This is a fan translation of The Missing Link (Недостаяющее звено) 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 third book in a series called Trevelyan's Mission (Миссия Тревельяна), which is a spin-off from the author's Arrivals from the Dark (Пришедшие из мрака) six-book series.

I claim no rights to the contents herein.

Note: Footnotes can be found at the end of the chapter.

Chapter 5

Crash Landing

Ivar had never had to fly in a quadplane before. Typically he landed in a one-man universal transport pod, which typically suited the goals of his visit to a particular planet. The Foundation for the Development of Alien Cultures didn't advertise its activities to the natives, preferring to study them covertly and to influence their progress through secretive means. It was sensible decision, as it wasn't possible to explain where the humans had come from and what they wanted. Even to the best minds of an archaic civilization, human emissaries weren't visitors from the stars. They were either benevolent gods or evil demons. The choice depended on the theological views of the natives and the disposition of the representative they were trying to interact with. Optimists thought humans to be deities, while pessimists treated them as devils. Neither role suited the emissaries, as a devil was always suspected of evil wiles, while a god was expected to provide lots of boons, preferably soon and freely. Religion played an important role in non-technic societies, but influencing it also had to be done covertly, without declaring oneself to be a deity or a prophet. Prophets often found themselves burned at the stake, hanged, or impaled.

For those reasons, Trevelyan would land in tiny pods, often holographically disguised as a cloud, a bird, or a chunk of the blue sky — assuming it was blue there, of course. Not that there were problems with other shades, as the phantom devices were capable of producing any illusion.

No such equipment was present on the cargo and passenger carrying quadplane, but the ship was far more spacious than a one-man pod that barely fit a couple of boxes in addition to the pilot. The quadplane was cross-shaped: at the center was the spheroid of the passenger cabin eight meters in diameter, which was attached to four cylindrical hold wings twenty meters in length. These compartments were meant for cargo. They were spacious and equipped with end and bottom hatches, whose lids could flip open to form ramps. Each of the four cargo holds was wrapped in the wide ring of a gravity drive, so the entire vehicle possessed incredible stability. It could hover in the clouds or above the ground, it could take off and land during a storm and maneuver in the sky with the grace of a swallow. The quadplane wasn't equipped with shields, but, like all means of space transportation, it was made out of an armored shockproof composite. There was also internal acradeit plating that was capable of transforming and altering its molecular structure in the extremely unlikely event of a meteorite punching through the armor. All in all, the machine was as simple and reliable as an antique corkscrew.

As for the amenities, Trevelyan had a chance to appreciate them during his seven-hour flight to the planet. Soft chairs in the control room in the upper part of the sphere, living quarters with a shower in the lower, an inertial damper, large viewscreens, fresh air, and an automated bar that doubled as a jukebox — all that was no worse than aboard the enormous transport ship. Cozier, in fact, as the modest size didn't make him feel lonely. In addition, the bar had excellent cognac in addition to fruit juices. While savoring it and listening to Vivaldi's gentle music, Trevelyan looked out at the velvety darkness of the Void and discussed the details of the upcoming operation with the Commodore. It was worth listening to his grandfather's advice, as the man had studied hundreds of planets in both war and peace, whereas Ivar wasn't particularly experienced in orbital scouting and probing. He was one of those scouts that walked more than flew.

When the vehicle froze over the northern pole three planetary diameters away, Ivar put on the navigation helmet and, keeping the onboard computer on, took over the controls. There were going to be complex maneuvers: four orbits on different trajectories over an unknown and probably hostile world. He planned to fly over the planet from pole to pole, then in the equatorial plane and twice at a forty-five-degree angle to the planetary axis, from southwest to northeast, and from southeast to northwest. The Commodore believed that the four orbits would allow them to chart the area and study the orbital space where there could be hidden sentry satellites. Then again, secrecy was not a Faata strong suit. They generally preferred large-scale battles and planetary occupations to concealment, covert action, and patient long-term scouting.

