by D. Rus
We were already exceeding all expectations, attacking uncategorical targets and swiftly making our way a few decks up at a time. Even the fifteenth-year students couldn’t contend with 50 psi-trios of levels expert or grand master. Honestly, our unit was of a divisional, or even a military level.
Murom’s group followed the snipers. The active stealth units “Snowie” on their CASs turned them into some sort of alien predators. They looked like blurred, nearly transparent shadows that clung to the ceiling, waiting in the wings.
The third wave was our mechanics. They were mining everything, including lateral passageways and service and technical tunnels. The robot turrets that we had seized in the old counter-boarding divisions’ barracks were set up to point in the most dangerous directions.
That was it. We had no more reserves left, except for a few minor trump cards: small cannons, major devices, and the large RE eagle on our armor, the eagle that stupefied the enemies, instilling a superstitious fear in them. A living legend.
“Time,” I heard Lina’s hot mental whisper in my head.
Silently nodding, I sent a wave of warmth in response to my dear other half. Then, I activated the operation script.
During the first few seconds, everything went according to plan. The enemies would soon put up a resistance. We would reach a fork in our reality, our amateurish framework turning into a retaliatory system.
In a minute, I would have to interfere to efficiently respond to the new situation. In two minutes, nothing would be left of our original plan except our intentions and lines of advance.
“Worms launched,” the tactical AI reported. It was one of our most cherished treasures. We had saved it from Marat’s smashed server farm.
“Set up active interference along the dummy attack vector.”
“Reserve surveillance, homing devices, and neutralization devices activation detected… Working… working… working … Blinding of enemy systems chance – 84 percent... 85 percent...86 percent...”
“Drones launched.”
I could distinctly hear Nika crying as she sent the elite of our industrial park into their last battle. They were carefully selected and thoroughly upgraded bots with additional weapons systems, extra armor units, shielding, and self-destruction kits.
Fifteen glyphs dropped into the right-hand corner of my interface: “Ave Caesar!” Quite symbolic.
The last drone, lovingly painted Khokhloma style, stayed with the bot drivers to protect their delicate behinds and the precious control multi-hubs.
“Fire!”
The fun began. Glyphs poured, piling into sorted stacks: enemy manpower, destroyed units, losses. The stacks grew, changed color, and accumulated new figures, becoming a visual of the battlefield layout.
At first, the number of detected enemies snowballed. The technosentients crawled out of the woodwork. Their first wave consisted of small high-speed units. Then came the stronger bots of average means: storm bots, direct support drones, mobile shield originators, and other products of the alien mind.
Our large cannon surprise worked; accelerator HVPs flashed over the storming bots. We had acquired HVPs in a nearby fighter maintenance hangar.
We didn’t have any control systems for these supersonic missiles. We had manually positioned the starter units beforehand to fire at random. Good thing the missiles were many. Sadly, the enemies were even more.
The good old Russian concept of drawing lots came to mind. The lots were the lead case shots rammed into the cannons. Fire into a crowd, and everyone gets different lots. No hard feelings.
We slaughtered the small units, as the self-guided HVPs had suitable, segmented payload. The other adverse factors of explosions weren’t as effective; the xenosentients had created a vacuum in the module. Therefore, blast waves and fires couldn’t occur.
The medium-size bots received less damage. The segmented self-guided HVPs were air-defense-type projectiles, designed to create a cloud of shards in the way of delicate, unarmored targets like heavy torpedoes or anti-ship missiles.
Our drones had already incurred losses. Even though the enemy fired small-caliber shells at them, the fire was very dense.
Nika led her wards in broken lines, simultaneously trying to achieve two incompatible goals; to not lose a single robot and break through the enemy lines as quickly as possible.
“Snipers in action.”
While the dummy attack was being carried out, our girls opened flank fire. Theirs seconds highlighted and labeled targets in order of decreasing priority. The gunners fired from heavy sniper systems at the soft spots of the exposed xenosentients: the joints, heat sink gratings, delicate sensors, and poorly armored underbellies.
The thirds, group 13 soldiers, were the permanent partners in the trios. The girls’ psi-abilities were maxed out in their presence, and the men themselves served as “last chance batteries.”
“Seven droids have closed with the enemy. Eight are out of action, three of them are still online… We’re moving deeper into the enemy formation… Two more down, only one left for remote sensing. Optimum conditions for self-destruction. Detonating!”
Synchronized explosions followed by blinding flashes wiped out the enemy’s counter-attacking lines. The cold plasma burned away the stationary firing points and flattened the area. Everything that could melt it temperatures of a million Kelvin streamed down onto the deck’s ceramic coating designed to withstand the exhausts of fighters taking off with afterburners.
“Zerg rush!” Murom cried over the public channel, signaling everyone to attack.
