The Raven High

by Yuri Hamaganov

  Olga’s eyes cleared, and the pain was gone. Arina had broken the connection.

  “I can’t control the factory without direct contact!” Olga cried.

  “If you die of a brain hemorrhage, it won’t do us good.”

  “Switch me back—now! I’ll take a painkiller. I have to reduce the current in the transmitter.”

  Arina did not answer.

  “That’s an order! Fulfill it!” The fire in Olga’s eyes burned hotter than in the factory. This was the first time she had spoken in such a tone to her tutor.

  “Acknowledged,” Arina replied to the first order by the Mistress of the House and reconnected Olga’s brain to the factory nervous system.

  Olga took a painkiller and activated the remaining part of the firefighting system with her bleary mind, beating off the tongues of fire licking the pipes with jets of white powder from the fire extinguishers. In the meantime, the repair robots that had survived the blast were desperately cutting off the damaged pipes with boiling reagent inside and pushing them overboard away from the station.

  The fire extinguishers were running empty, and the rats were dying one by one as they fought at their posts. One of the dying robots transmitted an image to Olga of the service tunnel with a crushed porthole, where a huge bubble of reagent had crept in. The girl’s face twisted with fear and anger.

  “Arina, watch service tunnel 27-A. The reagent has accumulated there, and the outside protective liner has burned! It must be covered with heat insulation again before the sunrise. The factory won’t stand another blast!”

  “Acknowledged!”

  Arina disconnected the safety cord attached to her belt, enabled the jet-powered backpack, and flew off to the factory. Olga followed her with her eyes as she fought the fires with her mind.

  She divided the remaining rats into two groups. The reserve team went to fetch unused fire extinguishers from the remote parts of the station. The main group continued to fight the fires and remove obstructions, throwing the damaged machine components overboard, where they rotated around the station.

  Arina had reached the end of the axial mast and was flying over the gray body of the factory, headed for the containers with support equipment and building materials.

  “Olga, which container holds the insulation?”

  “Eight two twelve!”

  “I see it.”

  Arina tore off the container seal, removed the lid, and took out a few long rolls of silvery heat insulation and an automatic hammer. She tied all this with a fastening tape and proceeded into service tunnel 27-A under the exterior carrier structure.

  The reserve group of repair robots returned with fire extinguishers. Olga arranged them in a circular pattern and launched a large-scale assault against fire. One of the rats sealed the crushed porthole of the service tunnel, keeping the fire from the liquid flowing through the narrow pipe. However, Olga knew that this wouldn’t prevent the sunlight from igniting a subsequent blast.

  “I’m on site, starting the work,” Arina said.

  “Be quick! Three minutes before sunrise!”

  “I’ll make it!”

  Arina had flown up to the scorched walls in the ill-fated tunnel and started to adroitly unfold the roll of the silvery material, fastening the insulation with hammer shots. The golden flame of the morning light was spreading over Earth’s rim. Another thirty seconds and the sun would rise over the High House.

  “Arina!”

  “Don’t panic, I’ll make it!” the same calm voice replied.

  The sun struck the damaged and burning station with its austere white rays. Olga worriedly watched the temperature buildup in service tunnel 27-A, but the critical mark was not reached. The repair robots localized the last several fire sites. Nothing else could burn. The threat retreated.

  “Looks like we’ve done it,” Olga murmured.

  “Well done, Raven! Very well indeed,” Petrov said. “I haven’t seen such heroism since the war. For your performance in this crisis, I promote you to the Raven High rank!”

  “Thanks!”

  The last damaged pipe was thrown overboard. The oozing reagent in it began to boil under the radiation from the sun. As the pipe approached the tunnel entrance where Arina was hovering next to the factory, the number of bubbles visibly increased.

  “Arina, I’ve nearly extinguished the fire. Come back!”

  “Wait a moment, I’ll just gather the tools. You—”

  A harsh noise drowned out Arina’s voice.

  “Arina, acknowledge! I can’t hear you! Arina!” Olga shouted as she beat off the last flames.

