by D. Rus
If you shirked your work, you would end up a private with a negative balance on your RC and get the most beat up old fighter to go on a one-way mission. And you would have no one to blame but yourself. You would be your own wooden robot.
The group was getting more and more disciplined; no one wanted to get punished for stealing. The soldiers slowly and carefully inspected the chamber, staying out of the trophy team’s way as the latter collected loot and made an inventory of the items found. The most distinguished members would get first priority in choosing trophies during our evening get-together. I, by the way, had already used up my “first night right;” the Falcon’s weight felt good on my leg.
I nodded to a group of official looters, giving them permission to drag the body off the operator seat. The deadman’s hands were slightly raised, his fingers wide apart as if he were a pianist playing allegro.
To faster process the array of incoming information, the gunner activated all possible interfaces, including gesture links and a virtual keyboard.
The panel didn’t notice that it had lost its operator. The 3D screen effectors remained minimized. The protective layer merely blinked, trying to cover the extrahazardous sensory fields.
Alex Alexandrovich came up from behind and said sympathetically, “It’s out of power. Should I turn around its generator?”
I raised a brow in surprise, “For real? Where would you insert a crank handle?”
With his usual groaning, our supercargo squatted down next to the side panel and probed the intricate pattern of system ports and flaps.
Clank-clank… The “eternal” latches easily gave in, moving aside the phosphor plate marked with a “power” pictogram.
Even a 21st century person could recognize the contents: a heavy handwheel for starting the dynamo with an incredible output-input ratio.
After fifty revolutions, the accumulator’s charge bar climbed to a modest two percent. That was just enough to fully activate the panel. The effect exceeded our expectations by far.
The cube-shaped 3D screens opened soundlessly. The emergency lighting came on. A niche flew open, revealing a stirring service droid barely recognizable underneath a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.
On my interface, a detection signal blinked, announcing the discovery of a new carrier frequency. “Software AI of subsidiary main caliber casemate of HSC Marat. System in battle alarm state! Command status: KIA. Searching for connection links with higher posts: ‘standby time limit exceeded…’”
I heard the warriors of group 13 rejoice over every loot item: ZIG-plasma – “Hooray!” A light CAS Arctic fox – “Praise the gods!” An officer’s dirk with anon-statutory monocrystal blade – now that made the mechanics fight with the heavy infantrymen. They couldn’t come to an agreement whether the dirk was a tool for shaving steel, or a weapon capable of piercing the joints of a medium-grade armored spacesuit.
Murom launched a tirade of obscene language. He sounded convincing, and I decided to let them handle loot distribution on their own. The commander panel was most enticing with its many-colored lights, endless possibilities, operator’s seat, and insistent ringing signal: “Attention all servicemen of the Empire fleet and full citizens of RE! Top-priority order; mandatory mobilization!”
“Squadron’s mission – escort the New Sevastopol evacuees. Status: failed.”
“HSC Marat’s mission - mop-up of space sector Q-19. Status: in progress, 311 hostile purposes detected.”
“Casemate-2’s mission - uninterruptedly supply ammunition to carrier’s main caliber weapons. Status: delayed! Last incoming order from the reserve Fire Control Center: ‘ship the rapid load drum with the unit of six guided missiles: americium(AP) - americium(HEA) - americium(API) - hassium(ADM) - hassium(ADM)- hassium(ADM).’”
I looked at the storage cells in alarm. A transuranic super-heavy hassium nuclear landmine was a deadly weapon.
I bit my lip as I pondered the matter: Should I take the risk and show the Amazonians my true RE serviceman status? That was how my Alpha-prime identified itself, insistently demanding that I assume the duty officer’s position and take control of the module.
I shrugged, Some open secret. It’s not a bug, it’s a feature!
With a directed thought- impulse, I informed the operator seat that I wished to sit down. The seat read my anthropometric data off my open profile and swelled up a bit, changing its shape and adjusting to my every single bone and pimple. It then obligingly turned to me, inviting me to make myself comfortable and warming itself up to 96 degrees.
Nodding gratefully, I sat down. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the flow of information between my implant and the combat control panel. They swiftly negotiated information exchange protocols, performed an express-test of stats and abilities, and bargained for clearance levels and starting rank.
Most likely, the particularly smart first-year girls usually failed this stage, having decided to turn the pile of metal into their subsidiary complex. I was lucky, however. Reluctantly, the AI acknowledged my current corporal stripes. Despite the size of our group, I was the AI’s only option. I imagined that I was the only Russian Empire citizen within a few-thousand-mile radius.
The protective layer soundlessly slipped off the manual interfaces. The self-destruct timer that had been counting down during my negotiations with the AI finally stopped giving off alarming signals.
The AI, deciding that it had cleverly bypassed the inhibitors installed on it and found a puppet, gave a series of orders:
“Check the main and reserve power circuits, promptly restore all three types of power supply in afterburning mode.”
“Continue recruiting soldiers and mobilize all available servobots. Repair modules in the following order: charging apparatus, force field clutches gamma and delta, counter-boarding defense facilities…”
And so on and so forth.
