“Comrade Louis, something strange is happening in the neighborhood!”
“Let's see.”
Louis holds his post, and Jennifer stays close by him. The commandant looks around the scene from all sides, several times getting in touch with one of the private owners.
“It’s bad, very bad. How unsuccessfully it turned out . . .”
“What exactly happened?”
“The supply transportation won’t arrive on time. I don’t know the reason—maybe they have no time to fuel or the payment failed. The next ship will be ten hours late, no less.”
“What is the cargo—oxygen?”
“Yes.”
“Then it's really bad.”
The station is overcrowded beyond measure, and the life support system won’t be able to cope with the cleaning of the air without refueling. Olga has no doubt about this; she remembers the taste of the air outside. The atmospheric sensors are already reacting—the pressure is falling and the CO2 content is increasing as the private owners try to stretch out the stock for a longer time.
“I wonder what will happen now?”
The automatic voice suggests keeping calm, not panicking, and moving as little as possible to reduce the consumption of precious oxygen. It doesn’t help. Vendors and keepers of entertainment outlets hastily turn down activities, and rich migrants gather in the furthest corner of the private sector, passing into a sealed shelter. The pressure and oxygen content continue to fall, and the temperature quickly drops to almost zero; the safety system has turned off the heaters. That’s right—in the cold, the oxygen consumption is less.
“Sleep: they all need to sleep deeply at the lowest possible temperature, only so they can live to refuel.”
“I'll pump some air from our inhabited compartment into a common system . . .”
“Louis, you know that this won’t help. Even if we pump out everything and stay in the spacesuits, compare the volumes of the compartments. We can’t do anything; now we have to wait for the transport.”
Refugees press on the red line. Electric shocks occur more often, but they are no longer able to stop the pressure of the human wave.
Red lights, a siren, and a massive breakthrough of the security line: a protective barrier collapses, and refugees rush into the privileged zone. Robot guards throw up tasers, and with a hiss, the man-made lightning sparkle. A fight starts at the entrance to the shelter. Some of the cameras have been disconnected, and Olga clearly hears several shots.
“So that’s how it happens . . .”
The video surveillance system reboots, and Olga and Louis see the site in front of the shelter, which has changed dramatically in half a minute. The nearest outlets are crushed, one of the two guards is lying broken on the steel floor, and the second has retreated to the wall. The crowd presses forward, trying to open the door to the shelter, and a voice from the speaker orders everyone to step behind the red line.
In all the halls, the lights go out simultaneously, and the cameras switch to infrared. The security service goes into a counteroffensive; the robot guards pour down through the opened ceiling ports into the dark compartments, accompanied by blows of ultrasonic grenades. They quickly push the refugees behind the red line, fixing stunned people with long ribbon traps.
“Attention! The mutiny has been suppressed! Stop the resistance! We will turn on the light!”
There is no resistance—the refugees are compactly collected behind the red line. Everyone is sitting or lying on the floor. The guards rise above them, a couple of bodies lying next to the closed shelter. Several people from the red sector, mostly traders and bandits, are trying to prove something to the guards, pointing to the closed door. Apparently, their places in the shelter were occupied by someone else during a mass brawl. The guards ignore these protests. The door doesn’t open.
“Attention! Attention! Now everyone will be injected with a powerful sleeping pill. This will allow you to hold out until the arrival of the transport. We all need to reduce the consumption of oxygen! Injection is mandatory! If you have money in a form of currency that we accept, you can purchase additional regeneration cartridges at a discount from the security guards!”
“The bastards, they’ve even arranged a sale!” Louis jumps up from his seat and heads to a small warehouse. “Olga, do you have cartridges for the regenerator? Can you share them?”
She understands the essence of his proposal; everything is clear. She doesn’t want to share her cartridges—they’re part of the emergency kit—but she also doesn’t want to appear completely impolite and ungrateful.
“Two, no, I can give you three cartridges.”
“So, I have six, nine in total. Can they be split for children?”
“Yes, if not older than ten or eleven, then you can.”
“That means eighteen. That’s better. I'll be right back!”
Robots give mandatory injections of sleeping pills. One of them, temporarily re-qualifying as a trader, bypasses the refugees, collecting money and transferring cartridges in return. The procedure happens with some incidents; many are trying to avoid the injection, but this doesn’t impress the robots. They instantly hold down the dissenters, inject, and continue their work under the direction of the impassive voice, convincing that the taking of sleeping pills has been organized for the common good. A couple of attempts to steal the regenerating cartridges are immediately suppressed by the seller; the temperature drops to a negative seven degrees.
Louis appears in the common compartment with an oxygen mask on his face, shows a card to the nearest robot, and passes on to the refugees, looking for children among them. So, the free distribution has begun. He is doing this in vain, thinks Olga. There are too many people there. The people all want to get the cartridge halves, not thinking about the reality that half isn’t enough for an adult, and he only has children’s doses. So, he has to call over one of the robots, and together they manage to provide some kind of order for the distribution, although several doses are stolen and disappear in an unknown direction. It’s finished quickly; there is nothing left.