  “Switch to reserve frequency! Arina!”

  Silence. Olga ran a diagnostic on her radio—it was functioning normally.

  “It can’t be!” Olga whispered.

  The last drop of the burning reagent had been extinguished. The eighteen robots that were left from the original one hundred began to remove the obstructions. Having pointed out the essential areas, Olga unfastened herself from the lift rails, switched on her suit’s engines, and made for the factory.

  Constant radio communications was an absolute requirement during spacewalks—her tutor had been strict about that. Olga tried to tell herself that a simple malfunction was to blame, though she knew perfectly that was almost impossible.

  One of the surviving rats repaired the faulty surveillance system and the outdoor cameras sprang to life, showing Olga the central part of the right board where Arina had been. Then Olga spotted her nanny herself. Both surprised and scared, she forgot all about controlling her flight and nearly collided with the factory.

  Arina’s body was floating fifty meters away from the walls. There was nothing left of her jet-propelled backpack but fragments. The orange suit, familiar since Olga’s childhood, was perforated in many places. Arina’s right arm had been torn away above the elbow.

  Olga felt like she was suffocating. Suddenly, there was no air in her spacesuit and in another second, she was prepared to break the helmet glass with her fists. Instantly, the panic stopped. The smart medical kit had injected Olga with a sizable dose of a depressant. Her mind became as empty and clear as a frosty day.

  Arina Rodionovna, her nanny and tutor, the second crewmember of the High House Eight orbital station, had been killed by an exploding pipe filled with reagent.

  * * *

  The rescue ships approached the damaged station thirty-five minutes later. The first to dock was the multiple-purpose repair ship Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya, then a nameless numbered automatic truck that delivered replacement parts. The last to moor was the Corporation’s naval destroyer John Wayne, which delivered a large group of engineers to the facility.

  Olga worked the next twelve hours at the limit of her capabilities, monitoring the activities of two dozen mechanics and engineers and supervising hundreds of assembly robots. Those who had arrived to help were professionals of a difficult and dangerous occupation. And they all implicitly obeyed Olga. Having almost singlehandedly coped with the catastrophe, her authority was now indisputable.

  After twelve hours the emergency repair was completed. Nothing else threatened the factory. However, it remained inoperative because the broken conveyor needed to be replaced.

  Olga believed that the replacement would take no fewer than fifty days. That was the time required for manufacturing new mechanisms at the Lunar Zone factories, delivering them to the High House and then installing and adjusting them. For fifty days, Earth would not receive her water purifiers and she didn’t count how many millions of people would suffer from thirst or just die. She just didn’t care. After Arina’s death, she was indifferent to everything and everyone.

  The Zoya and the supply truck were now far down on the Lift, but the destroyer was still hovering a couple of kilometers away. There remained a last formality to clear.

  “So, that’s all you managed to recover from the disaster site?” The voice was suave, the movements soft, but the eyes were piercing. A figure of a tall man
towered over Olga, motionless as the Greek statues that Arina had shown her at the British Museum.

  “Yes, that’s all,” Olga answered calmly, looking into her interlocutor’s eyes.

  For the first time in her life, she saw a man—a real man, not an android or hologram. Olga and the officer of the Corporation Navy stood before each other on the roof of the orbiter’s manned compartment. Between them lay a large silvery bundle like a rolled-up rug. The officer continued to stare intently at Olga, trying to spot embarrassment, fright or some other emotion he needed. Not detecting any response, he slowly said, “Such are the rules. We must take the body with us.”

  “I see,” Olga answered just as slowly and in the same tone.

  “It’s a pity it turned out like this. They don’t manufacture high-tech androids like this anymore.” The piercing eyes transfixed the girl’s face again.

  “Well, if that’s the end, I won’t keep you. I need a rest,” Olga said.

  “Good luck, then.”

  “The same to you.”