I was outraged at the impudence of the barbarous AI, barely able to read the logs and reports as they flickered by. My slightly dumbfounded implant highlighted the key points. A line of text caught my eye: “Module is in battle alarm status. In order to maintain survivability, a vacuum will be created aboard. Crew must immediately carry out protocol 19-prime. Commander panel operator – forced activation of rescue kit.”
I lost it and barked, “Belay that! I’m taking charge. I demand that any of the AI's orders be authorized by the signature of an officer on duty!”
Then, I turned to the group who froze in surprise. They had already assembled around the panel blooming with lights, whichwas wrapped in a last-chance barrier – a four megawatt force field.
“Listen up, group!” I commanded. “We are being mobilized for actual service in the RE fleet, retaining our current ranks and simultaneously leveling up according to the Russian Empire’s table of ranks. Let’s serve our perished Motherland, what say you, bros? How would you like to be our great country’s last subdivision?”
Chapter Thirteen
Local network of the virtual college Coliseum.
Sublevel: top-secret conference hall.
Channel’s level of protection: Absolute- delta.
“Captain, what the hell’s going on? What’s this Russian Empire fragment brought back from hell?!”
Lucius Romanoff remained steel-faced and completely indifferent, and the virtual reality was not to blame. “Address your complaints to the docs from project Chronos. An RE experimental implant class Alpha-prime has been installed on object 13-777. It’s designed exclusively for top commanding officers and students at the academy in Stellar Ryazan. That means only for nobles of a colonel’s rank or higher. The approximate price of such a set is almost the same as manufacturing a XII-series destroyer with all the extras and a close-cover drone-wing.
“Good gods, Lyssa made them lose their minds!”
The captain shrugged indifferently, “The goddess of insanity has nothing to do with it. They’re just science fanatics. This incident has already been registered and a repor
t was sent to higher authorities. I assume that after the investigation, the number of low-grade laying hens in the Incubator will increase significantly.”
The other one, a blurred shadow – clearly preferring anonymity even in the virtual world – swayed indignantly, “They can all go to Thanatos! What do we do? Group 13 fits no pattern. The rate at which points get added to their RCs is ten times higher than any conceivable norm! Damn Hannibal took them outside of our jurisdiction and enlisted them in Marat's crew. Right now, we’re still able to keep this secret by manually editing the school’s rank table. But we have no control over the live data which goes straight to the Ministry of Defense!”
Romanoff's eyes flashed with barely perceptible triumph: “We don’t do anything. Just because it’s not possible.”
The shadow turned purple with rage and cried in an almost hysterical voice, “Disconnect them from the system!”
The captain shook his head: “Impossible. Our ancestors created an ideal, completely automated training system with snow-white sower-ships, replicators, cargo carriers, and heavy close defense drones that scour space in search of local military conflicts. They possess the techniques of high-speed body cloning, atomic teleportation, soul essence capture, and binding souls to fresh clones. This technology is absolute! And here we are, no more than a forgotten fragment of the colonial Empire who have learned to push ten buttons at once, aping the wise ones and giving ourselves airs.”
“Captain!” the shadow’s voice was seething with rage. “You’re becoming oblivious! The Great Rome has never submitted to the Bear! There was an honorary union of two equal world powers. And don’t you dare grin! Those adamantine teeth of yours are dentures, by the way, financed by our taxpayers! Anyway, do what you want, but group 13 must disappear. Even if it takes this rusty tub Marat with it! That’s an order; carry it out!”
The shadow disappeared in a blinding flash, burning Lucius Romanoff's virtual avatar.
The cyborg pulled a face and spat, then gently rubbed the soot off his forearm and switched his vision to “black light” – the electromagnetic spectrum of ultraviolet radiation used for mutual identification within a very narrow circle of devotees.
Feasting his eyes upon the image of the wide two-headed eagle on his arm – the emblem of the powers oppressing 19 stellar systems – he saluted and said in a barely audible whisper: “An empire lives until the death of its last soldier!”
“Move, you clumsy asses!” I barked hoarsely.
The three-ton projectile shell of the ships’ main caliber was completely unsuited for manual transportation. It had a perfectly smooth body covered with a thin layer of anti-radiation coating. God forbid we scratched the delicate dusting of precious morph-graphite!
“One, two, lift!” a logistics unit girl pressured our minds, trying to use her budding psi-abilities to coordinate the actions of 15 men.
Three hours for each projectile shell, and 18 for a full drum, I estimated. So, by 7 p.m., we would complete this random quest of getting weapons ready for battle. I didn’t know what that would get us, but unique quests implied substantial bonuses.
The casemate’s AI cheered us on and hurried us the best it could, at the same time controlling ten re-activated repaid bots and getting the chamber in order. Again, our precious moss was getting destroyed as temporary optical fiber cabling coiled on the floor. A mobile storehouse drone exerted itself in the corner, forming a part on the AI’s orders from the scant supply of all-purpose matter.
Fix the force field lifter instead, you son-of-a-bitch! I thought. But no, it set out to restore communication systems.
I knew that communication during wartime is the most important thing. But we were sick of turning over these unwieldy transuranium giants in quantities no 21st century human could ever think possible.