In the inhabited compartments, an unusual silence is reigns. All the refugees are immersed in compulsory sleep, the air has turned into a mixture that is almost unfit for breathing, and the temperature has been lowered to the lowest possible limit.
“Roger.”
Louis ends the negotiations with someone from the leadership of Cocaine, then makes several calls to his friends from neighboring stations, communicating in the obscure local jargon. After talking with the last neighbor, he draws out another joint, having thrown his precious cigarette lighter on the table; the end result of the talks is negative.
“So, that is it?
“Private traders have the answer, but I'm sure that their stock isn’t enough. They lied to the refugees, plunging them into a sleep. It still isn’t clear when the next transport will come; oxygen is a deficit everywhere, and having learned about our problem, the surrounding traders have tightened the price eve more. As a result, the content of CO2 will increase. Many of the refugees won’t last long; they just won’t wake up. I'll give them all the oxygen from here; I know that this won’t help much, but it's possible that we will gain a little time. Use a regenerator; for a Changed girl like you, oxygen starvation won’t be a problem.”
“As you say,” Olga replies, making herself an injection of a small dose of an oxygen regenerator, which will last for three hours, during which time she won’t need oxygen from outside. Louis does the same. The air inside the habitable compartment quickly becomes unsuitable for breathing; the injection of the oxygen into the general system improves the indicators in the refugee compartments for a short time. Olga takes one breath per minute, counting the time left before the arrival of the shuttle. She wants to leave Cocaine as soon as possible.
Louis makes a couple more calls, constantly requesting data on the atmosphere in the inhabited compartments, after which he resolutely rises to his feet.
&nbs
p; “It’s not enough; my stock isn’t enough!”
“I warned you, this is a short-term measure.”
“I’ve decided: I am going to open up Cocaine's emergency oxygen supply. It’s time. There will be enough for everyone.”
Olga turns to him sharply.
“Louis, you can’t do this! It’s an inviolable supply!”
“Olga, who needs this stock here? The tanks were filled five years ago, long before my arrival. Since then, the reserves have been expanded. And never in five years have they been opened; there has been no need. Ships have come and gone one by one, and the cisterns are standing intact, no matter what. It's time to open them!”
“The inviolable oxygen supply is the property of the Navy; it can’t be used without an order or in the case of an emergency!”
Between them pops out a screen that opens a wide view of the inhabited compartments.
“And this, in your opinion, isn’t an emergency situation!?”
Olga slowly shakes her head.
“They aren’t our people, nor are they high-ranking citizens of the Union or other people who could be useful to the Navy; otherwise, we would have received an order for their evacuation. Those in the control room know about what is happening here. Therefore, emergency stock can’t be used for them. The oxygen must remain in the tanks until it is needed by the Navy, whenever that happens, tomorrow or a year later. The tanks can’t be opened. I'm sorry.”
“It’s better for me to know,” Louis throws over his shoulder, heading for the exit. The light goes off, and after a second it turns on again, but already in emergency mode. The jukebox goes silent, and in the silence that has come, they can clearly hear the lock turning.
“I can’t sanction this,” Olga says calmly, looking into the eyes of the commandant.
“So you decided that you can rule at my station?!”
“This station and everything on it belongs to the Navy, including the oxygen in the tanks. You are a civil servant, and I’m a naval officer, and I have every right to take over the management of the facility in the event of an emergency, such as is the one happening now. You are making dangerous, thoughtless decisions, so for the time remaining until the arrival of the transport, I am taking command of Cocaine and all of its systems. I won’t tell the control room about your attempt to open the emergency stock, so just don’t prevent me from doing my job.”
“What have they done to your head that you are so blindly and stupidly following orders, girl?”
“You can keep your opinion; it suits me perfectly.”
Louis took a step forward; Jennifer watches them warily.
“For the last time, I’m telling you to turn off the lock!”
“No.”
His attack is swift and accurate: a series of short, rapid strikes breaks through Olga's defense and inflicts a number of sensitive hits on her. The light goes out, the directed ultrasonic impact hits Louis, and he recoils and falls. The high-frequency defensive grenade, hidden on her belt and therefore not detected at the entrance, doesn’t let Olga down.
“That was very stupid!” In total darkness, she counterattacks her stunned enemy, thrusting into his neck a powerful paralyzing charge and immediately binding his hands with a thin ribbon. With a jerk, she lifts him to his feet, put him in a chair, then turns on the light.
“Boss . . .”
Jennifer stands beside her, her big blue eyes staring at her paralyzed superior.
“He'll be all right, once . . .”
Olga sees the blow and even manages to defend herself with a block, but it helps little—Jennifer hits her head with such force that the girl is thrown to the wall with posters of Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris. The attack immediately continues with a series of lightning strikes into her stomach and legs. Olga falls, barely able to protect her eyes from the cowboy boots with sharp heels. She needs to hold out for a moment.
“Attention, hacking the system!”
The next blow stops before reaching its target. Jennifer freezes for a second, rebooting the OS, allowing the sergeant to jump to her feet, swing the metal keg with the coffee plantation, and drop it on her opponent’s head. Jennifer flies to the floor, and Olga falls on her with a universal knife in her hand. A short cut reveals the synthetic skin, giving Olga the opportunity to get to the nearest nerve node. The body of the sexoid freezes, motionless; Olga turns it over, aiming at the occipital port for the final blow.
