The Cadet (LitRPG. Squadcom-13. Book:1)

by D. Rus

  The giantess grinned: “Of course! The space fighter ships are based a mere 190 miles away from us. Well, Lucky, don’t forget auntie Cornelia Prime now. Stop by sometime, won’t you? Deliver this kitten to my quarters tonight. I’ll play with him to instill a conditioned reflex.”

  “Lieutenant colonel, we have a problem with these two!” the lab girl said worriedly. "Abnormal punch actuation; the artifact’s pseudo AI had failed to find more appropriate candidates and had divided the nano-worm colony into two parts. Lucky received part one, and 776 received part two.”

  “So what?!” the leader snapped with irritation, taking pity on me and putting me down on the floor. I wheezed, trying to draw air into my lungs, and carefully pressed my broken arms to my chest.

  “The undersized colony did not have enough working substance to build a quality turnover antenna. The AI had made a controversial decision; it united some of the resources of the two sentients. The chronoflow disturbance mixed their slender bodies, and now, they are connected in the psi range. In other words, their souls have grown together. If one dies or disappears for a long time, the other one will also perish.”

  Cornelia cursed in irritation, “You can see yourself that the girl can’t be a pilot. She can be a navigator, gunsmith, or supercargo. But not a space fighter pilot! She doesn’t have suitable endocrine and emotional profiles, overload resistance, reaction rate, pain threshold, multitasking and team work capacities. Need I go on? Plus, a light Yak has no room for dead weight. Are you suggesting we attach her to the external store? She’ll die in a minute. Although… hmm… Maybe we can make a heavy fighter crew out of them? We have tons of spacecraft; the automatic factories deliver them to the surface ceaselessly, like they’re on the damn prewar schedule from one and a half century ago. And there’s no one to fly those spacecraft.”

  “Due to the male genome saving efforts, use of two-seat vehicles in combat is forbidden, Department of Defense order number 51221, from the year 2715.”

  Cornelia waved her hand, “A comet up their asses! There will be only one male aboard. The other crewmember will be this ragged cat! She has enough combat potential. What are her chances of surviving the surgical insertion of the implant?”

  “The pilot implant - .002 percent. Navigator implant – 40 percent. Systems operator implant – 73 percent. Military officer unit – a negative 60 percent given her current physical condition. She needs to be overclocked, optimized, and have her flesh upgraded.”

  The lieutenant colonel cast an annoyed glance at the gray-haired old man with noble features who was moving on the floor next to me. Then, she pulled out the dock-tailed, thick-barreled gun attached to the fasteners on her chest lightning-fast.

  Bang! the poor guy’s skull was blown to pieces.

  “Why would she need a military officer implant?” Cornelia asked.

  Julia explained, “By the orders of AI Hannibal, the acting Minister of Defense of the Solar System, only military officers may become crewmembers of heavy fighters.”

  Cornelia sighed and squatted down next to me. The servomotors of her exoskeleton armor droned quietly, hot air emanated from the grating of the heat exchanger, and the external sensors carefully rotated, analyzing her surroundings.

  I tried to crawl away, but Cornelia easily reached me and patted me on the head, “As Juno is my witness, I’ve done everything I could. The orders of that senile Hannibal can’t be repealed. There’s no one to do it; everyone ranking higher than a colonel is dead. That cursed virus…”

  She rose abruptly, waving to her escort, “Mandatory upgrading for both! And I want that clumsy doctor to do his best, else instead of fucking Lucky, I’ll be fucking his wrinkled ass!” She then turned to me, “Please survive, kitten.”

  Chapter Three

  Obeying direct orders, one of the bodyguards attended to us. I did not get a swelled head over this favor; I regretted it from the start.

  The black figure with a closed helmet stepped forward, the whole room reflecting in her glossy armor. Grabbing my shoulder, the bodyguard tossed me onto a platform that had conveniently flown up to us. My collarbone crunched, pain flaming up. I actually gained a drop of knowledge that day; attacking a person in an armored spacesuit with bare fists is the pinnacle of idiocy.

  Force field straps bound me from hand to foot, brutally deforming my broken bones and sending me back to blissful unconsciousness.

