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 9
Space near the outer planet and other places
The admiral's compartment aboard the Europe was big and, besides living quarters, included a spacious office for meeting, rest, and friendly visits. Such luxuries were not present on the other cruisers, as they were regular combat units, while the Europe, the lead ship of her class, had been built as a flagship. It was planned that Commodore Pavel Litvin would sit in the office and command the counterstrike flotilla… But Pavel Litvin had not lived to see the start of the operation, and the presiding chairman's seat at the round table now belonged to another man, tall, lean, with a commodore's chevrons on his uniform. Karel Vrba was nothing like Litvin in terms of appearance or disposition, but there was something they both had in common: each of them had a personal score to settle with the Faata.
An unsealed package and a thin pile of documents lay in front of Commodore Vrba. This fact in and of itself was surprising, for, in this day and age, neither paper nor plastic, or even any other material that could be used for writing was virtually ever used. Chips, pocketputes, and film screens had replaced the ancient books, and even artists no longer painted on paper or canvas but using computers and holoprojectors. But Vrba extracted sheets of paper from the package, filled with large printed text, and each page was signed three times: by the First and Second Speakers of the World Parliament and by Admiral Yumashev, the CINC of the Third Fleet. The thick yellowish paper, the dark lines of letters, the signatures, and the control strip certifying their authenticity – all that gave the document an archaic look, as if the Commodore was looking at an Ancient Egyptian papyrus.
The five other chairs at the table were occupied by captains. Not in the flesh, of course: Task Force 37, having left the Oort cloud, was moving in battle formation towards the outer planet, and the captains were on their bridges, at their battle posts. The formation was tight, the signal delay was no more than a few microseconds, and the holograms looked extremely real. To the right of Vrba was Commodore Rustem Adisherov, his first deputy and the captain of the Asia, to the left was his second deputy James Douglas Clayton, the captain of the America. The Africa, the Antarctica, and the Australia were represented by Bruce Kalinga, Yuri Shavrin, and Paul Burg.
"You've familiarized yourselves with the three messages received from the Litvin," Commodore Vrba said. "The first two pertain to the shipyard, while the last one is an overview of the situation on Ro'on, where our scouts are currently located. Does everyone agree that the shipyard and Obscurus are our primary targets?"
The heads of those sitting at the table nodded in unison. All of them were USF veterans, having lived to get their captain's chevrons, something not everyone managed to do, and all of them knew the delicate art of seeking out vulnerabilities in the enemy's defenses. The light of Earth's Star Fleet, Karel Vrba thought with pride.
"If there are no other opinions, then let's start planning the operation. Burg, if you please."
Paul Burg, Martian by birth from the Little Queensland Dome, was the most junior in the council of captains. Usually, this was seen as a mere formality related to the ships' numbers, with the exception of two cases: first, the members of the council spoke by seniority, and second, should Task Force 37 be destroyed, the Australia had to make it back to Earth. Its computers held the same information as the flagship's, the copies of all orders, briefings and dispatches, memorandums and reports of the scientific section, and the video recordings made by the SADs and the observers.
"We can't get tied up in a protracted battle with an uncertain outcome," Burg said. "Based on Corcoran's data, one of the starships in the shipyard is already equipped, and it has a quasi-mind… If you recall, the ship that attacked Earth carried nearly fifteen hundred battle units. There may be at least as many, or even more, here, against six of our cruisers and six hundred Peregrines. It's difficult to forecast the outcome."
"Yes, with such a balance of forces, the forecast is problematic," Vrba agreed. "Your opinion, Shavrin."
"A surprise attack, Commodore. After the Invasion, we know the parameters of their defense fields. It won't hold up under a strike of three cruiser-based annihilators. We can slice it open, burn the ships, and their means of defense. If we act quickly, they won't have time to deploy their module flotillas."
"Kalinga?"
"Shavrin is correct: surprise is the best strategy. Perhaps we won't be able to destroy all the modules with a massive strike, but we have good odds against even a thousand of them. We only have six hundred Peregrines, but let's not forget cruiser support. Besides, we can drop combat robots onto the shipyard, followed by marines."
"Clayton, you have the floor."
The captain of the America was relatively young, but he had managed to become famous as a brilliant tactician and strategist. He had a special gift that turned a soldier into a commander: never forget about one's own advantages over the enemy, even the most insignificant and minor, and use them with the skill of an experienced magician. He was predicted a distinguished career, if he returned alive from the New Worlds, of course.
