by D. Rus
The captain paused for a second, remembering the past, and I saw him in a new way. So, that’s why he’s mostly steel! I concluded. But why didn’t they transplant the rescued mind into a clone? Wasn’t it a common procedure in these times?
The cyborg answered this unasked yet predictable question, “The Reincarnation Services didn’t exist back then. And now, I’m used to what I have. Besides, a complete external cyber suit is much cheaper than implants, and much more functional than the delicate implant parts. Plus, the soul doesn’t like excessive cyber-modification, the shell wears thin, and the chances of a successful merging grow slimmer every year. But don’t be tempted! We keep very careful records of our fleet officers, he-he. The planetaries can die three times a day as long as there are spare bodies. The steradian antenna fields on both poles of Fifth Rome will catch the soul, guaranteed. But in the space force, everything’s different. Cadets, what’s the average battle contact distance in outer space?”
The relevant knowledge had already been unpacked and mastered by my brain. I answered, “Around 3,100 miles.”
The captain grinned, revealing his last chance weapon – adamantine cutters instead of teeth. “That’s right, but only for space fighters. The Fleet’s main forces rarely ever get locked in a clinch. In most cases, it only comes to heroic hand-to-hand combat if someone makes a huge mistake.”
The cyborg scowled in anger, then sharply turned to one of the soldiers: “Define Jupiter’s point!”
Stiff as a poker, the young man stated his answer. He sounded confident, but I could see the surprise in his eyes: “It's the maximum distance at which we can reach an enemy with a relative velocity of zero.”
“Specifically?”
“Specifically 93,205 miles for heavy ASMs, and twice that for multimission missiles. However, intercontinental cruise missiles are used solely for large planetary targets and orbital facilities: stationary defense centers, dockyards, zero circle factories, etc.”
The captain nodded, “Excellent! And now, attention, everyone! Not all space force convoys have a hospital ship. And even if there is one dragging itself along at the end of the line, obscuring half the skyline with its reflectors and hiding its precious self in the shadows of the heavy ships, this won’t help the fighters. In order to capture the physical component of the soul, which weighs three twentieths of an ounce, at a distance of 1,000 kilometers, or 621 miles, you need that many meters of antenna fields – a 1,000 meters. This is a linear dependence. Should the mosquito-fleet perform an interception or cover low-flying attack ships, no one will bother to make the reception surface area 20 times larger. And is it even feasible to build a platinum grid with an area of 100 square kilometers? Such luxury for a few suicide bomber squadrons? Don’t even dream about it! You’re on your own. The Fleet pilot position is a high risk one. Hence the coefficient of three prefixing our salaries, trophies, and service record sheet points.”
A stunned silence fell on group 13. The safe and honorable profession with guaranteed resurrection and ammo paid for by the government suddenly turned out to be a second-class death row ticket.
“Don’t shit yourselves, warmbloods,” the cyborg continued merrily. “You still have 15 years of virtual world ahead of you. Followed by the near space routine with its fearful pirates and the inert fragments of former empires. The Hive has really roughed up the inhabited human space sector, sowing bioterminator spores on every rock wider than 50 miles. At the time of the fourth and final epidemic outbreak, less than one and a half percent of males survived. Three generations later, we barely got that number up to six percent. The female genome is no better off; the chances of conceiving and bearing a son are nearing statistical error: 10 to the negative ninth power. You should’ve seen the solicitude and joy with which they greeted the returning Distant Reconnaissance ships. A few hundred men at once!”
The captain fell silent. I raised my hand, wanting to ask a question that was tormenting me. Of course, after seeingthat geek full of initiative get shot in the head, asking questions was quite frightening. But we’re in a virtual world, right? Or not?...
When the cyborg gave a nod of approval, I stood at attention and spoke: “We are in the virtual world since what time? Which events in our memories are real, and which are scripted?”
The group grew quiet, letting the question sink in and realizing the illusiveness of being.
The cyborg smiled encouragingly, his adamantine fangs glistening in the sun. “Good question, Corporal!”