Activating the scanners and the video recording equipment, Trevelyan started with the first orbit. He wasn't bothered by the possibility of an attack. He was thirty megameters from the planet, and it wasn't easy to hit a ship at such a distance. Any object with a rest mass—missiles, plasma, or an antimatter stream—moved too slowly, which meant it could be detected and dodged. Electromagnetic weapons like lasers were more effective at long ranges, but only in space; if fired form a planet, some of the energy would be scattered in the atmosphere. And the atmosphere here was pretty decent: the pressure was like on Earth a thousand meters over the sea level, twenty-five percent oxygen, water vapors and carbon dioxide in trace amounts, the rest was nitrogen. A typical composition for an Earthlike world capable of supporting life.

Each orbit took about half an hour. When the flyby was done, the planetary sphere unfolded over the controls as a holographic projection: a large landmass with its northern portion clad in the armor of ice and snow; to the west, on the equator, was a smaller continent, about the size of Australia; a scattering of islands in the ocean, one of which was almost as big as the western continent. The landscape was deserted or mountainous, but Trevelyan thought the mountains weren't tall; maybe the wind, rain, and sand-carrying hurricanes had eroded the ridges, turning them into plateaus. Here and there he could make out conglomerations of stone that might have been city ruins. There were also gray-green spots of forests or lichen-covered plains but not an abundance of greenery; the land was dominated by the colors of sand and rock: yellow, brown, black, and red.

The image of the planet was slowly turning. Trevelyan recalled that a day here was twice as long as on Earth; days were longer, years were shorter, and the axial tilt was virtually nonexistent, which meant there were no seasonal changes… Physical and chemical data was appearing under the planetary spheroid: probable crust composition, land-to-ocean ratio, albedo, surface temperature range. The planet was colder than Earth: twenty degrees Celsius at the equator and eight to ten in the temperate latitudes. But it could support life and possessed an oxygen atmosphere; a world equally suitable for humans and their Faata enemies.

"No artificial objects detected in space," Ivar said, glancing at the locator screen. "Nothing below either… I think…" He peered at the barely noticeable spots that might have been shadows cast by mountains, ancient ruins, or gray plants. "But these formations look suspicious. Better check them out, but how?"

Look at the crust density data, the Commodore suggested. The Faata aren't dumb enough to build a base right on the surface.

Mentally calling up the necessary array, Trevelyan bent over the screen.

"Underground caverns," he said, "cavities with a high content of organic matter and metal. Lots of them too! Under the ice cap in the north… in the forest region of the central landmass… in the west coast… also on the small continent and ocean islands… Grandpa, this is an entire infrastructure! Hundreds, thousands of caves!"

What did I tell you? Probably hangars for military equipment, warehouses, barracks, and, naturally, lines of defense! The Commodore paused for a moment and thought about it. Then again, this whole story is strange… Our worms were hit with a powerful plasma thrower, which isn't characteristic of the Faata. As a rule, they use annihilators.

"An annihilator would've vaporized the Silmarri ship," Trevelyan countered. "Maybe the Faata wanted to force them to land instead of destroying them. Take prisoners and—"

Why would they want captive worms? The Advisor interrupted him. Sure, there were times when the Faata took prisoners, but it was only humanoids. Their birthrates are low, so they need genetic material. Obviously, worms are of no use for that. Besides, I feel it in my gut that whoever it was shot to kill… Trust me on this!

Ivar nodded silently. He didn't have the rank to argue with his grandfather when it came to military tactics. Getting up and removing the helmet, he peered into the forward cargo hold with the mining laser installed there. Its three barrels, set outside along with the swivel mechanism, guaranteed a decent firing arc. Afterwards he headed into the port hold and made sure the containers with the gear were secured well. He glanced at the trafor that was lying on the floor like a pancake and returned to the cockpit. He hid the band with the Commodore's memory crystal on his chest, then sat down, put the helmet back on, and slapped the armrest. Straps immediately gripped his body, and an inertial damper chirped under his seat.

Decided to go down? Grandpa inquired.

