by D. Rus
My cot jerked. Although my capsule was completely sound-proof, the echo of a loud explosion reached my ears. My cot jerked again. The long, narrow night lamp over my head went out. The red emergency lights instantly activated. Through the translucent plastic walls of my capsule, I could see colorful laser dots dancing everywhere. A flame raged nearby. My fellow recruits beat their fists against the walls of their capsules, getting baked alive inside them.
Lina’s emotions flooded my defenseless nervous system the moment she woke up: panic, fear, and scorching pain. It was like a red-hot needle pierced her spine from the tailbone to the base of the skull. I wheezed and grinded my teeth, completely oblivious to the fact that I was chewing up my tongue into bits. Lina’s pain was stronger.
I rammed my bare heel into the exit hatch. Open up, you piece of crap! The strained howl of an engine followed. I was now isolated in my capsule surrounded by fire, reading a jittering sign projected in midair: “Exit point failure. Channels of communication with repair and emergency services are either blocked or unavailable. Emergency protocol activated. Take measures to protect yourself from your environment. Temperature: +123F, CO2 levels: 6%. Skirmish in progress, using light ballistic and plasma weapons. Loss of capsule pressure in: 3…2…1…”
Kaboom!
The blow-out charge shot off the surprisingly thick hatch. Pungent smoke burst through the gap. I heard the agonizing screams of the dying and the sounds of a futuristic battle, incomparable to anything else. Pulse gun shells whistled through the air at 16,500 feet per second to the howling of hot plasma and the blasting of assault rifles.
I wouldn’t have made out anything around me if it hadn’t been for my implant; it made sense of this symphony of chaos, detecting individual shots and highlighting potential enemies and their arsenal in my field of vision. It also used colorful spots to mark dangerous sectors and optimal routes to all nearby shelters.
Alas, I was a complete noob. System logs flashed before my eyes as if stuck in scroll lock. Status glyphs rushed like a waterfall from the upper right-hand corner and piled up in huge stacks on the periphery of my vision. The 3D database map spun every which way like a Rubik's cube gone berserk, various markers appearing on it which I could not decipher.
Perhaps one day I would know my way around high-tech battle interfaces, but at that moment, I couldn’t even turn off the messages blocking my vision.
My capsule’s activity drew the attention of an unknown enemy. Thud-thud-thud-thud, came the noise of plastic getting shot. Tiny openings dotted the capsule.
Inside my head, I could hear my implant commenting with its usual irrational tranquility, “Handheld infantry railgun, 2.5mm caliber, ammo type: ceramic balls, 86 percent likelihood.”
Another motion vector was marked red. The stack of glyphs depicting the enemy’s fire weapons increased by one.
I doubled over, feeling pangs of another’s pain. Wheezing, I saw blood pouring out of my mouth, but did not try to tune out Lina’s emotions. I feel, I know. I didn’t just mirror what she felt, but took on a part of her physical sensations so that she could feel a little better.
Lina tried to shut me out, not wanting to pass me her pain. For a second, I felt happy, thinking that she actually cared about me. But I was distracted by her telepathy: “Two invalids are useless! Preserve your mobility and kill the enemies!”
The implant noted, “Friendly target located: wounded combatant. If possible, administer first aid. In the event of absence of an evacubot, or if target is at risk of being taken hostage, euthanize the target. Optional (recommended): arm yourself with the casualty’s weapons.”
I didn’t have to search far for Lina; the interface before my eyes obligingly highlighted her doubled-over frame. Her HP bar was frighteningly short and of a dark-orange color, indicating that she was in critical condition.
At least now I had a goal amidst this madness. Coughing, I ran through the smoke. Surprisingly, this time I managed to react to the tactical network’s hint and followed the suggested motion vector that lit up before my eyes. I dove down on reflex as I approached a red line indicating a possible danger zone.
A white-hot blob of plasma whooshed over me, burning the hair on back of my head. I did an awkward summersault and stretched in a leap as I dodged another dotted line.
But I failed to fit through the narrow space between two high-speed ceramic balls. I felt as though two angry cobras bit into my thigh. The implant marked the wounded limb a yellow color and advised: “Double injury. Damage: light. Performing quarantine, arrest of bleeding, limb operability assurance. Regeneration systems workload: 58 percent.”