  I wasn’t out for long. I came to my senses in that same place, still bound. Tears blurred my vision as I noisily gritted my teeth. Bastards! I could die from shock!

  As if reading my mind, the platform transporting me gave a beep. A semi-transparent medical surveillance screen appeared over my head. The image of a male figure spinning on it glowed with yellow and orange injury markers.

  The wise mechanism took a second to think, determining what was wrong with me and choosing the right treatment options in order to facilitate its task of delivering me to point X. Then, it gave a jingling sound and injected me with something freezing-cold. The unknown medication proved very efficient. My pain was gone, my exhausted body lost its sensitivity, and I drowned in a slight euphoria.

  Heaving a sigh in bliss, I laughed, “Excellent cart! It transports you, cures you, and keeps you alive! We need these on Earth!”

  “Shut up!” a voice boomed through loudspeakers.

  I turned my head as far as I could; the intimidating bodyguard in polished armor was following the convoy of platforms.

  “Don’t turn around!” the figure barked, and I received a painful electric shock in my poor spine.

  I arched my back. The force field straps perceived my movement as an attempt to escape, and instantly wrapped around me even tighter, jerking me back down onto the platform. They knocked the wind out of me, cutting off my circulation.

  I wheezed, gasping for air, writhing from the shock. Spectacular sensations! The anti-shock injection still worked; I felt no pain and was quite content while my body danced a jig, making me slowly slip into unconsciousness.

  The bodyguard’s deep, raspy voice guffawed behind me, clearly enjoying the barrack-style prank. However, I had to be delivered alive, so someone gave a remote command, and the platform’s straps loosened their hold on me. It felt as though I was injected with more chemical crap.

  The platform was obviously suited for various tasks; it was not so much a medical device as a prisoner handling apparatus.

  I wondered how Lina was doing. Our spiritual connection was growing stronger by the minute, tightly binding our souls together. I had gotten but a brief glance at Lina’s platform, but the image soon resurfaced in my memory; the platform was at the end of the line, the paralyzed girl on it sloppily bound with force field straps across her chest and thighs. The cut on her brow bled, the scarlet drops accumulating in her eye as her head was firmly fixed in place.

  Bastards, I thought. Man, where are we? What’s going on?

  It looked like the KGB had placed us in a secret research institute where we underwent an experiment, then were preserved, placed in anabiosis, forced into cryogenic sleep – call it what you want. Maybe they were testing our psychological stability by placing us under stress in a simulated environment? Or had they actually sent us to the future?

  The sci-fi surroundings were quite believable, as were the warlike female team referring to frightening dates and Roman names. The brains splattered on the floor looked very real as well. The fragments of my broken wrists kept drawing my gaze as if in reproach. This treatment was too merciless, traumatizing me severely.

  I no longer smiled and refrained from joking. Putting my clear consciousness to use, I gaped at everything within my sight, analyzing all the details I could see or hear.

  It did not surprise me that I knew their language. If that artifact had managed to grow back my limbs and create a portable time machine within my body, then clearly recording a few megabytes of information in my brain was a trivial task.

  I still thought in Russian, but
every time I opened my mouth, I spoke their foreign language. My throat was already smarting from producing sounds I was unaccustomed to. Interlingua, prompted my mind crammed with foreign knowledge.

  So, they installed both a linguistic and an explanatory dictionary on me, I concluded as I scanned my surroundings in search of unfamiliar objects.

  The ugly bumps on the ceiling were nanobot colonies. I had no clue which type though, as I had not been given knowledge of specifics – just general concepts. Various terms flashed across my mind; terror hives, counter-boarding bots, diversionist bots, multifrequency nanites… Replicators, refueling and recharging stations… Countless foreign words spun in my head, yet I could not have defined them at gunpoint.

  Speaking of guns, I suddenly knew that the bodyguard’s short-barreled machine gun was a pulse gun, whatever that meant. I won’t go into detail describing its design and how it operated, but its basic shape and reference mark were perfectly recognizable.