"We need to see what's going on. What if it's not the Faata? What if it's the Dromi or the Haptors? They aren't particularly friendly to us either."

True. Go down, lad, but pick the right spot and remember that they can hit you at five hundred kilometers. With anything: an annihilator, a laser, a blaster… And this isn't a cruiser or a frigate. Just a cargo tub without any shields.

"I'll do my best," Trevelyan said. "I'll switch the locator to intravisor [Footnote 1] mode and slide over the western continent. It's small and can be crossed in about three minutes. We'll scan the cavities, make recordings… Then shoot straight up, out of the way!"

Not bad, the Advisor approved. Just don't forget about the formalities. Rules are rules.

"Of course." Trevelyan turned to the audio pickup, gave the date, his full name, title and position, the transport ship's index, and flight number. Then he furrowed his brow thoughtfully, glanced at the locator, and said, "By right of discovery I name this planet Chthon [Footnote 2] for reasons of multiple underground caverns detected from orbit."

"Recorded and transmitted to the base ship," the onboard computer said.

"Connect to the laser," Trevelyan ordered. "If we're attacked, shoot to kill. That's it! We're going down."

He accelerated to the wail of the inertial damper, then decelerated and entered the atmosphere twelve minutes later. The final orbit ended somewhere between the south pole and the equator, and the quadplane was now flying northeast over the raging ocean water. From two kilometers up, it had seemed smooth, like polished grayish-green stone, but up-close he was able to make out huge waves and sprays of foam flying in the wind. Only the undulation of the waves livened the landscape: the locator wasn't picking up any ships, birds, or sea creatures. The utter lifelessness of this vast domain of water and wind was depressing.

The dark strip of the coastline appeared far in the distance, and Trevelyan began to descend. The ancient rule of combat pilots—the lower you are, the safer it is—was true once again, and he had an advantage over those past aces: the onboard computer. It wasn't talkative and didn't claim to possess any particular intelligence, but it did have inhuman reaction.

The shore was getting closer. He could now make out cliffs with water raging at the foot, slamming into the rock and then pulling back. The cliffs were bare: no moss, no lichen, no seaweed.

"A sterile planet," Trevelyan muttered, making a mental effort. The craft soared over the cliffs and slid over a rocky plain covered in black gravel. There was some vegetation here in the form of bushes with bent, broken branches lacking in leaves sticking out of the gravel, making them look like thousands of spider legs aimed at the sky. Ivar thought he saw them bend towards the ship, but the image flashed past far too quickly to make out.

The small western continent he was crossing diagonally at the moment turned out to be mountainous. The coastal plain rose to a ridge or the edge of a plateau that was cut up by deep cracks and canyons; water glinted here and there, and rainbows played over the rapidly-flowing mountain rivers. Deciding that a gorge would serve as an excellent cover, Trevelyan directed the vehicle towards the closest fault with flowing water. There was something strange in this river. He hadn't figure it out by the time the Advisor spoke up, Notice that the rivers don't continue on the plain and don't empty out into the ocean, lad. The soil absorbs the water.

"You think there's a catch basin underground?"

No doubt about it. Everyone needs fresh water, even bastards like the Faata.

The walls of the gorge and the foamy raging river were already moving past them. Vegetation was gripping to the steep sides with crevasses and caves in the form of the already familiar spider-like bushes and something that looked like caricatures of trees; their twisted trunks with pitiful clumps of leaves were reaching out towards the ship in silent pleading. The small red sun was straight over them, filling the canyon with a dim gloomy light. The quadplane's x-shaped shadow was sliding below it, leaping between rocks and water surfs.

The vehicle flew out of the gorge and started moving among cliffs and low mountains. They were already three hundred kilometers from the coast and were moving incredibly fast; the quadplane's armor was starting to glow, and the folds of the landscape became indistinguishable, as if covered by a brown blanket.

