by D. Rus
Putting my weight on both feet again, I weighed up the metal pin in my hand. I could wrap the handle in some cloth and get a nice space Neanderthal blade. The pin was excellent quality, clearly a welcome present for whoever entered this noob location first. It was made of strong yet brittle steel. Something high-carbon, between cast and soft iron.
Without hesitation, I used the pin to cut the front side of my suit, the only thing I had on. I sliced off a long strip to make a sort of a cord, then quickly but carefully tightened the knots on my future weapon. My skill of weaving pseudo-cord had been leveled up during multiple reconnaissance expeditions. A 6-foot-long parachute cord is a versatile and oftentimes an irreplaceable thing.
I needed to hurry; things began to stir around me. A mass resurrection spell was activated inside the subsidiary morgue. Dozens of capsules all over the hall popped open, releasing their prisoners into the green haze. The rising of the dead, group 13 in all its pathetic grandeur.
Some climbed out on their own, others were crying out indistinctly, struggling behind the glass covered with scratches. A few of the capsules lay on the deck, buried under debris and wrapped in moss. Others had gotten burned or smashed by shards. The bones poking out of the holes indicated the grim fate of those who had been inside. I hoped that such capsules were merely part of the apocalyptic environment, and that all 73 of us were alive and in relatively good health.
As it turned out, I had the same idea of the concept of relativity as the virtual world programmers. Stasis capsules certainly weren’t medicinal regulation modules. Cheaply mass-produced, their sole purpose was to keep the soldiers alive until they could be transported to a hospital ship.
Some of those whom we took out of a few capsules were nearly dead. A third of us sustained massive injuries: severed limbs, shattered heads, faces caved into the skull, severe burns, and frostbite. The resurrection party in the morgue quickly turned into a visit to a medical battalion: groans, curses, tears, and fits of hysterics all around.
In the next half hour, as the most heavily injured died one by one, I had no time to even raise my head. I was busy dragging, laying out, bandaging as best as I could, and moistening the fellow soldiers’ lips with water. I had once been a helpless invalid, so I couldn’t just pass them by.
My implant jingled triumphantly a few times as the record card informed me of the bonuses I received: primitive weapon crafting, battlefield medicine, “making the final hours of my comrades easier, and, odd as it may seem, “euthanizing a soldier who couldn’t be saved.” It looked like not all of my efforts had actually helped…
In my lap, I held a girl whose entrails had gotten ripped out. Suddenly, she twitched, her last HP point leaving her, and bled to death.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and a voice, “That’s the last one.”
I turned around. Lina stood near me with tearful eyes. Her developing psi ability enabled her to pick up the death emanations of others. Respawned former invalids crowded behind her. A dim flash, and that girl I had just held reappeared in her stasis capsule.
That was fast, I thought. Respawn only took a minute. At such rate, it was easy to conduct zerg rushes – attacks on a powerful enemy by a horde of inferior warriors. As you have probably guessed, group 13 would be the cannon fodder. We were probably the lamest soldiers around.
Looking around hesitantly, the respawned girl fixed her eyes on her own body which was already starting to shrivel up and reek. Quickly jumping down onto the deck, she ran up to us and, tearing a wide sheet of moss off the wall, used it to cover her awkwardly positioned corpse.
After hiding her innermost private parts (and what can be more private than the bowels that had fallen out of one's open belly?) the girl approached me and chastely kissed my cheek: “Thank you. When you stroked my hair, whispering soothing words in my ear, I felt much better… The bastards!” hatred distorted her face. “It was so painful. It's unfair!”
Ilya’s deep, rumbling voice came from behind: “Let’s not be shirkers, kamikazes! Have you never seen corpses before? There’ll be plenty of them, I guarantee it. Listen up! Women, you will be cutting and storing the moss. Build dry deck chairs and taste the moss while you're at it – I'm sure at least one type is edible. Men – get busy and clear the blockage! There’s no room to move in here. Drag your corpses aside; you can move only your own corpse. This has to be anti-looting defense, although we don’t have much loot on us. Well, don’t just stand there!”