I was no longer slipping on the blood-stained floor, and my half-mad laughter stopped. I was injected with a cocktail of combat drugs, their effects coinciding with those of the anti-shockers and pain-killers. I felt dizzy from the rush.
The sight of the girl on watch crawling on the aisle floor sobered me up. She was nearly unrecognizable; my gaze involuntarily slipped from her distorted face to the long trail of innards she left behind. The girl was missing her legs and pelvis. Her implant was the only thing keeping her alive.
This implant, this creation of mankind nearly as ingenious as divine inspiration itself, was patching up her damaged blood vessels, compensating blood loss, stimulating the cardiac muscle, pumping drugs into her bloodstream in a hurry.
I froze, completely clueless as to what could be done given such injuries. She wasn’t bleeding at this point, and bleeding was the only thing I could treat with amateurish bandages and a few kind words.
Our eyes met. Her pupils were so dilated that they concealed the irises.
Seizing her bloody fingers, I muttered foolishly, “Just… hang on!”
The girl gave me a crooked smile: “It’s you who must hang on. I’m finished… It’s the terror group of the Hive, damn it thrice! The accursed seed must have sprouted somewhere. So many years have passed, and they still awaken… Listen, student!” The girl’s breathing became jerky, and black, oily foam stood out on her lips – a clear indication that her internal nanobot hive had gotten damaged. “…do me an honor, give me an easy death. I could stop my heart, and the temple priest would absolve me of the sin of suicide, but that would be bad. I shouldn’t leave my brains unscathed for the techno-sentients. Who knows what they could do with them.”
The psi-sniper had been dragging her pulse gun along all this time. Grabbing it by the acceleration block barrel, she pushed the gun toward my feet. “Help me leave. Become my blood brother!”
Unthinking, I picked up the gun by its ergonomic stock. The weapon vibrated violently in my hands and displayed a warning sign on its sensor panel: “Unauthorized user! Granting guest access to aiming systems, ammo, and external devices. Firing and disassembly options blocked.”
My implant joined the crazy electronic conversation: “Personalized ‘Scorpion’ pulse gun with the ‘Psionic-plus’ modification. Caliber: 1 mm, firing rate: variable, up to 1800 shots per minute. Condition: good.”
“Hacking: impossible. Missing Brute Force module.”
“Hardware tampering: impossible. Missing toolbox and master- gunsmith skill.”
“Technical imitation: impossible. Missing Chameleon block.”
“Recommendations: to gain access, use verbal communication and social engineering methods.”
I heaved a sigh of relief, realizing that I wouldn’t have to kill the girl. My lungs ached as I inhaled; the smoke grew thicker, the temperature in the barracks increased, and my hair began to crackle from the heat.
Spitting viscous drool, I looked around in search of a safe spot where I could drag this dying stump of a human. The sniper shivered, her eyes racing over the smoke, her chapped lips hurriedly whispering a prayer.
The cries around us started to die down, and the shooting ceased almost completely. We would hear an occasional blast, as if the enemies were busy finishing the wounded. I didn’t like it at all.
I felt Lina’s emotio
ns traveling from the far corner of the barracks. That was where the fire blazed the brightest. The girl was weighing me down with fear and the dull pain of burns. One of her implants was clearly suppressing the more severe pain spikes.
Concentrating, I tried to send her the most calming thoughts I could muster: Hold on, sweetheart, just a minute. I’ll help this girl, then crawl over to you. Soon, the cavalry will arrive and give these bullies hell! Indeed, you couldn’t just raid the barracks unnoticed given the multitude of the surveillance systems. A prolonged skirmish simply wasn’t possible.
Seizing the evacuation hinge on the nearest armored spacesuit, I dragged the psi-girl to the armory. The CAS’s force field had lost the former shine, but still glimmered. Perhaps it’ll recognize us as friendly subjects and let us in? I wondered. If not, I’ll stuff the girl into the CAS. I couldn’t use it myself, lacking access rights and the necessary skill, but its armor would shield the psi-girl. Should the gods be favorable, the suit’s first aid kit would activate and help the sniper survive.