  The officer had nothing else to add. He gathered Arina’s body, ignited his suit engines, and soared up to his ship. Olga followed him with squinted up eyes and then retired to her chambers. She waited until the John Wayne activated its sustainer engines, then she broke the connection with Earth and put the interference generator to full capacity to prevent secret surveillance.

  Only after that she opened a wardrobe drawer and pulled out a small blue cylinder. There was a deep indent on the blue metal and the bottom end had melted and cooled, but Olga held it like the most famous diamond.

  She launched the test software. The monitor showed a zero, then a dot, then another zero and then another and still another. Then, finally came a one. Olga smiled wryly. One ten-thousandth. But still more than zero.

  “So the fight will go on.”

  CHAPTER NINE: ROCK ’N ROLL

  May 2091

  Ten chipped steps down and there she stood in front of a heavy steel door with an inscription crimson king’s court in red fluorescent marker. The door had no bell. The girl tapped on the door in Morse code with her massive signet ring sporting a Jolly Roger on the gray steel. The door opened, letting the guest into a dark hall.

  She was eleven years old but looked twenty. Instead of a naval cap, she was wearing a broad-brimmed cowboy hat from under which raven-black hair rippled down to her waist in a riotous flow. Her work overalls had been replaced by jeans and a broad belt, a leather jacket, and army boots with high lacing. The girl’s narrow face was grim under her old-fashioned mirrored sunglasses. Exchanging a short nod with the guards at the entrance, she headed inside.

  The Crimson King’s Court proved to be a nightclub designed in the ancient Roman style: rows of small tables gradually descended to a round stage. Coming down to the arena, she exchanged a few short phrases with the management and waited for her rivals, who soon appeared. Five would compete, and one of them would take the money of the rest.

  Though many wished to try their luck, playing at Crimson King’s Court required both a large deposit and skill and talent: assets possessed by few. Olga was certainly one of those few.

  Elvis Presley jumped on the arena. The King snatched a wired microphone that had dropped from the ceiling and roared to the hall:

  “The Crimson King’s Court greets you, the adepts of rock ’n roll! Five brave souls who have proved their right to be here in the qualification games are resolved to fight for your love and one another’s money. To the losers, fear, pain, and obscurity! Players, to the arena!”

  Olga leaped onto the stage with her four rivals: a man with a Mohawk haircut wearing a jean jacket, a Japanese girl with long pink hair in a school uniform, a tall black man in a military uniform and a woman in jogging shoes, jeans shorts and a green T-shirt. Her ordinary human flesh alternated with strips of bronze and crystal. It was a tuned cyborg, a fortune in parts and labor.

  “You know the rules, folks! You get songs at random. The pain generators are put on maximum. For each wrong tone, you’ll get an electric shock. Every subsequent error will increase the current. And that’s only the first round. After that, the pain only gets fiercer! The last one standing will be the winner. Don’t you dare to hack our codes or we’ll chuck you out like the cowardly vermin you are. And we’ll keep your deposit. Any questions? Okay then!”

  A guitar with a sounding board shaped like an arrow point, the famous Gibson Flying-V, materialized in the air in front of Olga. She knew this model well.

  “I want two things. First off, play fair. Second, be cool. We want the real rock ’n roll!”

  Elvis adroitly jumped off the stage, and the audience started counting down, and as they did Olga fastidiously examined her guitar. Everything seemed to be all right. The Crimson King’s Court promised fair play, but they didn’t take that to excess.

  “Three! Two! One!” the audience roared.

  The stage under Olga’s feet disappeared. Now she was balancing on thin steel rope stretched between the two skyscrapers. The girl kept her balance, clasping the guitar. Somewhere not far, her rivals balanced on similar ropes but she didn’t think about them. She fully concentrated on the music. It was an old and familiar standard—Jimi Hendrix’s cover of “All Along the Watchtower.” Olga struck the first chords and trotted over the rope toward the roof of the far skyscraper.

  Thousands of eyes in the auditorium watched the contestants swaying on their tightropes with guitars in their hands. The audience commented on the proceedings, made bets, and enjoyed themselves. However, Olga didn’t see or hear that. The all-important thing for her now was to move forward, step by step, and to play with the proper cadence and precision.

