of helplessness accompanying them. Mo r'ari… All was useless…

Siebel appeared from inside the module, and, hearing the rustling steps, Corcoran opened his eyes. His friend was ready to travel: his tight-fitting dark violet clothing reached from the neck to the ankles, on his back, melting into the overalls, was a flat backpack-container, his left arm boasted a gleaming communication bracelet, and a small bag was strapped to his belt. It was unusual to see him like this: with the face of an elderly Faata, with long black hair and a beak-shaped mouth. Klaus did not bring any weapons, but something was bulging in his bag, an oval palm-sized object.

A gas capsule? Corcoran thought. No, a capsule has a different shape.

"Scanning the field?" Siebel asked. "Well, what are your impressions?"

"You're right, there's something in the mountains to the south. A psychic exchange against the background of powerful rhythmic pulses… Is that the quasi-sentients? Those who are still immature?"

"Yes. Do you want to go to them?"

"Not right now, Klaus. First, we will visit a different place."

Catching his thought, Siebel nodded.

"The place you saw in the Dreams? The hill, river, trees… What attracts you to it?"

"That guy in t'hami. He seems to be a very knowledgeable person. And if he still hasn't awoken…"

"We'll catch him with his pants down; is that how you say?" Siebel's teeth flashed in a smirk. All right, we'll go to the hill then. Imagine this place and send the picture to me… okay, that's enough…"

The dark sky, the gorge, and module, and the robot standing nearby suddenly disappeared, and light hit Corcoran's eyes. They were standing on a slope of the hill, behind the circle of trees, whose canopies looked like giant umbrellas made out of interwoven branches and big leaves. A plain spread out before them, and, five-six kilometers to the west, the surface of a river and the white domes of short, stretched buildings gleamed. The river was exactly as Corcoran remembered it: calm, wide, colored by the glow of the pink reflection of the setting sun. Night had already set on the plateau, but it was still evening here, and it was probably half-an-hour before dark. The enormous solar disk hung low over the waters and the steppe, and the grass, or, perhaps, the moss, no longer seemed blue-green but purple, almost black. No movement was visible on the plain and by the river: no people, no platforms floating towards the buildings, no other mechanisms.

As if sleepwalking, Corcoran took a few steps down the hill. His eyes continued to stare at the river and the buildings by the bank.

"Where are you going, Paul?" Siebel's voice made him wake up.

"I… You see, Klaus, this landscape appeared in my Dreams, but I was unable to take even a single step towards the river. The genetic memory was silent. And now I'm here and–"

"We've discussed this," Siebel interrupted him. "Your ancestor never came down to the riverbank, which is why you have no memories of that. I don't think you have anything to do by the river. There are a few hundred t'ho, an overseer Faata, and a small brain. They're making nutrient concentrates from grass."

But Corcoran barely heard him. A new thought gripped him, hitting him with the suddenness of lightning, taking his breath away. He turned around, examined the flat top of the hill, visible among the tree trunks, and muttered, "The man in t'hami… the one from whom I inherited the psychic gift and the memories… the one who has lived here for many years… Lord of Emptiness! He's my parent! My father!"

"Biological," Siebel reminded him calmly. "Don't measure the Faata by your Earth yardstick, they lack any kinship ties. This so-called father of yours is a parent to a thousand t'ho and, perhaps, a dozen fully sentient beings. The fact of his semen fertilizing the ovum, from which you came, is not a cause for any emotions. And if you remember how it was done… what they did to your mother… there, on their damned Ship…"

A chill ran down Corcoran's spine. Siebel was right, as always: aboard that damned ship, Abby McNeil had been subjected to a vile and despicable rape, being treated as if she was an animal, a lab rat or a guinea pig. And the man whose name he bore, Richard Corcoran, had an even worse fate: he had been tortured and killed. Yes, Siebel was right! If there was someone he should consider his father, it would be Corcoran, Litvin, or even Klaus himself, the Metamorph Exile…

He nodded sharply and furiously and started heading back up the hill, to the umbrella-shaped trees. There was a grove beyond them, which he had seen in the Dreams: short soft grass, surrounding by a circle of tree trunks, and, in the middle, was a gigantic tree, whose branches spread out horizontally over twenty-thirty meters. Siebel was walking next to him, tilting his head to one side, as if listening to something, and the grimace on his face was entirely not Faata-like. Surprise? Revulsion? No, more like disgust, Corcoran decided.

They entered the grove, but had barely taken a dozen steps, when they heard a commanding shout. Four people were heading towards them in rapid strides: muscular, half-naked burly men, pale and hairless, wearing belts or some sort of harness, like gladiator armor. Their faces appeared ugly to Corcoran, although everything seemed to be in the right place: strong cheekbones and chins, broad noses, European lips, grey, almost transparent eyes. Nearly identical faces, he thought; like that of the mentally retarded, and just as worn out, as if they had been sculpted from clay and smoothed over with a wet rag. Definitely not handsome fellows… no comparison to Aunt Yo.

"Olks," Siebel said calmly. "There must really be a high-ranking Faata living here, if his lair is guarded."

"They have paralyzers," Corcoran whispered, noticing the weapons hanging on their belts. "Well, let me calm them down." He raised the hand with the discharger, but Siebel shook his head.

"No need, Paul. We're Faata, and no t'ho will harm us. Talk to them for a few minutes. They are under a small brain's control, and I will quickly deal with that creature. A bit dumb but obedient… it's not a ship's quasi-sentient."