"Maybe we will deal with their defenses," he spoke, looking at the monitor showing the slowly-rotating rock of Obscurus. "We now have defense fields, annihilators, and gravity drives of our own, so our maneuverability and firepower are equal to the enemy. Maybe we will succeed, but we'll still sustain casualties. The attack will bleed us dry, and there are still two more planets… two worlds in this system and Aezat at Beta Malleus."
"What do you suggest?"
"Let's bet on our advantage. Not on surprise, although that is also important, but on the contour drive. Faata battle modules can only move through normal space, just like our fighters, while the cruisers are capable of submerging into Limbo. This will allow us to maneuver quickly."
"But not near the outer planet," Shavrin objected. "Such an enormous gravitating mass will not allow–"
"Yes, of course! But what conclusion do we derive from this?" Clayton's face, the face of a cunning farmer from Oklahoma, wrinkled into a smile. "Only one, Yuri, only one! We must lure them out to such a distance, where we can jump into Limbo and reappear at an unexpected place. By my navigators' calculations, about a hundred thousand megameters from the planet. There is a risk, but it's possible."
"A big risk…" Kalinga muttered. "A hundred thousand megameters… only a day's flight by cruiser… A jump like that could take us to the center of the galaxy."
"Doubtful. The uncertainty isn't that great, and we won't get farther than the Oort cloud. Naturally, the target location will be blurred, but we will stay within the system's boundaries. The main thing is not to get close to the sun. If the armor melts…"
"…then we're dead," Paul Burg noted. "Have you calculated the probability of such an outcome, James?"
"About one-hundredth. I think those are good odds."
Vrba rapped on the table with his knuckles.
"We have transitioned to the discussion too soon, having never heard from Adisherov. Please, Rustem."
"A jump in the vicinity of the protostar will scatter us throughout the whole system. The risk to get close to the star might be minimal, but we'll definitely lose communication. It's impossible to establish the ships' positions ahead of time, and if someone gets thrown into the cloud, they'll need a day, maybe even two, to get back into reliable communication range. And a lot longer to gather the flotilla for a second attack on Obscurus."
"Then we need to split up," the Commodore responded. His gaze slid to the thin pile of sheets at his elbow, and, covering them with a palm, he spoke. "Here are the Parliament's instructions, and, in accordance with them, I have to reject a sudden frontal assault. Specifically, not the attack itself, but its consequences, the destruction of the ships. That is unacceptable."
"Why, sir?" Shavrin asked, frowning.
"We know the population density on T'har: two thousand fully sentient beings and three and a half million t'ho… that is from the data obtained from the Faata female, the one that… hmm… the one who stayed with Commodore Litvin. Aezat has, possibly, as many inhabitants as T'har or less, while Ro'on has more by an order of magnitude. Forty million inhabitants in total." Vrba's face was inscrutable. "And what are we going to do with them?"
"Forty million…" Shavrin grumbled. "About the same as how many they've killed on Earth…"
"Yes. However," the Commodore gave him a hard look, "however, there are nuances, Captain. We cannot and do not wish to become like the Faata. If I gave you an order to head to Ro'on and cleanse it… say, release a cloud of virulent microorganisms, burn the settlements with plasma weapons, cut the planet's crust open with an annihilator… would you have followed such an order?"
Brown spots appeared on Shavrin's cheeks. Recovering, he spoke, after a moment's pause.
"I will follow any order you give me, Commodore, and so will my people. Half of them have loved ones who died… parents, the older generation… like…"
"… like me," Vrba finished imperturbably. "There's a good saying: before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." He smiled grimly. "We can, of course, destroy ten million sentient beings, even twenty, or forty… we have the means… But how do we live after that? How do we live?.." The yellow sheets rustled under his hand. "Luckily, the instructions I have received do not require genocide. We, the humanity, are entering into a family of galactic races, and many in this disjointed group will look at us in askance and judge us unfairly, such as one judges a bastard child who has come out of the woodwork to demand a piece of the inheritance. The murder of millions of aliens would not make us look any better. We must exile them from here, not destroy. Accounting for the Invasion, this is a just measure, and, besides, Beta and Gamma Malleus are within our sphere of galactic interest. These systems are much closer to Earth than to the Faata empire."
"Exile…" Shavrin repeated, shaking his head. "Now I understand… For them to get out of there, they need ships. But even a hundred of their enormous ships won't fit forty million! And all they, effectively, have is one, the one with the quasi-mind… This doesn't solve the problem. Am I right, Commodore?"