  Oh, my poor brain, they had picked you big time! I thought, shuddering at my suspicions, then tried to whisper a curse. I was relieved that I could still swear like a sailor, that they hadn’t taken away my native language.

  The hovering platform slowly maneuvered through the hallways, emitting signals to warn any passers-by and make them step out of the way. The personnel in the hallways looked at us with an unfavorable eye. They were many: scientists, military officers, and several unknown folks. My new knowledge was of no help in identifying them; their uniforms, insignias, and shoulder straps all blended together. I couldn’t tell a plumber from a pilot, just like an alien wouldn’t be able to tell our generals from our doormen.

  I tensed up as I realized that everyone was female. The women were of different ages. Some looked more worn out than others, some were more feminine, others – more masculine. They gazed at me so lustfully that I was really frightened. I felt like a naked virgin being taken through the first Georgian infantry regiment.

  Where are all the men?! Hello?! I wondered if I had been forced to star in some adult movie for horny teens. Or perhaps this was a private party for pervy CEOs? No, of course not. What I saw around me was clearly not props, but real, fully functional technology: the hovering platforms, the invisible force field chains, and the heavy armor hugging the well-built bodies like an extra layer of skin.

  The women in the hallways were not supporting actresses, but real people. The regiment of young women in camo who had just finished exercising smelled of genuine female sweat. Their bawdy glances indicated all the things they wanted to do to me in different positions, and their pheromones were like a drug, evoking my primal instincts.

  I no longer feared or hated the platform carrying me, but became somewhat fond of it. Thrice it had shielded my body with force field domes, and one time, it even had to turn on its siren while passing a group of particularly cheeky she-warriors, tazing them as they tried to touch me.

  The medical section of the base was easily recognizable, its entrance bearing the famous emblem consisting of a red cross and a snake drinking alcohol from a wine glass. Who would have thought that the Russian medical symbol would survive through the centuries?

  The platform stopped for a second to identify itself before the security cameras. It swiftly sent them a few pass codes, and the massive door before me slid aside. The gun turret hanging on the ceiling turned away from me.

  I saw doors flashing by and heard the chiming of other platforms moving to and fro, accompanied by the sounds of various robotized devices. The staff lazily moved around. Here, no one paid attention to me. Apparently, the doctor girls got to see guys a lot more often than the 6-foot-tall infantrywomen with bulging muscles.

  Our line of platforms slowed down as it neared the sign “Upgrading Hall N1.” The platforms flew inside through a protective screen of a bluish tint, ignoring the menacingly bright marker that read “Do not enter! Surgery in progress!”

  I was feeling really sick by that time; the accurately measured dose of anesthetics was beginning to wear off. My battered body reminded my nerve cells of the pain, and they obligingly forwarded the signals to the brain.

  Being nearly unconscious, I still made out an irritated voice, “Why the hell did you bring this chunk of meat here?! Your dumbass AI is the one administering basic implant procedures! Don’t interrupt the creative process of a true sentient!”

  A male voice! I realized in surprise. Distracted from the myriad of unpleasant bodily sensations, I opened my eyes and turned my cloudy eyes to the speaker.

  I was right, it was a man. A skinny man of about 50, the nervous professor type. He had a golden socket in his right temple. His left eye was artificial, clearly capable of X-ray and ultrasound vision.

  Behind the man, I saw the blinking lights of a transparent sarcophagus containing a partially disassembled human body. I could not determine its sex. The flesh of the face had been carefully cut off and rolled up over the crown. Robotic arms were swiftly working on it with their slender fingers. A laser scalpel would blaze up now and again as a 3D printer diligently applied a metal armor mesh to the exposed ribs.

  The bodyguard accompanying us shrugged indifferently and returned her paralyzer to the fasteners on her hip, considering her delivery mission completed.

  Assuming that we posed a threat, the gun turret on the ceiling pointed a barrel at us. Taking a second to choose a primary target, it fired a thin pulse beam into the bridge of my nose. How flattering!

  “These are the orders of Cornelia Prime,” the she-warrior responded. “You are to install two military officer implants: a pilot and a weapon-smith one. Plus, additional modules that increase the chances of the subjects’ successful rehabilitation. The cover letter has all the info and the endorsed orders.”

