Lost in Space

by Dmitry Raspopov

  “Just a moment. As you see, the device got what you want from your speech. It’s now connecting to our cloud database to load the recipe. In ten seconds, it will start cooking.”

  A barely audible noise came from inside of the device. In a few seconds, its door opened. Lying on a white, thick paper plate was a steaming steak and a few stalks of asparagus.

  “Careful! It’s very hot.” Abramovich took the plate and quickly put it onto the table. With merry eyes, he watched the anchor sniff the food for a long while, then cut a tiny bit off and taste it.

  “Amazing. I just can’t believe it’s made of some bio-paste. Am I right? Is that the correct name of the substance you use to make all your meals?”

  “Yes. Self-Chef has three slots for cartridges. Each of those contains a particular type of bio-paste. A set of three cartridges is enough for a week, for a family of four cooking its regular meals. And it costs ten times less than groceries needed to make those meals, so the device saves both your time and money. Want to try something else?”

  “Honestly, I’m intrigued by your device probably as much as our audience is. Let’s talk about the technical side of it. I’d love to hear more about the required maintenance and its costs. I find it difficult to believe that there’s no catch. The problem of global overpopulation and looming hunger that has been discussed for so long will possibly be solved by one device that can feed them all? Can that be real?”

  “It can. You absolutely get it.”

  “How expensive your bio-paste is as compared with conventional groceries? May I know what it consists of exactly? It must be full of food additives and chemicals.”

  “I can assure you that it’s not. Just like all our foods, it is certified according to Russian and international quality standards. The paste is no more dangerous than any canned food. It just has the unique property of imitating any possible taste.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of being copied? A device like that is a tidbit for copycats. What if we see a cheaper Chinese analogue a month after your product is released onto the market?”

  “I have no worries about that. Quite the opposite; I’m urge all of our colleagues to try to reproduce and improve our creation. Advancement makes perfect. That’s our slogan.”

  “I’ve heard that you’re going to make it smaller? As for me, it’s already small enough to fit any up-to-date kitchen.”

  “We want to be able to please the most refined of tastes. We’re ready to develop our product and move beyond our current limits, so we’ll soon present the extended Self-Chef line. It will have models tailored to the needs of all possible customer groups—food manufacturers, restaurants, and households.”

  They went on discussing technical details that I had little interest in, though I was really interested in the device itself. If it can really cook anything while cutting my grocery spending, I absolutely need to get one.

  A particular case of first-generation industrial mixer of the Graitor system. I wonder what a thing like that, with the development level of PQ32, is doing in your world, Researcher suddenly interrupted my thought.

  “WHAT?”

  All properties of this device are identical to those of the first-gen Graitor system mixer available for sale in the worlds at the PQ25, and higher, development levels. I’m surprised that it has been brought to your world. It’s an overly advanced piece of technology for this planet. That’s prohibited by the Trade Federation law.

  This new information made me think. The arrival of this device, when more and more governments are saying how they have too many players and not enough farm hands to feed them as labor supply in agriculture and all other industries is becoming scarce, can’t be accidental. Who would work hard in a factory or on a field when they could make just as much money—and even more—by staying home and playing “Galaxy”?

  Two months of everyone going hysterical over the looming hunger, and here comes a “wunderwaffe” to solve this problem for good. According to the CEO, the cartridge production will require far less resources than conventional food manufacturing.

  “Looks like the Wargs are keeping an eye—or whatever they have instead—on what’s going on Earth,” I muttered. “So I was right to keep a low profile.”

  Just two hours remained before getting my new ship. Once I have it, I’ll help Researcher put his viruses into trade networks. I hope that that will distract them from me and my planet.

  “Researcher? Can you sort, filter, and show me all the news about Earth’s global problems? Rank them by number of countries in which the issue is discussed, and show those most broadly discussed.”

  No problem. Here you are.

  Watching the snippets of broadcasts by Earth’s major news channels, I came to realize that Earth was integrating deeply into the space trade system.

  For my convenience, the artifact matched each piece of news with the name and type of device already available, or soon expected to appear, on the markets of our planet while not being developed by our researchers. All those items were overly advanced. They couldn’t have reached us otherwise than through the Wargs who seemed to be playing a game of their own, bypassing the general rules.

  “What a mess.” Closing the snippets, I thought it over. Maybe I should turn myself in to the military? Explain them that the aliens aren’t treating us as equals and are just using us as their mercenaries? What if the Wargs concealed the true nature of their “Galaxy” technology from the governments?

  But what if the government knows? Then they’ll hand you and your artifact to the Wargs. Did you forget how much that pyramid was priced at? I asked myself, imagining what sort of things I could do for a billion credits.

  These options were far from satisfying, so I gave up the idea of turning myself in. When I stood up, the doorbell rang and the AI reported a visitor, showing on the screen an image of a young woman standing at my apartment block entrance.

  My heart sank when I saw that it was my former supervisor, Captain Mariya Ivleva.

  “Researcher? Is she alone? Scan the surroundings. Is there an assault team nearby?” I barely kept myself from panicking. Speak of the devil. The moment I thought of the military, here comes one of their members. In her uniform, nonetheless.