Vrba and Adisherov exchanged looks. The first deputy was probably familiar with the Parliament's directives, as he answered immediately and without hesitation.
"Based on various estimates, the Invasion ship had from a hundred to a hundred and twenty thousand Faata and t'ho. This means that the higher caste from Aezat, T'har, and Ro'on can leave, taking thousands of servants with them. As for the others, they can send unarmed ships after them, which we will not hinder. Let them take all forty million, if they can do it in time."
"In time?" Kalinga echoed. "Why would time matter?"
"Because a t'ho's lifespan is limited," Adisherov explaind. "We will destroy the incubators and busy the workers, guards, and other caste with something, but they will die quickly without the Faata. The experts think they'll have maybe five-eight years. It's not in our power to grant them a longer life. Either they will be taken, or…" He shrugged.
Silence fell. The five holograms in the office and the office's living owner were motionless, thinking over what they had just heard. Their ships, covered by a force field veil, were flying towards the outer planet, and the crews, ready for battle, were at their posts on the main and auxiliary bridges, at the communication, live support, targeting systems, in the predatory darts of the Peregrines, and the SAD controls, and the bulky carcasses of the combat robots. Gunners, marines, pilots, navigators… Most of them were young and did not remember the horrors of the Invasion, born after it, but having lost loved ones… Or having lost nothing: not their home, not their yard, not their relatives, but that changed nothing; here, from an alien world, immeasurably far from Earth, any loss felt personal.
The Commodore broke the long silence.
"On to business, people! Now, our mission: capture the shipyard, destroy the military equipment, but preserve the ships, at least one of them. Then try to enter negotiations."
"Is that realistic?" Kalinga questioned, and Shavrin raised a silent eyebrow. "Will they want to speak with us?"
"They will. If there are no other ships in the system, then we are in charge. We'll give them a disarmed starship, and let them go. We don't have to like them, we can hate them, but we can't deny their logic and clarity of thought." The Commodore gathered the sheets of the instructions, put them back into the package, and added. "It would be nice to avoid casualties, not counting the initial clash, of course. We'll plan it on the basis of Clayton's idea. Surprise, the contour drive, and a little bit of cunning… We have much to think about!"
The discussion continued for about two hours, then the holograms dissolved in the air, one after another. The dark-skinned Bruce Kalinga, born in the half-destroyed London, vanished; the face and figure of Adisher, who had personally seen his native Tashkent turned into ruins, went away; Shavrin dissolved, his village in Pskov Oblast having survived, but the white stone temples, the pride of Pskov, were gone; the image of Clayton disappeared, his hometown of Muskogee, Oklahoma, so far removed from world events that, having heard of the Invasion, its people had not believed a word of it. The last to dissolve was Paul Burg, who had said no more than a dozen phrases throughout the whole meeting; like all those born on Mars, he instinctively used air sparingly and was, therefore, taciturn.
Having been left alone, Commodore Vrba tiredly rubbed his temples, then entered an air conditioning code on his bracelet, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. The office was filled with the scent of fresh water and blossoming lilac, there was a faint sound of rustling leaves, and his features softened. He imagined himself sitting in the spring gardens of the Prague Castle, over the wide quiet Vltava, and, behind him, rose the gothic spires of the St. Vitus Cathedral, and below was the river with the piers, quays, bridges, and Charles Bridge, the oldest of them, threatening the skies with a pair of guard towers.
How beautiful! he thought. How beautiful it all was, when the cathedral and the bridge still stood, and those gardens bloomed over the Vltava, which no one will ever see again…
Red Alert was sounded at 1625. Right after that, the Asia, the Africa, and the Antarctica, diving out from behind the sphere of the protostar and maintaining cruising speed, passed over Obscurus, pouring scorching plasma over the triangular plain with the spot of the force field. It had been assumed that launch tubes came out to the surface of the satellite, and if they were blocked by melted rock, some of the modules would be trapped. The fiery storm still raged among the cliffs and the rocks, turning them into liquid lava, when hatches opened in the ships' sides, spitting fighters out into space. The cruisers, reducing their speed, were on their way to the northern pole, having passed over the cloudy planetary sphere as enormous silver shells. The Peregrines spread out two hundred kilometers away from Obscurus, not trying to attack: their weapons were not strong enough to crack open the force dome. They were circling in space, making sharp course corrections, like flies dancing on a dark tropical night. They were waiting.