Corcoran stepped forward and cawed, "Hr'doa! Halt!" simultaneously sending an authoritative pulse. The guards froze, bending their arms in the gesture of obedience; they must have finally got a closer look at who had arrived. Then, shifting from one foot to the other, they started muttering.

"Fully sentient…"

"You cannot, fully sentient…"

"Cannot be here…"

"Home of Dyte…"

"Dyte, the Keeper of Communications…"

"Cannot, fully sentient…"

"Must leave…"

"Can request a module…"

"Fly away…"

"Dyte, the Keeper… Cannot…"

Suddenly, their eyes rolled back, and all four of them collapsed onto the grass. Alive, Corcoran noted: the guards' breathing was rhythmic, and they seemed to be in a state of deep sleep.

"Well, that's done," Siebel said. "The brain shut them down. Once they wake up, they won't remember us."

He started for the tree in the middle of the grove, but Corcoran called out to his friend.

"Wait. Let's hide them somewhere."

Dragging the sleeping olks to the hillside with thick grass, they examined the top of the hill. Five or six paces away from the central tree, they found the circular lens of a force field, slightly coming out of the ground. Such devices acted as doors and locks for the Faata and only opened under the influence of psychic pulses at the proper frequency. Most likely, there were stairs or a gravlift beyond the membrane, leading down, into Keeper Dyte's abode. A high title! Corcoran thought, trying to drown out the thought that Dyte was his parent. The hierarchy of a Sheaf, the ruling group on a world of the Third Phase, had been known from the chronicle dating back to Admiral Timokhin's days. The first was the Pillar of Order, an overlord with unlimited authority, the second was the Strategist, the Guardian of the Heavens, the third was the Intermediary, the Speaker with the Bino Tegari, which was what the Faata called aliens. The Keeper of Communications came fourth; his task was to control the quasi-sentients, their reproduction and programming. Obviously, Keepers were chosen for their natural gift, special abilities for telepathic communication, but the path of the other rulers to the heights of power was completely unknown. It was believed that personal qualities, experience, and age played a part; in fact, the lifespan was the deciding factor: those who passed the threshold of three-four centuries, naturally, had plenty of experience.

"Let me connect to the Daskin bastard and open the membrane," Siebel informed him. "We could teleport, but I can't imagine the layout of this dungeon… your Dream is so unclear…"

His eyes glazed over for an instant, and blue sparks started flowing through the membrane. The force lens clouded, then disappeared; behind it was a well, illuminated by a dim light.

"Looks like a gravity shaft," Corcoran said. "Let's go down, Klaus."

He stepped into the emptiness first, and picked up by the air stream, started to slowly descend. Siebel followed. His fingers were feeling for something in the bag hanging at his belt, and Corcoran thought it might be a weapon. A sleeping gas canister, an oblivion serum, basically, an option not resulting in a fatality. Throughout all the centuries he had spent on Earth, Siebel had never learned to kill.

The descent ended. Through the lower membrane, they passed into a large room with light bars crossing the ceiling. Corcoran was unable to say anything specific about this room's outlines: its walls bent smoothly, forming multiple alcoves, depressions, and protrusions, like in a grotto, where none of the surfaces were worked into familiar even surfaces, but left in their natural state and only polished. Some of the alcoves drowned in the darkness, while others were filled with light, and a transparent mass glittered in it, something like large pieces of crystal, gathered in bizarre druses. Some of the depressions, located on the wall at different levels, turned out to be empty, and patches of light flicked and flashed rhythmically in them. The odd-shaped ceiling with the streams of light bars increased the sense of foreignness, just as sharp as what Corcoran had felt aboard the Silmarri starship. This was surprising: the Silmarri were not humanoid, while the Faata were, despite everything.

Siebel appeared to remain indifferent to the appearance of the underground dwelling. He froze near one of the alcoves, which transitioned into a small chamber, covered by gloom; there was some sort of complex mechanism, entangled with rings of hoses and tubes with oval suckers, and they could see a disk on the floor, either made of metal or some metal-like plastic. A momentary recollection pierced Corcoran: naked and writhed, he was hovering in the air above this disk, and tubes and wires were reaching out to his body.

"A t'hami chamber," Siebel spoke, examining the alcove and the device. "And, as far as I understand, it's empty. Keeper Dyte is busy somewhere else, probably programming the brains near the southern sea." He turned to Corcoran. "Well, what is out next step? Do we wait here, or shall we head to the quasi-sentients?"

"I'd like to look around and record all this." Activating the bracelet, Corcoran gazed around the room. "There are plenty of curiosities here, what we hadn't seen in their broken ship. Don't you think, Klaus? For example, this thing…"

He pointed at an alcove with the crystals, but Siebel did not reply. His face suddenly grew focused; he was again receiving mental waves, and Corcoran felt their silent echo touch his mind. Standing in the twilight of someone else's home, among the bizarrely-curved walls, they were listening to the voices flying over the planet, like cries of a flock of birds. Then they looked at one another, and Siebel spoke.

"He knows someone has gotten inside his home. The brain has informed him. I could have blocked the signals, but…"

"It's not necessary, Klaus. Let him come. As long as he doesn't bring olks with him."

Siebel shook his head, "He's returning alone. He's confident in his abilities. He has no need for olks. He's in a flying craft and will arrive in a few minutes."

"Well, then," Corcoran said, "we'll wait."