A murmur passed through the line again, a mix of surprised and jealous statements.
“That’s right,” the captain continued, “the system has panned three bricks out of this pile of dung. Although, if you ask me, there clearly has been a technical error. The technicians are currently overloading the virtual server with equipment tests and are upping neurohub firmware. At least you’re of some use; they’ll upgrade the academy’s hardware by a few microns at the expense of the Ministry of Defense. Anyway, I liked how that frail girl promptly had euthanized half her team, including the crew commander herself.”
Lina, who stood next to me, instantly blushed. Noticing my surprised look, she told me via our mental connection that she was much better at euthanizing than I was: “I spoke with Livia Cruise. She explained to me that you can’t be taken alive by the technosentients. And you… you had gotten crushed by a collapsed wall. I couldn’t see anything except your head and shoulders... What?! I should’ve left you? You were hanging around like an old jerk in a brothel, and your implant was already alerting you that two assault bots were approaching!”
“Wow, thanks for the kind words,” I egged her on.
“You’re…” Lina began, then stopped short and snapped with irritation through our mental channel, “Go to hell! Dumbass!”
I felt like she punched me in the brain; pain shot through my head from temple to temple. Ouch! Was that what the Doc was talking about when he said we’d have a fun life together, albeit not for long?
Meanwhile, the captain continued, “Corporal Ilya had made a canonically correct decision. He euthanized a wounded soldier. He has shown keenness of wit by following the instructions of his implant and partially disassembling an unauthorized PG, then blowing up its working battery. By doing so, he destroyed himself and dealt minor damage to a Rat. Great work, Corporal!”
The huge man – the long-time candidate for the first place in formation – nodded gloomily.
“And to answer your question, Corporal Paul, no, you cannot know! That information is classified. Forget about games once and for all. Live every day like it’s your last. Be serious about everything. When you lose friends, cry. Fight even when you’re down on your knees. When you die, bid farewell.”
Our group was silent as they let his short yet chilling directives sink in and inspire them. Even the sergeant girls snapped to attention, their eyes shining with pride and triumph. They were a part of the Fleet, the uncompromising, self-sacrificing, and dutiful Fleet. Bone of bone, flesh of flesh. The elite of the elite.
Making a necessary pause, the captain resumed speaking, his voice dead serious, “Your first semester starts this instant. Listen to the historically accurate introductory story, group! The forces of the Second United Fleet of the Great Commonwealth once started a battle royal with the Ninth Wing of the Hive near the RE Groombridge star system. Military historians still haven’t reached a consensus regarding the results of the battle; was the conquering of a single Mass-Sower of the Hive enough to justify sacrificing the entire mosquito fleet? Was the breakthrough of the torpedo ships to the super-heavy cargo-carrier an act of heroism or stupidity? When the gunboat Helen rammed the techno-sentients’ counter-space defense cruiser, was that a technical error or self-sacrifice? In short, there are many unanswered questions. The survivors of the Second Fleet moved deep into the system and clung to New Sevastopol, either seeking to sit it out in the safety of planetary defenses, or trying to cover 700 million civilians.”
&n
bsp; Constrained wheezing and the sound of fabric being ripped came from behind. Glancing back, I saw the big guy, Ilya, tearing up the collar of his suit which had suddenly become too tight. I wondered if he was Crimean. Why else would he be concerned about the fate of New Sevastopol?
“…I have to admit; the Second Fleet did have a chance. But during this battle, the techno-sentients had used heavy stealth torpedoes containing nanoworms for the first time. Upon approaching their target, these torpedoes split up into dozens of independent cysts which then bombarded battleships and the armor of the orbital strongholds. External counter-boarding clusters were not in use back then, and neither were the counter-subversive hives type Banshee and Poltergeist. Thus, the techno-virus easily infiltrated internal volumes, mastering communication lines and system nodes. Groombridge, its few terraformed planets, its RE fleet main base, and its largest shipyards of inhabited space – everything was doomed.”