Commodore Vrba was watching these maneuvers via relays. Three of his ships were positioned at the planetary disk, hiding in the upper atmosphere, slowly drifting in the protostar's hydrogen corona, above the methane clouds. It was not an easy task for the pilots to maintain such a low orbit near a gravitating mass, but there was no shortage of energy, as hydrogen was an excellent fuel source for gravity drives. The Europe, the America, and the Australia were swimming like whales among the nutritious plankton, grabbing the gas with the open maws of the converters.
Suddenly, there was smoke coming from the surface of Obscurus. The cooling lava cracked, the dust, crushed stone, and large chunks of rock flew up, heading into the cosmic emptiness, and, along with them, an armada of battle modules was surfacing. A portion of them may have been destroyed during the initial attack, but the survivors seemed to be an innumerable force that was coming up, wave after wave, in the clouds of dust and glowing gas. There was a momentary silence on the Europe's bridge, which was so recently full of people's voices; pilots, navigators, Vrba's officers, and he himself were staring at the central screen. The computer that was receiving information from SAD sensors, was counting the enemy forces, throwing numbers onto the monitor; they were changing with a maddening speed, then their run slowed and, finally, stopped.
"Twelve hundred and forty machines," the officer of the watch reported.
Vrba, gripped by a cocoon, could only nod. Not as few as they had hoped, but not that many either… Four to one, which meant that there would be losses in a direct confrontation… The losses were inevitable in any case, and he tried not to think about that.
"Their movement is disorderly," came the voice of First Officer Leonides.
The Commodore remained silent, but this time, his lips quivered in a smile. Disorderly! Well, not entirely, but, still, it did not seem like the ships were being directed by someone's singular and firm will. Based on Corcoran's report, there was no Strategist, Guardian of the Heavens, as the Faata called their military commanders, at the shipyard. This meant that the defense was being controlled by a triumvirate: two Keepers and a quasi-mind, joined telepathically. A Strategist would have reacted differently, faster and more decisively, the Commodore thought and immediately threw that thought to the side. Wild guesses, nothing but wild guesses! He had never met the Faata in battle, not their Strategists, not the Keepers, not the Daskin creatures animated by them.
The fighters, circling over the shipyard, opened into a wide ring, letting the first enemy echelon through. Obviously, this maneuver served as a sign of confusion to the controlling brain, as now it seemed to have an opportunity to attack the Peregrines from the front and the rear. But Adisher, Kalinga, and Shavrin's ships had already turned around over the planet's pole and, accelerating, were heading towards Obscurus. They passed over the Faata modules, hitting them with everything that could shoot and kill: plasma cannons and swarms, lasers and missiles; then the darkness was cut up by three blue beams, three columns of light, and several modules, who got caught by the streams of anti-matter, flared and vanished, breaking apart in the clouds of explosions.
The beams converged on the force screen protecting the shipyard. The iridescent bubble swelled up momentarily, opening as a bright fiery fountain; something was tossing and twisting in its blood-red streams, something was burning, throwing off sparks, some scorched structures, like dying stars, flew away into the emptiness, cooling, or crashing down, into the methane clouds, blazing an ominous glow. After a second or two, the fountain popped, and white flakes of frozen air rushed out of the dark hole. The weak light of the floodlights tried to get through the blizzard roaring on the surface of Obscurus.
"I hope they haven't damaged the ships," the Commodore said. "Officer of the watch! Do you see anything?"
"Only dust and snow, sir. I'm afraid, until they settle, the Owls are blind."
"Well then, let's wait."
Vrba looked over the bridge, the seven pilots holding the cruiser in the stormy atmosphere of the protostar, ten navigators, a dozen observers, and his three officers, sitting and the communication and fire control panels. The Commodore's chair, connected to the floor and the bulkhead, covered by a protective transparent housing, was on a dais, and, from here, he could see the wide semicircle of the consoles, hologram cylinders appearing here and there with the dark glyph symbols, the heads and shoulders of the people packed into cocoons, and a row of screens. Some of them were showing shining stars, or grey rivers of clouds streaming over the planet, or an interior of some familiar compartment; the others, linked to the relays, were displaying the snowy fog flowing over the stones of Obscurus, the flashing lightning of the annihilators, and the bursting balls of fire of dying ships. A battle was taking place there: three cruisers, three hundred Peregrines against the Faata armada. The coordination of the enemy fleet did not appear to break; it seemed that the quasi-mind and both of the Keepers had survived the anti-matter explosion.
"Attention!" the Commodore spoke. "Leonides, transmit to the Asia: tell them to disengage. Clayton and Burg are to wait!"