If there's a catch basin in the foothills, then the base has to be close, Trevelyan's ghostly Advisor noted. Keep your ears to the ground, lad. We might get—

A bolt of energy flashed, and the quadplane leapt up, avoiding the fiery sting. The mining laser in the forward compartment turned, a crimson trident struck a mountain, throwing up dust and rocks, then a flaming fountain blossomed over the sagging peak. Something hazy was moving inside it, coming apart in the smoke and the flame; the wind was picking up the dark rags, spinning them around and scattering gray ashes onto the cliffs. This image, already many kilometers away, was still showing on a side screen, having been recorded by the ship's holocameras. As if commenting it, the computer informed him, "Target 1 destroyed."

What do we have on the locator? the Commodore inquired. Are we over the base yet? Over the snake pit itself or still in the defense zone?

"I don't know, Grandpa. No time to look."

Gritting his teeth, Trevelyan froze in the seat's embrace. The helmet was squeezing his skull like a hot vise, his fingers were stuck to the armrests, and beads of sweat were coming out on his face. They were in the central part of the continent, where the chaos of huge shapeless lumps and cliffs alternated with gently sloping mountains. Merging with his x-shaped ship, Ivar was speeding over the stone screes, barren slopes, and faults that snaked here and there; without slowing down, he rounded tall peaks and saw slits of embrasures opening in them. It was Trevelyan's thoughts rather than hands that were controlling the ship, but even mental pulses weren't fast enough, so the colloid human brain needed help in the form of the cold and fast machine intelligence. This wasn't unusual to Ivar; his era was the time of a firm union of people and AIs.

"We are under attack," the onboard computer said, and hundreds of energy bolts reached for the quadplane. It was as if every cliff, every mountain peak was producing them; a flaming cocoon closed in around the ship. Trevelyan, blinded by the furious glare, squinted for a moment. Dampers howled, suppressing inertia, and a calm voice cut through their groans, "Target 2 destroyed. Target 3 destroyed." There was a pause. "Starboard cargo hold depressurized. Targets 4, 5, and 6 destroyed." Another pause. "Aft gravitator hit. Power reduced by sixty percent. Target 7 destroyed." Yet another pause. "Starboard cargo hold resealed. Targets 8 and 9 destroyed. Bow cargo hold hit, gravitator disabled. Target 10 des—"

Get out of there! The Commodore's mental shout struck his temples like an alarm bell. We're in a crossfire zone! Head to the sea! To the sea, at top speed!

We're already at top speed, Trevelyan replied. We'll burn up if we go any faster!

He suppressed the temptation to go up into the stratosphere and then into space, where air resistance wouldn't limit his flight speed. The rise wouldn't have taken much time, but a ship in the sky was an excellent target and could be hit in a fraction of a second… Remembering that, Ivar was pressing against the ground and maneuvering, trying to hide among the cliffs. The computer's even voice, listing its victories and losses, continued echoing in the cockpit, "Target 16 destroyed. Breach in the aft compartment, gravitator disabled. Targets 17 and 18 destroyed. Drives are now unbalanced. Restoration will take—"

The quadplane reared up, there were cracking and grating sounds and a smell of burning acradeit. Flaming needles pierced Trevelyan's brain, a hot wave rolled over his spine; he screamed but didn't remove the helmet, as losing mental control would mean signing his death warrant. The speed was reduced, but the ship still managed to even itself out. It flew over the last mountain ridge and headed towards the straight separating the western landmass from the central one. They were about a hundred and twenty kilometers from the sea.

"Part of the starboard cargo hold has been severed," the computer informed him. "Gravitator unrepairable. Water tank punctured. Long-range comms destroyed and cannot be restored. No additional targets detected."

The plasma discharges disappeared. Swaying and shuddering, the quadplane was speeding towards the seashore.

Be careful, the Commodore suggested. There could be another defensive line at the coast.

Ivar came down almost to the ground and glanced at the console. They'd lost the transmitter and one of the drives, two others were pulling at maybe ten percent, and the last one, less damaged than the others, was at seventy. But the vehicle was still in flight and moving at the same speed. Trevelyan was impressed at its reliability. Then again, he knew that they'd never be able to leave the planet without some major repairs.