The captain waived his hand and like a magician pulled a burnt sheet out of thin air. His voice rang with steely notes. “Group 13! Listen to the operational mission briefing! As you are part of the spacecraft carrier Marat’s backup crew, you have been assigned to deck seven, a free battle-for-survival interservice team. During battle, the carrier had gotten heavily damaged, fell out of formation, and is currently drifting on an unstable orbit around New Sevastopol. In two years, it will enter the dense beds of the atmosphere and burn up much to the joy of the few surviving natives. Because you had been wounded early in the battle, you’ve been confined to stasis in capsules where you’ve spent the last seven years till the spare batteries completely dried up. Your first and second course objective; reach the flight decks and abandon the doomed carrier before it leaves orbit. The carrier’s hull is in an emergency state, densely populated with parasitic xenofauna, servers, combat bots infected with the pseudo-intelligence virus, and aggressive groups of sentients who are battling for the scanty resources. Keep in mind that unfinished tasks will result points taken off your record cards. Success will get you hefty bonuses. That’s it. Good luck, 13! Don’t let me down.”
The light in the hall grew dim. We lost control of our limbs as if an invisible scythe had passed underneath us, slashing through our tendons. Bodies softly and slowly tumbled to the floor like after sustaining a blow to the jaw. Snap! Their gazes became vacant.
It is much harder to capsize a catamaran than a single boat; Lina and I remained standing an extra ten seconds, mentally clinging to each other and resisting the attempts to shut down our minds. The captain rewarded us with a close, pensive gaze.
Darkness…
Unloading consciousness from local sub-level: Briefing Hall.
Connecting to external neurogate. Authorizing via implant hub… Generating one-time dynamic password. Reception-response bundle – correct. Virtual military polygon access rights: received.
Confirm permission to install mental block "Virtual polygon Kubinka-Digital public use rules.” Digital hypnosis signature complies with standard ISSO-9734777.
Launching script: External Controls.
Thank you for confirming m-block installation. Remember, weapons created by the hands of united humanity are called upon to serve for humanity’s protection and prosperity.
Script fully executed: External Controls.
Current sub-location: Heavy spacecraft carrier Marat.
Technical and operating characteristics of Marat, project Diana technical committee (spacecraft carrier modification, order of RE Space Force), dockyards of Asteroid City, Odessa.
Hull type: spindle, reinforced primary structure.
Maximum length: 9514 feet.
Maximum diameter: 1345 feet (94 habitable and technical decks + hold space).
Useful capacity: normal – 2.1 megatons, afterburning mode – 3.3 megatons. Plasma jet range in combat mode (single-use focus jets included in basic supply) – 8699 miles.
Endurance: 14400 hours with fuel tanks 95% full and hold 25% full.
Travel range: 10 jumps in hyper-mode to a distance of 300 light years.
Jump engine type: gravity piercer Reproach-3.
Propulsion system type: plasma, mixed type Tornado Mk-21.
Available power: two universal reactor blocks (thermonuclear) Shine-M2. Individual block power: 40,000 megawatts.
Gravitational power: Grav-compensator Sisyphus, generating a stabilizing field of up to 75 megatons.
Peak acceleration: 4.5 G.
Crew: minimum personnel number to control ship: 411 personnel. Recommended personnel number: 1,920. Maximum personnel number (as per full endurance and habitability index of 0.7): 4400.
Flight deck: 8 launching pads. Hangar capacity: 72 spacecraft. Of them: space fighters: 32 (4 squadrons): attack planes: 16 (2 squadrons) torpedo bombers: 16: special-purpose spacecraft: 8. Air wing: 380 flight personnel and technical support group.
Infantry and counter-boarding section: barracks and armories to supply a heavy infantry company with reinforcement assets. Crew: 250 soldiers and weapon systems operators, 150 light bots, 50 medium bots.
Freight-carrying capacity: not designed for descent into gravitational wells.