A maelstrom of glyphs spun over the transmitter. The three fighting cruisers shifted into the depth of the screens, the dim sparks of the fighters stretching out behind them, attempting to hold off the enemy. Can they break off?.. and at what cost?.. the Commodore thought. The Peregrines suddenly separated into three directions, freeing the space; a missile salvo from the cruisers swept away several dozen modules, and the annihilators flashed the final blue lances. The Asia, picking up her Peregrines, rushed upwards, coming up above the ecliptic, the Africa turned towards the galactic pole, the Antarctica continued to maintain course towards the Oort cloud. The cruisers' hatches were open, and the Commodore could not help but count the UFs returning to their nests. It was not working very well, as the operation was taking place with commendable speed.
The ships were diverging farther and father, and he thought that, from a human point-of-view, this looked more like a panicked escape. What about the Faata? What would the Faata think? And, most importantly, their controlling brain? Vrba had absolutely no knowledge of the psyche of quasi-sentient beings, and he once again wistfully thought that his position was not his by right. Litvin should have been sitting here, Paul Litvin! The only one who had made contact with a spawn of the Daskins, who could have anticipated its reaction! But Commodore Litvin, as was the star fleet's custom, was on his way to Alpha Centauri, Procyon, or Sirius, packed into a burial container, and an urn with Yo's ashes was cooling on his chest…
Karel Vrba's alarm was in vain: the modules that had risen up from Obscurus, split into three groups and did not appear to be intent on letting their prey go. They were following the cruisers into the cold and the eternal night, distancing themselves from the shipyard with every passing minute, like a pack of wolves following the escaping prey, to catch and destroy it. A futile attempt! But that would not be clear immediately… no, not immediately!
"Kiryanov, contact Adisherov, Kalinga, and Shavrin," the Commodore ordered his second officer. "I am awaiting reports on the losses."
The saddest act in any battle, even a victorious one, he thought. There were no victories without losses… Actually, the only difference between victory and defeat was the number of casualties, one's own and the enemy's.
"Data received," Kiryanov reported. "Should I put it up on the screen?"
"Aloud, Sergey, aloud. Broadcast to all ships."
"The Asia lost an external radar and has a crack in the hull near the fifth cargo hold. Eighteen marines did not return… No damage to the Africa, twenty-three Peregrines lost… The Antarctica lost pressure in turret 4B and the adjoining part of the deck, eight dead… and nine marines have not returned… End of the report, Commodore. Standard procedure?"
"Yes."
He forcefully pressed the lever freeing him from the cocoon and stood up. Everyone else on the bridge, in the compartments, and on the decks of the Europe and the other ships rose with him.
"We've lost fifty-eight people," Vrba said and threw his hand up in a salute. "May their ashes wander the Great Emptiness until the end of time, and we, the living, will remember and honor them… The hymn! Kiryanov, list their names!"
Minor blood, he thought, listening to the familiar names. But can blood even be minor?.. Only on paper or microchip, in a triumphant report: the total size of the crews is thirty-two hundred people, the losses were less than two percent… or a little more, if Corcoran and his people don't return… Timokhin lost everyone in the Battle of the Martian Orbit. Karel Vrba could not recall the exact number, but he never forgot the loss of his father and brother. And when the music and the list had ended, he wanted to head to the defenseless shipyard, drop the biggest charge they had into that damned hole, and then put T'har, Ro'on, and Aezat to the sword and the flame.
Gritting his teeth, he lowered into his seat and spoke evenly.
"Cancel the alert. We'll stay in orbit for twenty hours, until the first group goes into Limbo, then we'll lock down Obscurus. Ibáñez, your specialists and Loudmouth Ben need to be fully prepared. Kiryanov, relieve the watch. All those not on duty, go rest. Leonides, transmit these orders to the Australia and the America.
After jumping through Limbo, the Asia found herself near T'har's orbit. The Africa and the Antarctica were lucky: both ships exited into real space not far from one another, halfway to the comet cloud. Their next jump put them in the vicinity of Obscurus, and, after establishing communication, Commodore Vrba ordered them to join the main group. The Asia was sent to T'har, where it would arrive within a day. Vrba believed that, by that point, he would be the master of the New Worlds: T'har and Ro'on were unlikely to be capable of putting up serious resistance, the shipyard's defenses were crushed, and the fleet defending it was stuck in space, many hours away from Obscurus. That fleet, despite the losses it had sustained during the fight with the cruisers and the Peregrines, was still a force to be reckoned with; it still had nearly a thousand modules, and a new battle with the Faata could end either way. Even if it resulted in a crushing victory, the cost would be too great: the computers forecasted the destruction of half or even seventy percent of human ships. But the Faata battle modules, busy chasing ghosts, would not return to the shipyard soon, and the brain controlling them was in the Commodore's grip. Well, not exactly in the grip, but definitely on his palm; all he had to do was squeeze his fingers.