  She’s alone, Viktor. Judging from the notes in her diary, she’s visiting all of her former subordinates. You are on top of her list because you live close to your past workplace.

  This response calmed down me a bit. Telling Home to open both front doors, I went to my bedroom to change. I could not meet her having only my underwear and bathrobe on. There were no appropriate and clean clothes save for my old T-shirt and a pair of shorts, so I put them on.

  “Hi.” I felt embarrassed being reminded yet again about just how beautiful she was, and about Masha’s long absence…

  “Good morning, Viktor,” she said officially. “Please forgive me for such an early visit. The management asked us to conduct a medical examination of all beta-testers to make sure no damage came to your health. That’s why I’ve come. I need to examine you.”

  That’s weird. Why care about people you fired a long time ago? I was surprised but didn’t want to make her upset. I invited her into the living room where she had me sit down on the sofa and, retrieving the familiar tools from her small suitcase, began the analysis.

  “Is that your car next to the front door?” she asked casually, avoiding my gaze. “A black BMW?”

  “I don’t have a car. Can’t afford it.” I tried to catch her gaze but failed; she pretended to be extremely busy. I remembered just how fast she used to complete the same work before. Now she was apparently taking her time.

  What if she wants to stay? I started building castles in the air once I remembered that she had given me her phone number. Is she looking for a reason to do that? I felt calmer once I realized that there was no assault team coming to get me; there was just this girl who was carrying out her superior’s order.

  Reaching for her knee, I patted it. A f
ierce slap brought me back to my senses, my whole cheek ablaze from the impact.

  “What are you doing, Maximov?” she screamed indignantly and hurriedly started to collect her tools and tubes.

  “I thought you came for me,” I replied in confusion and rubbed my sore cheek.

  “Now there’s a long shot if I’ve ever seen one,” she snorted and, taking the living room in with a single glance, left toward the hall. Did I just hear the door of my bedroom open? The capsule is in there... Did I imagine that?

  “Will you open the front door? Or are you going to keep me locked in like a psycho?” her voice came from the front door.

  I jumped up as if a bee had stung me and went to see her off. The pejorative glance she gave me before parting was something that I’d remember for a long time.

  A new brief note in her diary. I think you may be interested in seeing it.

  Confused, I looked at the interface where Mariya’s dossier had appeared. Her phone memory opened to show a note that she had wrote while riding the elevator to the ground floor: The subject is calm. There are no signs of panic. He has an apartment in an expensive neighborhood but seems to be rather poor at the moment. No signs of a high-class lifestyle. No jewels. No brand clothes.

  “What’s that? Did she come here to check if I was the one behind that attack?” The brief message provided little information so this was my best guess.

  Correct. I’ll check the notes she makes about the others. There’s no doubt that the military is already looking for me. We must plant viruses into the galactic trade system as fast as possible. We need to distract them from your planet, Viktor. And we need to do it soon.

  These words completely dispirited me. I was already sad enough after a single slap had destroyed all of my castles in the air.

  I have the worst luck with women, I thought, as I headed to the capsule. Hope I’ll have more luck with money today.

  Her visit reminded me of the Mariya. In my heart, I still felt more affection than anger toward her. Overcoming the urge to call her, I climbed into the capsule. My new ship should be delivered shortly. I was itching to see it.

  Loading…

  Chapter 33

  I immediately rushed to the hangar where my ship was ought to be waiting for me. Huge, black, and bulky—that was my first impression of it. The cut-around disk with lots of false wings and the protruding, broad mouth of the plasma gun looked even weirder in real-life size than they did on the shop’s miniature.

  Wincing, I looked for a way to get into the cockpit. This ship was much larger and taller than any fighter; too tall to simply climb into it.

  Open the airlock.

  Following Researcher’s command, who repeated it aloud for me, a rectangular piece of armor slid to the side and an extension ladder came down for me to climb into the cockpit. It was very spacious one, though not enough to stand up.

  Activating the power supply, I examined the screens that were showing the overall system condition. All indicators were at max. The Grand Master engineer appeared to be really good at what he was doing.

  The first significant difference was the control column, similar to those used in “real-world” planes, in place of the joystick usually installed in the conventional fighters. The column could be used to manage all the major systems with your fingers. Very convenient.

  It took me two hours to read everything about the operational principles of the systems that I had never had before; particularly the plasma gun that had very different properties from a kinetic weapon. One of those—overheating—had a strong influence on precision. According to the manufacturer guidelines, the tolerable overheating level was under 50%. Above that threshold, the plasma started to disperse at a shorter distance, with a detrimental impact on precision and range.

  “Well. Time to try it.” I got out of the cockpit and went to my bedroom to take the home system management tablet from the bed where I had left it.

  The mission list was a lengthy one; the number of level 5 missions had expanded to include those that didn’t require any fighters. Now there were ground convoy guarding missions for infantry and armored vehicles only, and defense missions that only accepted infantry. The Wargs were, apparently, introducing greater diversity, allowing more missions to begin without pilots.