Armament: main armament – 2 tunnel accelerators, 320 mm caliber, armory vault volume: 5085 cubic feet. Sixteen missile silos for heavy ASMs, four full salvoes worth of fire units.
Active defense systems: 48 Nemesis emergency valve clusters, 36 Pilum AD Weapon Systems, batch starters for small-caliber high-speed shells and rockets, 12 Defensive Space System artifact complexes, 40 mm caliber. Laser, plasma, and pulse turrets, automatic, in stock.
Force fields: double-layer passive Thor-2x8, active Petal.
Additional complexes: EW Shine, electronic camouflage Silence.
Armor set: modular composite 160-450 mm.
The carrier's battle characteristics flashed before my eyes, then went out. A current situation hint appeared and pulsated disturbingly: “Heavy Spacecraft Carrier Marat. Status: KIA. Lost 16% of structural weight. Depressurization: 21% of interior volume. Average habitability index: 0.34%.”
The electronics had a depressing effect on my mind, but a noticeable mental blow brought me back to my senses: “…unplanned awakening of operator. Reserve battery energy store: 5.00%. Organism status – somewhat healthy. Conditional HP: 41/70.”
Making the current status window go away, I looked around. I was lying in a capsule. Its lid was shaking, its servo drives droning weakly. I could see through the cloudy plastic that a half-melted girder had fallen on the stasis capsule.
A wave of panic hit me, making me press my hands into the translucent coffin lid and strain every muscle to open it. Apparently, I didn’t need to try so hard; the lid easily gave way, and the metal rails tumbled to the floor with a crashing sound. No, it was more like a clang, indicating that the carrier consisted mostly of titanium or aluminum, but certainly not iron.
It was humid outside the capsule. Water dripped from the ceiling. The air was cold, sending shivers down my back. Clouds of phosphorescent spores swirled all around, serving as the hall’s only light source.
I squinted, the annoying green dust irritating my eyes, and gave a few strained coughs. The conditions outside of the sterile capsule were substandard. It was hard to breathe, my eyes watered, and sleeping in such a refrigerator could very well be lethal.
As if affirming my sad thoughts, another system message popped up: “Hostile environment damage: - 1 (40/70). Given the current habitability index, you will lose 1 HP every 18 minutes. Abandon danger zone or see to your individual protection means.
After that, my implant notified me: “Total load on organism cleaning system: 62 percent. Guaranteed supply operability till routine technical service – 1712 hours.”
I shook my head, not even wanting to think how long I would have lasted inside that half-dead ship without the protection of my cyber-implant of class alpha-prime. But the outlook was grim enough as it were; it looked like I had only 12 hours left to live.
; I need to move, I told myself, although it will be difficult!
My body memory retained my sensations from the previous mission; my thigh still hurt from getting shot, my burned back still itched, and I could barely move my feet which had gotten crushed by the techno-sentient I had defeated. I couldn’t tell whether this was a deferred reaction of the brain or post mortal debuffs designed to keep us on our toes and prevent us from using our imaginary immortality as a cheat.
Biting my lip in pain, I threw my legs over the short ledge of the capsule and jumped down on the deck. My bare feet sank ankle-deep into the soft carpet made of a multicolored moss. It was cold yet cushioned my feet nicely.
As soon as I took a step to the side, I cursed and started jumping on one foot. My interface blinked scarlet and took off two HP for a stab wound.
Hissing with pain – 200 percent sensitivity is good only for virtual sex – I pulled a long, jagged metal pin out of my heel. My blood clotted before my eyes, and the wound skinned over; the nanites earned their bread by fixing their hive carrier's body.
I felt hungry; the law of conservation of energy applied to the virtual world as well. The nanobot factory used the organism’s resources, extracting precious kilojoules out of everything it could reach: muscle glycogen, adipose tissue, old and transformed cells. In critical situations, it would turn to vital organs, including bone marrow and nervous tissue. This thought evoked the holographic images of dystrophic officers who had to keep going in a frantic rush to the very end; the safety procedure and implanted technology FAQ were the first info packets to unpack inside my brain.