At his command, the three ships surfaced above the hydrogen atmosphere and, circling the protostar—the Europe from the pole, the America and the Australia from both sides of the equator—met above the moon that looked like a roughly-cut tetrahedron. One of the sides was covered in snow, but melted stone, settled cliffs, and a web of cracks were visible through this thin white cover. The bubble of the force field was once again present over the shaft, but its shimmering appeared to be weak, and its shape was unstable: it kept expanding into a hemisphere, or settling almost to the planetoid's surface. Not a defense against weapons; the people in the shipyard were probably trying to preserve what was left of their air.
The America and the Australia, surrounded by a swarm of battle-ready Peregrines, hovered about five hundred kilometers above the moon. The Europe came lower, dropping several SADs to scout the area. The force screen, thin and almost transparent, did not prevent them from gauging the state of the shipyard after the annihilator strike. Unlike lasers, swarms, and plasma weapons, which pierced, sliced, or burned, unlike vacuum and freezer bombs, which destroyed air, unlike poison gases, biological weapons, and missiles, the annihilator was a device of a different caliber, more powerful and destructive. A stream of anti-protons did not scatter as much and could travel for tens of thousands of megameters, until it encountered an obstacle; then, according to the formula E=mc2, terrible energy was released. The results were a flash of light, plenty of hard radiation, and superheated plasma, which was all that remained of the matter at the periphery of the stream. The force screen had protected the Faata from this sad fate, but one of the ships looked like a bunch of chaotically-twisted beams, torn surfaces, and drops of solidified metal, and the hull of another was full of gaping holes. The third did not appear to be damaged or could be repaired; multi-armed machines were busy on its nose.
A wing of Peregrines, dropped from the Europe, passed over the force bubble, turned around almost near the rocks, and four blue lances, piercing the bloated dome twice, melted the soil beyond it. Then the fighters went up and started to circle over the shaft, occasionally firing their lasers; the beams were being aimed on a tangent, merely grazing the surface of the bubble, with crimson shapeless splotches blooming at the point of contact. Maybe the hint would have been lost on the Silmarri or any other non-humanoids, but the Faata were humanoid, who worked with devices that, if one ignores the quasi-minds, did not differ much from their terrestrial analogs. Your roof was leaking, there was rustling of the laser flashes, and your defenders were far away… We could have vaporized you, you and your priceless ships. But we'll wait, we'll wait! If you want, we'll talk terms, bargain… But not too long!
A module surfaced over the top of the giant cylinder, an unarmed transport vehicle. It smoothly rose to the top of the dome, slipped through the force veil, waited for the Peregrines to surround it, and moved towards the open hatch of the cruiser. It was being received on the lower marine deck, but with honors: Third Officer Raivo Paulinen, two combat robots, and a detachment of soldiers with weapons at the ready.
"One person, sir," Paulinen reported, looking into the module's cabin. "And something else, naked and bony… Wrapped in film and suspended by the forward screen."
Commodore Vrba was on the bridge and was watching the guest's arrival on an internal monitor.
"It's a pilot, Raivo," he said, rising out of his chair. "Don't touch it, let it hang where it is. Bring the Faata to deck A, right to Loudmouth Ben. Officer of the watch!"
"Sir!"
"Send Dr. Ibáñez to me immediately, I'll be in the observation room. Kick the astrophysicists out of there, and put marines on the hatches. Transmit everything to the ships of the flotilla, but only on the captain's channel. Full recording. Let Borsetti handle that, Kiryanov has the conn."
"Aye-aye, sir!"
The officer of the watch dashed to the intercom, but Vrba stopped him.
"Tell the head of the science team that we need a Transinformatics expert. Better get those who programmed the Loudmouth. Dr. Swahn and Dr. Cuba. Get to it!"
He left the control center and leisurely headed down the wide hallway of deck A. As regulations demanded during a Red Alert, there were marines in battle armor under the command of Lieutenant Beloruchko, and one more platoon was located by the hatches leading to the observation room. It had already been cleared out: no one was at the control panels, the telescopic domes were empty, pocketputes, recording chips, holograms with the view of the starry sky bisected by the Void were scattered on the couches and the tables. At the far side of the room, separated by screens, two women, Isabel Cuba and Helga Swahn, were bustling by the Loudmouth's massive hulk. Joaquin Ibáñez was rubbing his hands nervously next to them.