“Wait, don’t kill her, don’t kill her! I'll give you the control codes, just don’t kill her! Without her, I have no one!”
***
The oxygen tanker comes after six hours; the Red Star comes twelve minutes later. By that time, the handcuffs were already off Louis. The temperature and oxygen content in the inhabited compartments increase, and the atmosphere returns to normal. The guards temporarily re-qualify as paramedics and now save those who survived prolonged oxygen starvation. Her work here is over; she can go.
“Why?” Louis, who had been silent for many hours, catches her at the doorway. “Why were you not at all surprised when Jennifer attacked you?”
Olga freezes for a second, only now realizing her mistake. It was foolish.
“Everyone has his or her own life and secrets, Mr. Louis, and I'm no exception. I deleted her memory of what happened. After you unlock Jennifer, she won’t remember that I was here at all. And you won’t tell her anything; it will stay between us. Just appreciate what she’s ready to do for you and take care of her. See you,” she says, going away.
“Well, how was your trip?” Wolff greets her seven hours later.
“Nothing memorable,” replies Olga in a bored voice. “Except that I bought a present for Elena.”
Her voice is still bored; there isn’t a trace on her face of the recent clash with Louis and his girlfriend—Olga spent the entire return flight on a course of intensive medicine, putting her pretty shabby appearance into order. Thanks to this, she manages not to evoke any suspicion from Comrade Peters, but deceiving Chernova is much more difficult. Elena looks at Olga with a long estimating glance after she appears in the medical compartment, then carefully takes the container and inspects it meticulously, especially the dent from the blow, which Olga never managed to straighten despite all her efforts.
“Who hit your face, Olga, and how did you manage to put a dent on the container?”
Olga knows that to deny is stupid and gives a pre-prepared version of events, according to which she had a conflict with some refugees in Cocaine.
“So, the insurgent civilians attacked my student, a Bolshevik with almost two years of experience, and nearly broke her nose? As they say, that’s a shame, and I don’t really understand why I tried so hard, teaching you. Well, I’ll pretend that I believe you.” Elena gives her money for the coffee plantation. “Thank you. Go, snack, while there is time.”
“How long must we wait for real coffee?”
“About a month, maybe even sooner.”
“Attention, the crew needs to take their places according to the combat schedule!”
“Aw jeez, here we go again . . .”
CHAPTER TWO: SAILOR’S DAY OFF
Potatoes. A real boiled potato with dill and garlic sauce, salted herring, and a glass of vodka. Potatoes in soup with natural sour cream. And beautiful mashed potatoes with roast beef and thick sauce.
Olga didn’t eat naturally grown potatoes for more than six years. Yes, the last time potatoes were brought to the High House was eight days before Arina died—the nanny had some complicated connections with the suppliers, and she sometimes obtained rare and expensive natural products in order to diversify the rations of her ward. The nanny was gone, along with the connections, and Olga only had concentrates to eat, remembering with longing the potatoes, natural milk, fresh vegetables, smoked fish, shish kebabs, and other gastronomic joys.
Much later, after becoming one of the Bolsheviks, the girl made up for lost time—Wolff regularly treated his comrades to his culinary genius; th
e boatswain mastered the high art of space cuisine to perfection and also knew where to get this or that delicacy. Basturma, Peking duck, piglets with buckwheat porridge—one after each destroyed pirate ship, according to the old custom of Russian submariners. But there were still no potatoes on the table—potatoes are rarely grown in space, and it’s difficult to buy them. On Mars, she also failed to try the potatoes. And then Grond came, and things became quite bad.
And now they have found themselves on this anonymous numbered station just when a shuttle is arriving from Belarus, one of the few potato producers in this sector of near-Earth space. Most of the harvest was immediately bought by wholesalers for resale to distant worlds, but a few bags were sold to private customers, including the kitchen of the “Beverly Hills” restaurant, the only more or less decent institution in this hole.
Olga came here to comfortably pass the time until her transport arrived. Guarded from the crowded waiting rooms by red lines, the girl now takes a table for one, opens the menu to order something from the Sichuan cuisine, but then discovers a special offer—a potato, which she hasn’t tasted for six years. How could she refuse?
A dinner of two dishes, plus cold vodka, plus snacks, plus tea with lemon cake and poppy cookies—the amount turned out to be fair; now, for such money, a refugee from Earth could live from two weeks to one month, depending on the current rates for oxygen and energy. But today she has money, and Olga decides not to deny herself anything: she has long been accustomed to the life of a naval officer during the war, when short dismissals are replaced by long weeks and months of military campaigns. And therefore, rare hours of free time should be spent sensibly, especially after receiving a combat bonus.
***
She continues straight ahead, twelve meters along the pipe to the second intersection, where she has to make a short stop—she has to look around to see if there is a functioning motion sensor nearby. Everything is clean; the alarm doesn’t howl, and Olga turns to the left, squeezing into the narrow mouth of the auxiliary tunnel, gently unwinding the long tail of the cable behind.
A King Word And a Gun Page 3