While he spoke, I surveyed the group. Ilya had managed to subjugate the future infantrymen. Obeying his confident orders, they were already bustling about, rolling, dragging, and tearing the moss off the walls. Sickly-looking intellectual riffraff crowded around me. They would be the space force’s elite in the future – pilots and respawned cripples who were drawn to the places of their past deaths, a center of group crystallization.
Ilya and I looked each other in the eyes, and I understood that a fight was inevitable. The big guy’s gray, unemotional eyes promised that he would crush me if I didn’t yield and obey.
I raised my upper lip on reflex, baring my fangs. The virtual interface added fire to the conflict and raised the stakes: “Mission alert! Mandatory mission for corporal level. Establish group leader by any means necessary. Time to decide: 5 minutes.”
Contented, Ilya smiled and poked himself in the chest. “Me!” he said, and only the other two corporals in the group understood.
“No,” I replied, shaking my head. I wasn't eager to be the leader, although my old man had always taught me to be the best at whatever I chose to do. Pros are always in demand, whether you are a pro plumber, pro street vendor, or pro warrior.
Currently, I followed my emotions rather than my reason. I didn’t like it when people were pushed against the wall and left without a choice. And I didn’t want to become subordinate to a man toward whom I felt a strong antipathy and with whom I’d definitely have a bad relationship. We would get into a fight sooner or later either way, so there was no point in procrastinating.
Besides, Lina read me like an open book. So, I couldn’t just back off with an indifferent face, lazily surrendering the position of the leader as if I didn’t need it. She would instantly realize that I chickened out, caved in, showed weakness. And how could I live with a person who didn’t respect me? The answer is simple; I couldn’t. By the way, another lesson that my wise dad had taught me was that if your wife ever lost respect for you, you should file for divorce, because you can’t unmince meat; it’s over.
I stepped forward. Lina savagely bared her sharp teeth in satisfaction, also entering the invisible circle. She was on my side, the young battle axe.
Shaking my head, I whispered: “I got this.”
The girl frowned discontentedly, but stepped back. I noted that she wasn’t hopeless, as she let the man lead in a critical situation. At least this time. Until Akela misses, so to speak…
The group felt something. We were no longer the only ones who saw the battle arena; everyone stepped back, giving us room. The mossy carpet on the deck throbbed excitedly; time for bloodshed!
Before me were huge, aggressive men specially selected for heavy infantry. Alpha-males bursting with testosterone, rejected by the government and forced away from society, turned to alcohol, drugs, and crime. A few lucky devils had saved themselves and made their way into the appropriate adrenaline-stimulating niches: army, Interior Ministry troops, professional sports. The artifact distribution system wasn’t a complete failure after all; a few of the crystals had ended up in the hands of those who were the fittest physically and spiritually, not monetarily or in terms of status.
Behind me were the pilots and the team of cripples – the remainder of the human trash. These were slightly more intelligent, had will power, and boasted a pure, desired chromosome set. These were our only assets.
Ilya and I looked about evenly matched. He was like a Russian epos hero. You couldn’t really see his muscles underneath his thick hide, yet sheer s
ize bespoke his true strength. His thighs were like logs, his biceps like Rugby balls. An old bear who had fattened up for winter.
I hadn’t really matured yet, still being lithe and sinewy like a young man. Veins bulged on my steel muscles, and I had practically no fat. I resembled one of those beach athlete types, the one that girls like. They would have been all over me if I had all my limbs.
I had fought before, and quite often. I was raised a man, and that had implications. My folks had never extinguished my aggression and the need to compete. I was taught that if I like a girl in a miniskirt walking toward me, I should confidently look her up and down; she had put those clothes on for me, because she seeks male attention, not because it’s hot outside.
She may snort in indignation, but she will fall out of step and get butterflies in her stomach, thinking, There he is! He isn’t one of those infantile men suppressed by the civilization of the 21st century, but one of those who still retain the spirit of the warrior. He will take me if he wants! He will kill if there’s a threat! It’s safe with him. He can protect me. The future is secure.