I ran in awkward dashes, as the girl still weighed quite a bit even being halved, and the external devices of the battle suit weren’t exactly aerodynamic. My jerky movements made the sniper come to her senses.
Looking around, she made out the useless pulse gun in my hand and, cringing in pain, uttered in a surprisingly clear voice: “Attention PG-7381901! Code 09, at the risk of Sergeant Livia Cruise!”
The touchscreen displayed a dim green sign for a second: “All blocks removed. Ready to use. Battery remaining: 92%. Select ammo type. Available ammo: flash balls – 250, ceramic bullets – 150, tungsten bullets – 100.”
“Stars,” the girl whispered wearily, hanging by a thread.
“Ceramic bullets selected. Recommended target filtering: class 2 armor at most.”
“That’ll do… Shoot me in the head,” Livia told me.
I shook my head, Damn suicide! Slinging the PG over my shoulder, I continued dragging the sniper to the armory.
I had to hurry; something huge and black flashed behind the smoke, alarming me. The implant couldn’t highlight the unidentified entity and sadly summed up the situation: “Directional jamming resistance. Detecting an active camouflage module.”
“Fool…” I heard Livia’s whisper behind my back, followed by the click of a blasting cap and the subtle high-pitched sound of the acoustic alarm.
Wheeling around, I stared at the pin of a plasma grenade slowly growing scarlet. The sniper promptly rammed her fist clutching the grenade underneath the one-piece bullet-proof vest of her suit. Her pale lips spread in a crooked smile. Her mind was already on the other side, but she took a second to utter a considerate: “Run, handsome, run.”
I took to my heels, already knowing that I wouldn’t make it. My implant painted a 17-foot-wide circle around us as a lethal radius for exposed targets.
Red… Orange… Yellow zone.
Kaboom!!!
The shock wave hit me in the back, sending my charred body flying. A prominence of the swelling plasma cloud reached me, incinerating my clothes, skin, and even muscles.
I hit the once-white floor in a completely hopeless condition. The pain was excruciating. I felt as though I had reached the very peak of all theoretically possible human suffering. Did I scream? Give me a break! You can only scream if you have the strength to draw breath. If you are still able to breathe, you are not in pain.
Lina whimpered in a faraway corner in chorus with me. The echo of my pain consumed her. My implant huffed and puffed, the first aid kits frantically pricking me with needles, hurriedly injecting me with lethal doses of various drugs. The implant’s main objective was to keep me alive here and now. Soon, an evacubot would arrive and dump us in an autodoc. The autodoc would take apart our flesh fiber by fiber, thoroughly cleansing and reviving each individual cell. Soon… Provided, of course, that the higher-ups deemed such expenses necessary.
The drugs helped temporarily. The floor shook under heavy footsteps, distracting me from the painful sensations. I shifted my gaze to the approaching enemy.
A techno-sentient.
My implant’s interface explained: “Hive storm-trooper. Imperial classification: a light infantry support bot, class Rat. Mass: 1,700 lbs. Armament: twin switch railgun, 3 mm caliber. Standard-frequency generator launcher. Close combat froster. May have passive shield.”
As I looked at the armored mug towering over me and at the flexible probing rod sliding out from underneath the chest plate, I deeply regretted not having stayed with the sniper.
With a movement of my wrist, I raised the PG and pulled the trigger with all my might. The PG switched to its maximum firing rate, spitting out 50 units of fire in five seconds.
The monster started back, wrapping itself in a glowing force field. The brittle ceramic ammo was just the right thing for overloading a passive shield. The last few bullets in the round pierced the extinguished film and crashed into the monster’s armored chest, spilling their contents.
A utility notice distracted me: “Changing ammo. Emergency autos election: tungsten bullets.” I still kept the trigger pressed all the way in, paralyzed by the lingering pain and fear.
The armor-piercing needle-shaped bullets capable of going right through a roboplatform punched several holes in the pseudo-sentient Rat. Its system modules were damaged badly enough. The monster’s entire body shuddered and fell with a crash on my poor legs.
I merely grunted. The pain was a ghost. The medicinal defense was absolute.
“Changing ammo. Last option: flash balls. Right magazine is empty, reload.”