"We are fully prepared, mi comandante… Are they bringing him here? Is he alone? What does he look like? Is it a Faata or a t'ho of a privileged caste?"
Vrba did not answer these questions, turned to the translator's grey box, and said, "Is this thing going to work? Are you certain?"
Helga Swahn frowned. Her colleague, a small energetic woman, threw an indignant glance at Karel Vrba.
"Do you have reason to doubt it, Commodore? We've been developing this device for over eight years, testing it on Timokhin's audio recordings, the ones from the failed negotiations, and Corcoran had verified it… Corcoran and that Secret Service officer with the modified throat. An excellent translation in both directions, with all the nuances of the language!"
"I would prefer to see Corcoran and that same officer here," Vrba replied glumly. "You say that it's an excellent translation with all the nuances? Those are emotions, Doctor. I'm not planning on reading Byron or Mickiewicz here. I need an adequate translation!"
Maybe Dr. Cuba wanted to retort, but she ended up frozen with her mouth open. The elevator hummed, the walls of the cab opened, and a Faata appeared in the room, escorted by Paulinen and three armored marines. He was young and handsome: a pale narrow face with a tiny crimson mouth and silver eyes, long black hair, a slim figure, and graceful movements, like a fairytale elf. His tight-fitting clothes shone blue, then azure, then violet, his feet stepped silently, his arms were bent at the elbows, his hands were raised to his face, as if he was trying to read something that was written on his palms. The gesture of submission, the Commodore recalled. The gesture of someone who has lost a battle and was prepared to part with his life.
The women behind him gasped quietly, Ibáñez sucked in air loudly, and Karel Vrba, turning his head, called them to order with a single movement of his eyebrows. Then he nodded at a spot in front of the translator.
"Stand here! And turn on your infernal machine!"
The Faata, guessing the meaning behind the order, stepped to the Loudmouth, looked it over, and, without lowering his hands, shifted his gaze to the Commodore. If only Litvin were here!.. flashed a thought in Vrba's head. He remember his story; maybe not as clearly and completely as Corcoran, for his source was the documents and the recordings, not living tales. But he remembered enough to chuckle for a second. Reality has a strange sense of humor, it played strange games, when, inverting the past, poured new liquor into an old wineskin. All this had happened before! There had been a helpless captive on an alien ship, who had stood before the powerful Faata, surrounded by guards, translators, intermediaries, aliens from an unknown world, foreign and unkind… All that is repeating like a reflection in the mirror, Karel Vrba thought, except the captive is now a Faata, and the ship, the translators, and the guards are mine!
"You can lower your hands," he spoke, and Loudmouth Ben produced a series of wheezes and clicks.
The captive obeyed and responded; his speech was far more melodious than the translator's.
"You are who?" the Loudmouth translated. "Are who? Kni'lina? Meet Third Phase? Meet before?"
The Commodore stood straight. He was a head taller than the Faata, broader in shoulders, and looked like a giant next to him.
"I'm not a Kni'lina, I'm a Pillar of Order of another race. Your ship invaded our star system. Yata… Do you know this name?"
The names were problematic: the translator gave their terrestrial pronunciation. He spent the next several minutes arguing with the captive, who appeared not to understand the name.
"Allow me," Helga Swahn whispered from behind the Commodore.
"Silence!" he growled and repeated, stretching out the first syllable, "Yyaata, Yyaata."
"Is so," Loudmouth Ben finally informed him. "Know Yata. Hear. Ship leave before I born."
Very young, even by Earth standards, Vrba thought. Young and innocent. Under different circumstances, we might…
He narrowed his eyes. The circumstances were as they were. Deaths of millions separated them.
"Yata ship," the Loudmouth grated. "What ship Yata? What happen, occur, make?"
"I said that Yata invaded out system," the Commodore spoke. "We have destroyed his ship and the entire crew. Now we are here."
A pressure on his brain, weak, barely noticeable. Vrba stretched his lips; this was not a smile but a sign of irritation understandable to the captive. Human psychologists were familiar with some of the elements of Faata facial expressions.
"I know that you're a Keeper, and I understand what you're trying to do. It won't work. My mind is impervious to psychic probing."
"T'ho?" the captive asked, touching his forehead with his thin fingers.
"Pillar of Order." The Commodore put a hand on his chest. "Fully sentient Pillar of Order, and, henceforth, the ruler of the New Worlds. The ruler of your rulers. You will do what I say."