That's the type of guy girls seek. Their reason chooses successful managers, but they fall in love with thugs, alcoholics, and men of foreign nationalities, because those men are the alphas.
I shook my head, driving off irrelevant thoughts and the memories of my old man’s words, and fixed my eyes on my opponent.
Ilya limped a bit on both legs; he had probably already taken a stroll over the prickly dross covering the deck. I wondered if shrapnel had blown up in this location.
His entire back was frostbitten. Most likely, according to the game legend, his spacesuit had gotten damaged during the transfer of the capsule to the ship, and was therefore no longer airtight. He retained a little over half his HP, but his numerical HP parameter was twice as big as mine. Well, he was a tough guy, I agreed with the system on that. The HP points were very reasonable.
My implant outlined my opponent in an orange color, monitored the direction of his gaze, deciphered the fine motor movements of his muscles, and painted the space before me with glowing vectors of potential attacks.
It was TMI, to be honest, and nothing practical. Had I had 100 hours of serious sparring, I would have been able to use the vectors to beat higher-level enemies. But at that point, all this info was a stupid distraction.
We closed the distance between us, sidestepping a bit, not too eager to move in a spiral; neither of us could make the other go counterclockwise, and neither wanted to turn their back to his opponent’s support group.
What does Ilya see? I wondered. What’s his common infantry implant drawing out for him? I doubted that his implant was smarter than my space fleet one.
A piece of my uniform was still wrapped around my left wrist, concealing the homemade knife like a pocket. Its blade was short, four inches of notched steel. But humans are frail creatures. How much does he need?
I was in no hurry to produce the knife. All knives have a golden rule; once it’s out, strike. If you aren’t ready to use it, forget that you have it. But it wasn’t laws or the fear of killing that held me back. The knife was simply a trump card up my sleeve, and I didn’t want to resort to it prematurely.
I became even more careful; Ilya was within pouncing distance. Despite his wounds and huge size, he was quick as a bear that sprinted fast that enough to catch a horse and break its back. And he was probably even quicker now, after his organism had been purified and given a basic cyber-modification.
Street fight wisdom says, if you can’t avoid conflict, strike first. If you’re no martial arts master, strike first. If you’re facing more than one attacker, strike first. If your opponent enters your personal space, again, strike first. It is better to be judged than to be carried out.
But this situation was different. I couldn’t manage an unexpected blow to the chin as I had only one opponent. I was self-confident enough to believe that I was a bit faster than he was; I hoped to catch Ilya off-guard by dealing a counter blow.
Alas, I failed to take into account the specifics of infantry implants. Boy, had our heavy infantrymen been upgraded big time! We flimsy pilots were no match for them.
I saw Ilya’s blurred form rush at me. I greeted him with a right hook to the jaw amplified by his momentum. Judging by the crunch, I managed to break something. But after that, I was knocked off my feet. I spun through the air and landed on Ilya’s knee that he had considerately put out.
I was very agile and a fast thinker. But my body’s inertia and poor leg control let me down. I turned the best I could midflight so that my side hit Ilya’s pointy knee instead of my back. My reinforced ribcage withstood the impact; it was both a miracle and my implant’s accomplishment. My implant had calculated the impact point and mustered up as much dampener nanite mass as it could.
Ilya wrapped his mighty, tenacious paws around me like a currier. Falling on top of me, he immediately rammed his elbow into my head. Then again and again. The skin on my head easily burst due to its peculiar properties. Blood gushed like mad out of my body bursting with adrenaline. The scratches were nothing; the important thing was not to get scared.
And I wasn’t scared. Time after time I dove under the blows to evade a deadly direct hit. I struggled underneath that huge guy, lifting up my pelvis until my spine crunched in an attempt to throw him off. But all in vain. The bastard was heavy and agile.
Ilya worked on me like a real hammerer, dealing many hefty blows. I lost my breath, my eyes filled with blood, and my mind was in a haze.