  Hendrix was followed by Metallica’s “Master of Puppets.” And that was when a drawn-out howl broke loose. The Mohawk had bungled a chord, received several strong electric shocks, and fallen screaming from the tightrope.

  Olga had made it halfway across her tightrope when Metallica was replaced by ZZ-Top. She missed a note at the beginning of “Concrete and Steel,” and the pain very nearly sent her down. Bending backward at her waist to shift her center of gravity and regain her, Olga cursed herself. How could she mess up such a simple riff?

  In five minutes, she reached the end of the rope and stood on the roof of the skyscraper. The black man in the military uniform and the cyborg with a striped torso were waiting for her there. The last to come across was the Japanese girl. On the final portion of the rope she came close to falling as she butchered the guitar solo from the Beatles’ “Let It Be.”

  After a second’s pause, the skyscraper disappeared. Now they stood on an emerald green lawn dotted with purple wildflowers. In the distance, a large stop road sign with a finish inscription stuck up from the grass. What was the catch? Olga’s eyes magnified by tenfold. Ah, there it was! Thin steel wires stretched here and there fifteen centimeters above the grass.

  Olga advanced across the grass, now playing Pink Floyd’s “Сomfortably Numb.” She spotted small clumps of raised turf here and there. Apparently, the grass had been dug up with a spade and put back again, though not very neatly. More mines. Olga clenched her teeth and walked on. Her intense search for mines partially distracted her from Gilmore’s solo and cost her several shocks, but she continued her progress.

  The Japanese girl in front of her vanished in a flash and clouds of gray smoke. The shockwave tore at Olga’s internal organs; she lost her balance and fell to the grass. Electric shocks pierced her body, but she didn’t hurry to recover her guitar. It was vital not to trip a wire—the shock of the exploding mine could kill her in real life as well as the Matrix.

  The electric shops intensified, but she stoically withstood them. The guitar’s neck was entangled in a wire. Olga kneeled and with utter caution lowered the guitar just a little to free the neck out. The striped cyborg stood at the finish line, hoping to see another blast.

  “You won’t get it from me!” Olga said through her teeth.

 
But her rival got her wish when a mine erupted on her left. Olga didn’t look back. Slowly and cautiously, stepping over suspicious places, she advanced until her hand touched the finish sign, the mined meadow disappeared and she was again in the club arena. Olga and the striped girl sized up each other with incinerating stares.

  “The two strongest remain!” the master of ceremonies said. “Now our beautiful winners are ready for the final round!”

  Olga felt someone’s adroit fingers remove her leather overcoat, belt, and hat and cover her with a light net of the finest barbed wire. Her lot was to play “Missionary Man” by the Eurythmics. Striking the first chords, she felt the net compress her body to the time of the music. With every new chord, it squeezed her tighter and tighter, piercing small sharp barbs into her skin.

  The pain reproduced by the simulator was incredibly realistic, and she felt the blood dripping and then streaming from her wounds. Olga noticed that if she didn’t succumb to pain and was true to the tune, the net squeezed at a lower rate. But each time she slipped up, the wires cut into and constricted her fingers. If they bound her too tightly, she would inevitably be killed. She still had time to give up, quit the game, and say goodbye to her money. But she wasn’t here for that disgrace.

  Olga continued to play and sing Annie Lennox’s lyrics. The metal net became red hot, but she didn’t stop playing. Having finished the song, Olga forcefully hurled off the suddenly slack net and looked over at the wire cocoon lying slack on the stage. Next to it bled a severed hand with bronze fingers. The master of ceremonies raised Olga’s hand high, like a referee at an ancient boxing match.

  The audience chanted her pseudonym. Men and women in the front row, either talent agents or record producers, showered her with garbled invitations.

  “Smile, girl! They love you!” the emcee purred.

  “I prefer my eternal love and adoration in the form of large denomination bills. Where’s my prize?”