Our elite troops, the heavy infantry in top gear, hit the dumbfounded enemy from the flanks and the rear. The deck shook under our feet, but the battle was surprisingly quiet. Sounds couldn’t travel in the vacuum; this virtual world wasn’t some Star Wars movie where you could hear spaceship engines howling.
The heavy infantrymen spent ammo astoundingly fast. Whatever ammo we had collected, seized, or traded for, was now used up in a single attack.
They went for maximum firing rate and density of fire, bringing down walls. Fifty supporting gunners were shooting away behind them. The never-missing sniper girls were in a trance, firing with their eyes closed, on instinct, intuition, and a miracle.
The enemies winced and tightened their ranks, most likely to lessen the battle contact line and cover the more important areas of the location: the full-cycle factory, raw store, obscure steel pyramids, and the partially assembled framework of something huge asa gunboat.
Heavy drones moved back, sparking due to frequent hits. They lost external equipment such as optical devices and weapon cells.
The few medium-size bots writhed on the deck. They lacked the armor needed to survive such a dense battle. The fire was too accurate, coming from all sides, no longer stopped by flank or rear units. The external target designation systems were crushed. The headquarters’ communications channel was noisy. The direct vision sensors had been destroyed.
“Heavy infantry losses – 42 percent. Sniper losses – 9 percent. Mechanics – 38 percent. Remaining ammo: Heavies – one quarter, no reserves. Snipers: 30 percent, no stock resources.”
“Forecast?!” I nearly yelled out the most important question.
“There's a 77 percent... 78 percent... 79 percent chance that victory will be ours. Tentative forecast of subsequent events; formation will be destroyed in 24 hours due to lack of ammo for main firearms. Suggestion: tactical withdrawal to the lower levels.”
“Fuck you,” I smiled.
We had planned to spend the night in the real world, partying hard to celebrate our early completion of the course. At least that’s what the more experienced girls from the seventh company promised would happen.
You were free to go once you completed the mission. It didn’t matter if you wasted the boss with your last bullet with a hundred hungry beasts behind you. Rules of the game, c'est la vie. Sorry, little monsters, he-he…
After an hour, our respawned, battered
warriors of formation 13-7 assembled in the center of the blackened hall. Their gazes were fixed on the countdown timer, their lips moving soundlessly as they mouthed the final seconds.
“Group flag will be planted in: 8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…0.”
“Congratulations! Flight deck conquered by composite formation 13-7.”
Even the tamed Amazonians joined in the loud hooraying. We were still rejoicing when bewilderment came over the sniper girls’ faces, followed by alarm.
“What’s wrong?” I asked my vice-commander, Senior Sergeant Livia Cruise.
“The university’s interface. It’s silent… And inaccessible! What the fuck?! They should already be pulling us out of the capsules!”
We heard the ringing chimes of the Russian Empire record card:
“Congratulations with early completion of your first course.”
“Your formation’s final result in the RE Space Force university rank table – 1 out of 1. In accordance with the rule 78233-11-prime, the year’s most successful group of students is awarded with special ranks.”
“Status alert! Special rank received: lieutenant. new rank: Corporal. Communicating with low-order stream of the AI Hannibal. Wait… Wait… Wait… Confirmation received, new rank approved.”
“Congratulations on your first patch! Many annulets to you, Master Corporal!”
“Officer interface activation… Unlocking hidden options… Extracting password-protected blocks from the archive.”
“Current status:”
“Post: leader of formation 13-7.”
“Salary: 450 e-rubles per week. Battle coefficient: + 200 percent.”
“RusArmyBank personal account balance: 51.445 e-rubles.”
“Home port: Fifth Rome, Coliseum College.”
“Home ship: HSC Marat.”
Status update!
“As the highest-ranking officer aboard, you are temporarily appointed acting commander of HSC Marat.”
“Salary: 3450 e-rubles per week. Battle coefficient: + 300 percent.”
“Establishing private communication channel to upload control keys and renew digital signature… Wait… Wait… Wait… Confirmation received, information updated.”
I smiled with content and flared my nostrils. Our Motherland approved of our accomplishments, and we were ready for war. We just needed to rest a little to start fresh. We would master our trophies and the fighter ships. Or maybe we would even bring back to life the dying Marat and fly to the stars. The second course objectives had loose rules, and we could choose completion methods: a certain number of hours, a minimum battle coefficient, etc.
I activated the officer interface, winking at the alarmed boys and girls. I entered the captain’s code and the command: “Exit virtual world.”
As I read the answer, my smile faded.
“Impossible to carry out order. You’re already in the real world.”
The cursor blinked for a few more seconds, then an unexpected message appeared: “Good luck, son.”
It was signed: “Russian Empire Secretary of Defense, Main Stream of the AI Hannibal.”
End of Book One.
Hi! This is D.Rus.
Sorry for my bad English, writing without translators help
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Its translated book – so there WILL BE some bugs But anyway – I did mybest
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