Coastal rocks flashed past below them, the steely-gray surface of the straight unfolded, and more bolts of energy flew after the ship. The quadplane shook even more. A wave struck the bottom, throwing the ship higher.

"Port cargo hold hit," the computer's voice rang out. "Drive losing power."

The port gravitator had been Trevelyan's last hope. Fragile hope, it seemed. He started lifting the ship, feeling it growing heavier with every passing second. Dark clouds were clumping over the sea, and the mass seemed to be soaked in blood wherever the sun illuminated it. The clouds were high up in the sky, so there was no way for the crippled quadplane to reach them. Still, Ivar managed to make out the other shore.

Will we make it to land? the Commodore asked.

"Maybe. We'll find a secluded place, set down on the ground, and do some repairs. Unless…" Trevelyan suddenly felt cold sweat appear on his brow. "Computer, how's the cargo in the port hold? And what about the trafor?"

"The trafor is intact," came the reply. "Three containers were vaporized."

"Which ones?"

"Food, beverages, and the grav-glider," the imperturbable voice informed him.

"Anything left in the water tank?"

"No."

Gloomy silence fell. The ship had already crossed the straight and was now flying over a barren plain covered in gray dust, with deep craters and ravines, as if cut up by a giant plow. Occasionally, this gloomy landscape gave way to the blinding glare of a glassy or metal surface that had once been melted and then solidified into a mirrored lake. Then again, Trevelyan's couldn't say for sure that he was looking at glass or metal, as the glare was too blinding.

It seems, the Commodore noted, that we're going to have to go hungry.

"Not us, me," Ivar pointed out grimly. "The automatic bar is loaded, but there aren't many supplies in it. I need water."

Look for a stream or a river, lad.

"Thanks for the advice. I wouldn't mind a repair dock either."

As if in reply to this comment, the computer informed him, "Drive power falling. Losing altitude."

Mountains rose to port side, and, from what Trevelyan recalled, there was a large oasis in the shape of a six-pointed star beyond the gray desert in the east. He thought he wouldn't make it there. But he shouldn't go towards the oasis anyway; wherever there was vegetation and water, there would be people, maybe even an entire garrison in an underground base. Cursing the Faata mentally, Trevelyan turned northeast, towards the mountains.

"Losing altitude," the computer reported. "Eight hundred meters… seven hundred and fifty… seven hundred…"

The mountains rose like a wall from west to east and weren't particularly tall — less a mountain ridge than its ruins, either broken by carpet bombing or eroded by time. The gently-sloping ridges stretched into the desert, digging into the gray sand like the fingers of a giant; something glinted between them among the stone deposits, closer to the foothills: maybe mica plates or salt crystals. Or water, Trevelyan decided, barely managing to keep the ship aloft.

"Five hundred meters, four hundred and fifty, four hundred…" the computer droned on.

Ivar cut speed, then hovered over a relatively even area that was nearly free of stones. Now he was able to make out that there was indeed water here — a small lake that received a tiny waterfall that was hopping down a steep slope. The image on the screen quivered, and the quadplane was being rocked. Apparently, a stream of hot air was rising from the sand and the mountains. Earlier, with working drives, such a trifle wouldn't have kept the ship from hovering motionless, but it remaining in the air was itself a miracle.

"Current flight mode is dangerous," the computer reminded him. "Recommending an emergency landing. The altitude is two hundred and eighteen meters. A fall from such height—"

"Would be bad, I know," Trevelyan grumbled, directing the vehicle to the ground. Throwing up clouds of gray dust, it lowered itself between the lake and the cracked barrier of the ridge with a clang. He removed the helmet and wiped the sweat off his face. Then he spent five minutes just sitting with his eyes closed, feeling his strength come back, as the medical implant under his left rib worked to restore his hormonal balance.

Look at the locator readings, the ghostly Advisor suggested.