  I had little interest in those as their payoff was far below those of large-scale missions involving hundreds of thousands soldiers and lots of machines. My attention was drawn by two such missions that were recruiting right now. “Which one should I take?” I asked my companion. “Considering that we’ll need to be able to leave it stealthily?”

  The “OP2NM1 Planet Factory Defense” will be the best fit for us.

  “Fine. I’ll take it.”

  Mission level: 5

  Mission name: OP2NM1 Planet Factory Defense

  Duration: 16h

  Mission reward: 200,000 credits

  Extra mission reward: +20 reputation points

  First attempt bonus: none

  Superiority bonus: x50

  Fine for failing the mission: 100,000 credits

  Fine for leaving the mission: 30 reputation points

  Load the mission?

  Yes/No

  Few seconds after selecting “yes”, I was in the cockpit of my new ship and standing on a hard surface inside a rectangular teleport.

  “Oh, L0St is here, too,” excited voices immediately came from the chat. “On a giant Chupa Chups! What kind of weird fuckin’ shit did you get, bro?”

  “Jeez. What an ugly ship.”

  “You damn idiots. I saw a ship like that in the shop. It’s meant for level seven!”

  “Oh, seriously? L0St, are you level 7 pilot already?! Holy shit!”

  “But it still looks like a Chupa Chups!”

  I reduced the chat volume and summoned the leader menu. I got the leader’s “crown” once I registered for the mission and I now had over thirty ships under my command. “I’m really happy that you are impressed by my choice, gentlemen, but let’s get down to business,” I intervened into their polyphony. Some of the nicknames were familiar: I had been on missions with some of these folks before.

  The number of pilots in Galaxy was constantly increasing. The other mission that I had been considering also required twenty to thirty ships, and most of the places were already taken.

  “There’re too many of you for me to directly manage everything. I suggest that we split into three groups, ten ships in each. I’ll appoint the group leaders.” While saying that, I introduced the actual changes via the leadership menu, forming the groups and appointing their leaders, which were denoted by crowns smaller than mine, picking players I knew and who hadn’t been involved in lengthy arguments during our past missions.

  “I don’t want to fly with you at all. I’m on my own,” said a man nicknamed Evil Johnny.

  “Okay,” I excluded his ship from the group at once. His icon turned gray.

  “Any more free hunters here?” I asked. “We won’t have the time to accommodate your requests during combat, so let’s get that out of the way now.”

  In response I got murmurs and muffled swears which were, apparently, targeting me. I was then supported by the newly appointed group leaders and some semblance of peace had been established in the chat.

  “Some of you know me. To newcomers—I’ll briefly explain my battle tactic. Your task is to distract the enemy ships. Avoid getting hit or losing your ship. While doing that, you may hit those who are attacking you. My task is to cover you and attack any enemy units that I come upon. Is that clear?”

  “Your tactic has worked so far,” the pilot nicknamed Madsaur grumbled. “I see no point in changing it. Let’s do it again.”

  Military task: Destroy all enemy fighters and support carriers. Prevent any ground troops from landing into the factory.

  The system message arrived when we had already spent about an hour sitting in our cockpits, discussing the mission and just chatting. “Here’s the o
fficial military task,” I said and read it aloud. “Those whose ships are combat-ready, go first. Those with weak weapons or defense systems, follow them. I will go last.”

  The ships started to rise. Checking the map to make sure that everyone had turned around and taken their places, I pulled the yoke. A small increase in gravity was instantly consumed by the compensators and I soared up vertically to take my place. The ease with which I did that stirred up the chat. Some pilots whistled in admiration.

  “That’s a Chupa Chups! Did you see how fast it went up?”

  “L0St, give me your ship for Christmas! Or better yet, adopt me. I’ll be a good boy.”

  “Gentlemen, let’s repulse the attacks first, and then I’ll listen to your extremely funny jokes,” I said, taking my position far above everyone else and activating the camouflage system.

  Enemy ships at ten o’clock. Multiple targets. Up to one hundred ships.

  “Transferring target coordinates.” I sent my scanner data to the tactical map that all ships in my team shared. All but the one that had decided to fly on its own. The ship owner’s displeased voice was immediately heard. “Where the hell are they? Where? I can’t see a thing.”

  “Shut up, Johnnie. You’re distracting us.” The pilots were in no mood for joking. Hearing that the enemy army was three times the size of ours made everyone concentrated on the mission.

  A new character suddenly joined our chat. His name was topped by a very big crown with a rifle above its points. “Hi, flyers. L0St, I take it that you’re the boss here? You’ve got the crown and all.”

  “Yes, Khao Tshan,” I barely managed to pronounce his nickname, hushing those who decided to try and talk to the newcomer with an unusual badge.

  “Please join the commander chat,” he asked. “I’ve gathered all commanders there. Looks like we’ll have some serious work to do. Here’s the chat link.”

  I instantly opened the link and got into a voice chat I couldn’t see before due to all the other chats. That was interesting. I greeted those who were present. “Hi, everyone.”