The Loudmouth grated once again, but it appeared to have managed the translation. Awaiting the reply, Vrba glanced at his aides. All of them maintained a disciplined silence. The three members of the science team never took their eyes off the Faata, the marines in battle armor seemed to be statues of steel, and Third Officer Raivo Paulinen was looking around watchfully, trying to keep the guards by the hatches, and captive, and the marines guarding him in his line of sight. Green lights were visible on the holocameras: they were recording, and there was no doubt that Kiryanov and Borsetti, the Europe's chief communications officer, would not miss a rustle or a sigh.
The translator croaked again, "What Bino Tegari Pillar of Order wish? What need do?"
"That's better. I feel that we've reached an understanding," Vrba said. "Can you contact Ro'on?"
"That so, Pillar of Order. Far, very far. But quasi-mind here help."
"Contact them. Now."
The captive's eyes dulled. Now Vrba had trouble seeing his pupils; they appeared to submerge to the bottom of the silver lakes, making the Faata's face appear similar to an android's dispassionate visage. A minute passed, then another, and the Keeper, still in trance, whispered something.
"Louder," the Commodore ordered. "Speak loudly and clearly, or the translating machine will not understand you."
"No contact Keeper Dyte," the reply came. "Mind no… contact… lost… rrrdd… vzz… absent… vzz… rdd…" The roaring and the squeals stopped, and Loudmouth Ben spoke. "No term available. No term available, no term available, no term available–"
"Information accepted. Exit cycle," the Commodore commanded. "Translate: Keeper Dyte not necessary. We need to contact the Pillars of Order on Ro'on and T'har. The first in the Sheaf."
The translator muttered several short, clipped phrases. The Faata's features froze. He appeared to have left this world and was wandering the space inaccessible to ships, devices, or thought. His smooth cheeks turned blue, and veins bulged and pulsed on his temples. He no longer looked like a sentient being; more like a machine, whose artful creator gave it a human appearance.
"He's under great stress, Don Commodore," Ibáñez spoke. "I believe it would have been easier to contact a Keeper than a Pillar of Order. The Keepers are trained to–"
"Waira," the captive suddenly spoke in a clear and strong voice. "Singa p'aata n'ori. Knitan'di. Alven r'ilat."
"Call achieve… reach… access…" the translator muttered, then chocked and informed them. "Untranslatable idiom, no term available. Reach Waira, Pillar of Order, Ro'on. Question: what say Waira?"
"Tell him that there is a battle fleet from the star system where Yata's ship was destroyed. Also tell him that, after that visit, we have no reason to like you. We've captured the shipyard, and we will destroy it, if the Pillar of Order rejects our terms."
The Loudmouth wheezed, trilled, repeating what was said in Faata'liu, then translated the captive's reply.
"Waira understand. Waira clear… no term available. Waira know… know about Bino Tegari. Two on planet… cause harm… Also small ship… Ro'on orbit… attacked. Near destruction."
"The Litvin… our frigate…" Ibáñez whispered. "And those two… My God! He means Corcoran and Siebel!.."
The Commodore's face turned to stone.
"Have him call off his modules and leave my people alone. Immediately!"
"Did… Waira did so… does… What else? Petition… request… wish… not touch big ship in shipyard… not touch quasi-mind… What for that? What Bino Tegari Pillar of Order wish?"
"You must leave Ro'on, T'har, and Aezat. The fully sentient and their chosen t'ho will fly away now. You can send a fleet of transports for the rest. We'll give you the large ship with the quasi-mind, but the modules guarding the shipyard will stay here under our control. That is all!"
Perspiration appeared on the Keeper's forehead; it was obviously difficult to maintain a connection at cosmic distances. Vrba had no idea, could not even imagine, what forces were in play to allow thought to instantly cross the distance between Obscurus and Ro'on. Except for the half-breed Corcoran, there were no telepaths or telekinetics on Earth, and no hopes that they would ever appear. There were only charlatans tricking the public. Half of them were Binucks and believed themselves to be descended from the Bino Faata.
"Waira agree… agrees… Only not destroy ship," Loudmouth Ben wheezed. "Waira ask: is another option? Not leave New Worlds… What in this case? Is al… alternative?"
Clenching his fists, the Commodore spoke slowly.
"There is always an alternative. If you don't leave to the other side of the Void, I will give you an Eclipse. A total one! In the very near future!"
His eyes flashed menacingly from beneath his bushy eyebrows.