"In time, Grandpa." Putting on the headband, Trevelyan ordered the soil, water, and air samples taken. While the analyzers were busy, he checked the port cargo hold and wrinkled his nose at the burning smell. He ordered the computer to ventilate the compartment, then, walking down the tilted deck, returned to his seat, drank some juice, and chewed on a piece of food concentrate. The automated food bar had enough supplies for five or six days, but the two containers with food and drink had been vaporized by the plasma stream that punctured the hull, and the grav-glider had been incinerated along with them. The transmitter's antenna was gone, and the device itself had been turned to scrap. Fortunately, the Brain was intact, and so was the field equipment.

Numbers and symbols—the results of the analyses—appeared on the screen. The computer was reporting that this world's water was drinkable, the air was breathable, and there was no detectable virulent microflora — nothing his medical implant couldn't handle. The temperature was also acceptable: eight degrees Celsius. After familiarizing himself with the data, Trevelyan said, "Not as bad as I expected. No comms, but water isn't going to be a problem. How's the ship? Can we lift off?"

"No," the computer informed him. "The starboard drive is irreparable, the rest require repair in stationary conditions." After a pause, it added, "In a repair dock."

"Where am I going to find a repair dock here?" Trevelyan grumbled. "Do it yourself!"

"Impossible," was the reply. Then, as if in consolation, the computer noted, "Hull breaches are closing, seal has been restored. Power should last for four days."

"No way to contact the base ship. So we can't call another quadplane here," Ivar added.

It wouldn't help anyway. A quadplane flies on autopilot. Without you, it would be shot down, and even if the tub made it here, it would look like a sieve. I suggest not counting on a rescue.

"Thanks, Grandpa, that's very encouraging."

Getting up, Trevelyan headed for the airlock, but the Advisor reminded him again, The locator. Take a look at its readings.

"Not now. I want to look around while it's still light out."

The inner iris opened, followed by the hatch. Without hesitation, Ivar jumped down onto the soil of the alien world and took a few dozen paces. Sand grated under his feet, powerful gusts of wind were chilling his skin, a cool crimson sun was hanging in the low gloomy sky, hiding behind the mountain peaks. The mountains were casting long shadows, the light was fading, giving way to the night, the long night of Chthon — nearly as long as a full Earth day.

The quadplane was lying next to a rocky ridge that was sticking out of the sand and joined a mountain slope to the north. A stream flowed from there, filling the lake. Not counting the gurgling of the water and the whistling of the wind, there was dead silence. The low mountains rose in a cut up wall that stretched to the northeast and southwest as far as the eye could see; he could make out silvery vegetation here and there among the brown and black cliffs: either bushes or short trees. Desert encroached on the mountains from the south: gray sand, gently sloping gray dunes, pale gray sky, and wind that carried gray dust. Trevelyan had seen many deserts in his life—icy, cold, and hot—but this one was particularly depressing. It smelled of hopelessness.

For a moment, Ivar thought that the desert's tentacles were piercing his mind and digging around in his head like invisible leeches, rifling through his memories and sucking out everything: the faces of his friends and acquaintances, images of his youth, landscapes of Earh and other worlds he'd been to, something else that might have had to do with his work and upcoming mission. Was it a mental probe? Despite his experience and training, he couldn't definitively say that he was under a telepathic attack; he wasn't being compelled to do something, nothing was being demanded of him, and the barriers protecting his consciousness were intact. Perhaps the memories were a result of the desolate lifeless landscape. Deserts, steppes, and the open sea had a certain hypnotic effect that had to do with their vastness.

Shrugging and turning away from the gray picture, Trevelyan headed towards the ship. He circled the quadplane, frowning and snorting discontentedly; the hardworking wind was covering his footprints with sand.

The vehicle was in an extremely poor condition. It no longer looked like a cross: half of the starboard cargo hold had disappeared, and the drive circling it had melted and was hanging off the hull in streaks of metal and burned plastic. Holes gaped in the other cargo holds that had already been covered up by acradeit, the armored plating had lost its mirrored sheen, the large rings of grav-drives were damaged, and wires were sticking out from the holes in the housing. However, as the ship's computer had claimed, they could be repaired if he managed to find a repair dock, cybernetic fitters, and spare parts somewhere around here. In principle, only two drives would have been enough to get up into space and reach the cargo ship, but the task of fixing them by hand seemed impossible.