  I wondered if I had actually heard a note of jealousy in her voice. Was it really a good thing to be a powerless slave fully dependent on the government? Well, I suppose inmates do get free dental care and are offered fairly good living conditions, while a free man has to pay for everything out of pocket. What’s the matter, soldier girl, not enough savings for a military implant? I thought. Or are you lacking in seniority?

  “That so?” the doctor replied with interest, finally deigning to rise from the operator panel.

  The surgery on the poor fellow lying in pieces continued without him. In fact, finding itself unsupervised, the autodoc happily flashed its lights, and the robot arms started working even faster, swiftly taking apart the patient’s spine.

  Approaching the platform, the doctor pulled a pictogram off the screen floating in midair and enlarged it on the tablet he was carrying. A sinister smile lit up his pale face as he quoted, “‘…survival is the top priority...’ I see! When will Cornelia learn to properly formulate her orders? She will always be a heavy infantry sergeant. If survival’s the top priority, I could simply transplant their brains into a defensive planetary unit; they’ll be working their asses off calculating the velocities of trash orbiting Earth and the range tables for the minor-caliber artillery. But hey, they’ll be alive!”

  The doctor laughed, tweaking my cheek as he looked into my watering eyes, “Hey, you! Wanna be a particle of a mighty intelligence?... Come again?”

  The Doc started back and addressed the bodyguard with annoyance, “Why is he conscious? Are you aware that there are rules regarding the transportation of wild chrono-objects? He’s still missing both the insurance and the external control loop! And these platforms are all glitchy; their force field generators fail all the time.”

  The bodyguard nodded at my platform’s diagnostic screen, “Multiple limb injuries and medicamental blockage of the spinal column. He isn’t a threat. But if you want to be such a bureaucrat, Doc, no problem.”

  She took out a stun gun and aimed carefully, choosing the most vulnerable areas on my body.

  The Doc waved his hand indignantly, “Whoa! Hold your fire! Imbeciles! Who’s going to remove the toxin from his body afterward? That’s it, get outta here,
brainless infantry, I’ll handle this myself!”

  The girl sneered, turned around obediently, and headed to the exit. Of course, she had the last word: “Cornelia Prime says ‘hi’ and intends to check on you personally if her orders aren’t carried out and this specimen dies.”

  The doctor shuddered. His clean-shaven cheek twitched. He reached into the breast pocket of his one-piece suit with his sinewy hand adorned with either a glowing tattoo or the mesh of an implanted optical fiber. Pulling out an unmarked inhaler, he drew on it greedily with one nostril.

  The effect of the unknown medication was instantaneous. The doctor went from a timid hare to an angry lion. Turning to the bodyguard, he snapped, “Get the hell outta here! I’ll leave you to rot in the syphilitic isolation ward! Pump you full of estrogen, raise your reproductive potential, and make you a sow for breeding tribesmen! You’ll be giving birth until your gut is covered with scars or till you’re honored with a boy, which won’t happen! Out!”

  The girl went pale and clearly lost courage as she stood at attention, hit her fist to her chest, and hastily dove into the doorway.

  The doctor laughed happily, “Those XX-chromosomed dogs are afraid!”

  Noticing that I was looking at his inhaler, he quickly put it back in his pocket, then winked at me and lowered his voice, “Berserk 6, a BWA cocktail. This is good stuff, completely wipes out self-restraint. But you have to hit the regeneration capsule later for half an hour, else you’ll go cold turkey, and a panic attack will seem like a bedtime story. But what choice do we have? There are only 17 of us males in the entire base. If you fail to establish yourself as tough, they’ll be putting the moves on you all the time, pinching your ass. Or, they’ll even drag you to the heavy infantry barracks, pump you full of stimulants, and screw you till your manhood falls off. The inspectors had found Quintus Serf only four days later, as the girls had hid him in a reserve depot under piles of disposable sanitary liners for CAS -combat armored spacesuits. Good thing they stuffed him in a powered-down armored spacesuit; there were enough diapers for an entire battalion in there!”