Spirally turning, I buried my nose in the moss, leaving my back defenseless. I covered my head with my hands.
Ilya gave an unintelligible howl – I did break his jaw after all – and jumped on top of me. For someone who wasn’t learned in Brazilian jujitsu, my position was disastrous. But I knew a few moves. My dad had signed me up for a club, saying encouragingly, “In a one-on-one fight, a wrestler will almost always beat a hand-to-hand fighter. Go on, son. Protect your ears.”
I grabbed Ilya’s fist flying toward my ear, jerked his wrist under me, making both of us fall on our sides, and utilized the classical painful hold.
I pressed my opponent’s wrist to my chest like a treasure. Seizing Ilya’s torso with my legs, I arched my back. His elbow creaked, his sinews quivered like harp strings, and his muscles swelled up, turning blue.
I instantly realized that I couldn’t break his arm. I had done everything right, but this wrestling technique wasn’t meant for opponents with armored bones, double ligaments, and conscious pain threshold control.
I was out of ideas. I had spent my last strength following the useless plan and hoping for a miracle. I pressed down on his arm with all my might, but felt the triumphantly grinning Ilya slowly unbending his arm, freeing himself, and pulling me closer.
I was granted a miracle. A stream of enormous power flowed into my body from a clearly discernable vector. I instantly found the shaking Lina with my eyes. I saw a thin line of black blood running from her nostril. She gave me everything she had, pouring her energy into the channel connecting us.
The coefficient of converting psi energy into muscular force was huge. We must have paid ten times the normal rate, and the higher powers certainly laughed their asses off over our stupidity. But I got what I needed.
With a jerk, I broke Ilya’s elbow joint. He arched his back, letting out a cry of pain.
I released the injured limb. Ilya instantly curled up into a fetal position, fondling his new epicenter of the universe. Universe of pain.
I couldn’t pity him, and I had no right to. The quest timer was approaching zero, yet my opponent still had plenty of HP left.
I jumped to my feet. This was no place for athletic extravagance. Soccer is our whole world! I thought as I dealt him a kick in the head, penalty shot style.
Crack! Ilya was thrown over onto his side, his temple bent inwards at a frightening angle. My implant came to my aid, making my sole’s impact surface de
nser by sending a few billion nanites into it.
Ilya was still conscious. The infantryman implant was tougher than your traditional piece of cotton wool with ammonium chloride. It made it hard for its bearer to get knocked out.
I stood over him, not knowing what to do next. There was still some civilization left in me, and bringing myself to finish off a cripple was incredibly difficult.
Noticing the hint on my interface, I said with relief, “As the senior officer among those still standing and relatively battleworthy, I accept the position of group leader.”
Lina sniffled with a victorious smile and nodded, “No objections. I do not claim leadership.”
Ding! Buzzed the system, recording the completion of the quest. It didn’t care about Ilya’s opinion; the ritual duel counted as a loss in his stats.
Status alert! Mission successfully completed on lowest difficulty setting: “The strongest wins.”
Command interface unlocked. Thirty points added to your record card. Bonus points: 0. Junior leader coefficient factored into calculations: 1.05.
“Finish me…”
Withdrawing my eyes from the list, I focused on Ilya. He was in terrible pain and terribly humiliated; to look up at someone whom you have already written off as a subordinate, to feel the moss digging into your wounds, biting into your bloodstream…
“Finish me… I’ll get resurrected with full HP. I’ll recognize you as the leader. Besides, it’s too late to fight… I’ve missed the quest boat.”
I nodded understandingly. There was no point in making him squirm in the dirt another half hour and bleed, slowly losing HP.
I shook my left wrist. My homemade knife fell into my palm. A whisper rippled over the crowd. Ilya curled his lip in surprise. “I’ve underestimated you. Maybe you’ll go far, Corporal.”
My implant highlighted the mesocardiac stab point on his body. I squatted down next to my former opponent: “An easy death to you, Corporal!”