Our tub's done for, the Commodore noted. Then again, if we put together a single drive out of three, then maybe we can still fly.

"We can't lift the whole thing on one drive," Trevelyan countered.

We don't have to. We'll cut off what we don't need. All we need is the passenger cabin and the port cargo hold.

"That's not a bad idea!"

Tilting his head to one side, Trevelyan once again looked at his vehicle. The quadplane wasn't meant to land on a planetary surface and lacked any landing gear. Now the craft was standing on the spheroid of the central cabin dug into the ground and leaning against the sand with the remains of the starboard cargo hold with the port hold sticking up. The position seemed stable and allowed him to open the bottom hatch. Following Ivar's command, the hatch opened, and the trafor with the cryogenic Brain inside it walked down onto the ground, carefully shifting its legs. The robot had taken on a walking shape: a disk-shaped body with six lower limbs and four manipulators with multi-fingered hands.

"Did you summon me, Emissary?" the Brain cooed in a gentle contralto.

"I did. We've got problems. The transmitter is gone, and, as you can see, the ship has been damaged."

Extending two tentacles with optical sensors, the trafor examined the vehicle and noted, "Indeed. I conclude that we will be unable to return to the transport ship in the near future and will therefore be late to Ravana."

"That's for sure," Trevelyan agreed. "But us being late is only a part of the problem. The other is avoiding staying here for good. Then again, if you can fix the drives…"

The Brain extended a manipulator, moved one of the fingers away from the others, turned it into a laser cutter, a tester probe, a screwdriver, and then back into a finger.

"That is theoretically possible, Emissary." His voice went deep, like that of an experienced engineer. "My database contains all the necessary information on gravity drives as well as the descriptions of one hundred and forty-two designs with detailed blueprints and assembly and repair techniques. However—"

"You have doubts?" Trevelyan hurried it along.

"Yes. There is a lack of practical skills, Emissary. This machine," the Brain clanged a manipulator on the bottom of its body, "is a universal robot, not a repair bot. Different reactions, different motor skills, as well as a level of intelligence that is too high for practical activities. I was created to control other machines, not substitute them in resolving particular tasks. I am a technical coordinator, and in this capacity I am capable of—"

This tin can is puffing its cheeks! the Commodore said indignantly. We've got a theoretician here! Keep it in line, lad! Stick a wrench in its teeth and send him to work!

The Advisor was undoubtedly correct, so Trevelyan indicated one of the drives and said sternly, "Remove, disassemble, and reassemble! Get it done, and then you'll get the right skills" He glanced at the dim sun that was setting over the mountains and felt incredibly tired. The flight and the fight with the unknown enemy had taken so much out of him that he could barely stand. "While you're working, I think I'm going to get some sleep. All people should go to bed at night," Trevelyan muttered, heading for the hatch.

He sat in the seat but wasn't able to go to sleep.

Third reminder: take a look at the locator readings, echoed in his skull. The Commodore had a stubborn streak that was rare even for a military man.

Ivar yawned.

"Can't it wait? I'm here, after all, and the Faata aren't going anywhere either."

This isn't the Faata, lad. Anyone but them.

"Are you sure?" Sleepiness left Trevelyan in an instant.

Absolutely. Their tactics are very different. The Faata use annihilators, not plasma throwers, and if the target hasn't been destroyed, then they send out battle modules. After a moment's pause, the Commodore added, You can be certain that the modules would've torn us to shreds. You'd be burning on that plateau in some crack instead of napping in a chair if that was the case. But…

"But I'm still alive," Trevelyan grunted, turning to the locator and activating the recording. "We scanned the cavities on the western continent… Tell me, Grandpa, if it were the Faata, what would I see?"