Again, the floor trembled as I heard the drumroll of heavy footsteps. Now it was my turn to smile crookedly and bring the overheated barrel to my mouth. My lips cracked and burned with a hissing sound.
My implant supported me in my decision, “Detecting carrier frequency of Reincarnation Service. Happy regeneration, soldier!”
Forgive me, Lina…
Bang-bang-bang!
Darkness…
Darkness…
Darkness…
And the gleaming system logs:
“Test run of personal virtual module completed. System status: green.”
“Degree of immersion: Alpha Plus.”
“Depth of immersion: Alpha.”
“Personal adjustment: completed.”
“Examination battle results entered into record card (RC).”
“Points gained: 118. Out of these, bonus points for best result in the group and destruction of bot, not covered in the script: 102.”
“Status alert: attained required quantity of points for achievement of new rank: Corporal. Communicating with low-order stream of the AI Hannibal. Confirmation received, new rank approved.”
“Congratulations on your first patch! Many annulets to you, Corporal!”
“Unloading consciousness from personal virtual space sector, connecting to academy’s public cluster.”
“Loading local sub-level: Briefing Hall.”
The image blinked, and I found myself in a dazzlingly white sterile hall. The rest of the group materialized next to me. They were coughing, grunting, clawing at their chests, and looking with surprise at their newly grown arms, legs, or whatever they had lost.
The cyber-mod’s voice thundered in the hall: “Congratulations! You have completed your trial immersion. Your group has made the academy’s top list: worst performance of the year, ya clumsy asses!”
Chapter Six
The hubbub died down. Our group slowly and warily looked around, growing accustomed to the new reality and recovering from the persistent flashbacks of the recently experienced nightmare. I saw dozens of eyes filled with horror, pain, and fury. I surmised that each one of them had gotten their fair share of plasma and the raging flames.
Sergeants rapidly passed by the ranks, violently slapping those who had been too deeply affected by their virtual death to get them to pay attention. Macarius, who stood near me, stared at his hands i
n fear as he watched burn blisters swelling up on his skin.
One of the sergeant girls waved her hand, “Stigmata. It’ll go away. Fall in, crustacean!”
I tossed my head as if shaking off the shroud of afterlife. The horror of the impending nonexistence slowly subsided, allowing me to think clearly. My mind protested; this was no game. This virtual reality was identical to actual reality, except for the pain, which was too intense and consuming. I had never experienced such pain in real life.
The freshman record table caught my attention. As the cyber-mod had said, group thirteen was in the last place. We had scored less than 2,000 points during the game event. This put us more than twice below the lowest all-female team.
I assessed the group’s battle results in my head; it looked like my record 100 bonus points hardly improved the situation. After all, we were about 70 people. The bonus was practically unnoticeable, yielding a mere extra point per every clumsy fellow.
It’s a well-known fact that individual heroism doesn’t win wars. Most of the combat jobs fall on the faceless average masses. The space fighter statistics were ruthless; three flights, then, if you got lucky, you’d earn one star on your fuselage. And then, you too would get blasted out of the sky, and your weary friends standing at your pyramidal, veneer grave would fire a scanty farewell salute out of their personal weapons.
Although… perhaps things were simpler? Perhaps we weren’t all thumbs? It could be that the local psychologists had simply picked out a particular pressure system that lowered our self-esteem and provoked us to be zealous in training. No one wants to be a loser, especially when it comes to questions of life and death. I bet that in the age of duels, people would learn fencing of their own free will and with great assiduity.
The cyborg continued: “Everyone get a taste of ‘game’ death? Do we have any masochists left? Anyone wants to die a few more times? Because I can boost your level of pain perception from the current 200 percent to an anguishing 300 percent. Volunteers? Didn’t think so, dumbasses! I’ll teach you to hold on to life! Never forget: space force soldiers do not have personal destructors. The ship AI makes decisions regarding group euthanasia; he blasts the reactor. The soldiers fight to the end, often to the ticking of a bomb's countdown timer. And, in some cases, when a fighter returns on autopilot, they go in the cockpit and bring out a baked head in a tactical helmet, bundles of life support wires dragging after it. The rest is ashes and mince meant, and I'm a living example of such an instance.”