Moreover, the system had heavily penalized us for yesterday’s gathering which had quickly turned into a funeral wake. The respawn-capsule of one of the infantrymen was damaged during our battle with the Crab. The bitch stats gave us the finger; the dense pulse round of the counter-boarding gun knocked out one of the panels on the hall’s inner wall. The panel fell and turned the capsule behind it into a pile of broken parts.
The infantryman assigned to the capsule never got respawned, and we received yet another quest; find the backup capsule and reprogram it to the infantryman’s individual code. The program script was attached, and the ownerless capsule could have been anywhere. Alternatively, we could use the capsule of a less needed member of the group. How do you like that?
So, we drank to an easy post-mortal existence for Nicholas “Crookshanks.” He was an unbelievably strong fellow, but quiet and always sleepy like a cat in the winter, hence the nickname.
We didn’t even notice as we nearly emptied the minibar and ruined the air in the main hall. We didn’t get to smoke or drink very often, and those cigarettes with orange stickers made you addicted almost instantly, on your third puff. Our male nurse dismissed the issue, promising to cure the addiction in two minutes after he himself will have finished smoking. He smoked more than anybody and was the first to reach nirvana, where he continued watching cartoons.
In short, group 13 was a mess. There was nothing I could do. When I tore myself away from merging feelings with Lina, the group had already outraged all decency.
Any commander’s worst nightmare is to find his company drunk and armed. If you can’t prevent it, you have to take charge.
So, I had to give the event an official status, and for this I was bathed in everyone’s adoration and penalized by the system with a considerable 50 demerit points. “For violating seven clauses of disciplinary regulations and three clauses of ship regulations,” it explained.
I would remain a Corporal forever if things continued like this…
The group settled down quite late. But the moment I lay down to sleep, the damn casemate AI woke me with a statutory hypno-order: “Quick awakening in combat operations zone.” It looked like one of us had a faulty onboard time clock.
The snob AI insisted that its processor couldn’t be wrong, and that I should address my complaints to the default settings of my implant and to Fifth Rome’s colonial administration who had too high an opinion of themselves.
All of progressive humanity had learned long ago that days aboard RE ships are synchronized according to an ancient artifact: the Savior Tower clock that had by some miracle survived the Global Peace Enforcement and still calculated grand-Moscow time.
But the news the AI brought to my attention could not be ignored. The air poisoned by the drug cigarettes and the drop in personal stats due to the drunken feast utterly ruined my mood.
“Rise and shine, soldiers!” I bawled angrily and resorted to unsportsmanlike commander methods ten seconds earlier than the regulations allowed.
Upon my mental command, the soldiers’ implants stimulated their ganglia with light electric currents, contorting their bodies and nipping cursing and stupid questions in the bud.
After the mandatory wash-up and a scanty breakfast consisting of pseudo-dry goods and salad-like leaves of different-colored moss, the group sullenly but quickly got to work.
Our living quarters grew, and there were enough tasks for everyone. When possible, we reinforced and armored the respawn hall. We now looked after the capsules better than after ourselves. No one wanted to get stuck in the purgatory for an indefinite period of time. How to survive in it for a day and remain sane was a mystery for even the most strong-willed and insensitive to pain.
The dual pulse gun now towered menacingly by the hall’s entrance, watchfully stirring the thin probes on its barrels. There were always two men on duty by it, one of them in a light CAS.
Two heavy infantrymen clad in armor we had seized were leveling up basic skills through monotonous farming; by shooting with handheld firearms the spawning service droids infected with the technosentient virus. That was what we called the hunting of drones which would dive out of service tunnels
and try to sneak into the ship’s other modules.
The scanty loot barely made up for the ammo we spent. The group didn’t get anything. But the infantrymen needed training to perfect their motor function and weapon handling skills.
Our mechanics fought with the repair bots in the casemate chamber, as the latter started actively participating in disassembling the vanquished Crab. The worst part was that those bots stole a few precious fuel-cell units. The group now faced another power shortage.
The PSH hibernated, demanding a link to a power circuit with a capacity of at least two megawatts. We had 30 clips left for our six barrels, which was barely enough for a single skirmish.
We needed to expand again. The limited resources of the dying ship in no way promoted sedentism. So, we had to finish all of the location’s quests and move on, preferably to the upper decks which contained the more dangerous monsters and richer loot.
But the former gamers’ opinions differed on this matter; some demanded that we level up as much as possible, mop up all the module’s cabins, and collect all the freebies in the noob location. The “nursery” was customized just for that; to teach us the first steps in the new world and to supply us with motivating gifts and loot.
The discovery of a secret compartment supported this theory. This compartment had an external hub with eight links and 16 small zerg-drones – swift creatures the size of rats, with sharp, poisonous fangs and one hundredth of an ounce of unstable explosives for self-destruction. We didn’t expect much from them, but they could easily deal as much damage as a mobile antipersonnel mine.
Nika, our bot driver, was beside herself with delight. At last she would be of great use to the group.
The other approach required that we do the impossible. It entailed forcing our way up at all costs, receiving boost bonuses and rapidly equipping with top or at least medium-grade sets.