Hangars with battle modules. A control center — there should be a large sphere, their rulers' symbol of power. Compartments with soldiers. A quasi-sentient device that looks like an octopus with lots of tentacles. Annihilator batteries. Maybe a mothership, but it would probably be on the surface. Can't hide something like that underground: five kilometers in length, two in width… Anything like that there?

"No," Trevelyan said. Hazy shadows floated on the screen in front of him, outlines of machines of some kind, multiarmed beings working in tunnels and underground chambers, thin communication lines, caves with strange machines that were crushing rock. Nothing like box-shaped battle modules, no dungeons with annihilators, octopi, or soldiers… Besides, there were very few organic compounds in those objects, and the compounds that did comprise them couldn't be analyzed.

"Looks like some kind of ancient robots, and they aren't thinking straight…" Trevelyan said. "An aggressive necrosphere, remains of an alien civilization… It would be nice to know how old they are!"

Then find out, the Advisor suggested. Since they'd shot at you, then, according to Glick—Chaney [Footnote 3], they're fairly primitive devices. Find the command center, take it over, and they're all yours. They've got a decent TDI [Footnote 4], so I'm sure they can fix out tub.

"Yeah, probably," Trevelyan said and thought about it. The situation had changed radically: if there were no Bino Faata—Earh's old enemies—here, then there was nothing to investigate on Chthon. There were planets in the galaxy with ruins of ancient cultures that had once prospered but eventually faded away. Studying them was the task for archeologists, not the Star Fleet or FDAC; Trevelyan himself worked with living civilization that were capable of development and progress. This world on the galactic outskirts, the domain of crazed robots, held no interest to him, and he was already regretting the wasted time and the inevitable delay. He didn't want to be late to Inferno without a good reason, while a Faata base near the frontier of the Federation was a very good reason. And if it wasn't here, then what was left? Empty curiosity?.. No, not only that, Ivar thought, recalling the Silmarri. Helping those in distress was sacred, which meant he'd been doing his duty.

That calmed him down. After all, contacts with the Silmarri were so rare that they justified any delay. Besides, what could he have done? The ship's computer reacted to distress calls regardless of the passenger's wishes… It was an extraordinary situation, and he was fully entitled to investigate… In fact, it was his responsibility as a citizen of the Federation: what if there'd been enemies on Chthon?.. The Faata or maybe the Dromi, whom his grandfather had fought… Fought and died under the furious light of Betelgeuse bequeathing to his descendants to remain vigilant.

So Inferno was going to wait, Ivar was thinking while floating away into sleep. It would wait… Inferno could wait… Naturally, there was nothing pleasant about the fact that Gray Trumpeter had crossed the mountains, but it wasn't yet a reason to panic. He would deal with that Trumpeter, that was for certain, and no delay would prevent that…

His eyes closed, his breathing grew quiet and even, but he hadn't yet fallen into oblivion, remaining at the threshold of the dream world. Someone imperceptible and unseen was next to him, ready to step into his dreams and even strangely directing them. The giant peaks of the Celestial Ridge appeared before Trevelyan, rushing upward and disappearing in the gray clouds, two suns flared over them—one white and one red—and their rays, like blades, cut into to the sand of the vast plain. He was on Inferno once again, speeding on a grav-glider, descending from the mountains, and the hot wind was on his face.

Footnote

1) An intravisor is a device that can be used to see through opaque objects: walls, rock layers, etc.

2) The Greek word "chthon" (xθών) means "earth." It's the origin of the word "chthonic" used to indicate the underworld and its gods.

3) The Glick—Chaney Theorem, or the First Theorem of Psychocybernetics, was formulated and proved in the last 20th century. The theorem establishes a threshold, above which an artificial intelligence is indistinguishable from a human mind (it is also sometimes called the Turing Threshold in honor of a 20th century mathematician who was also working on this problem). A particular implication of the theorem is that a cybernetic device with a high degree of intelligence is incapable of killing or destruction. This means that a combat robot's intelligence cannot be higher than the Turing Threshold.

4) Technological Development Index (TDI) is one of the parameters used by FDAC to evaluate alien cultures.