The Raven High

by Yuri Hamaganov

  “Another couple of scalps. Go ahead, Doc,” Olga said in a slurred voice, feeling that her life had nearly ended.

  She regained consciousness only after Doc furiously shook her and slapped her helmet a couple of times.

  What did he want? Why wouldn’t he let her sleep?

  What? Code? What code?

  A thermometer window bobbed up and down before her eyes. Sixty-five below. Doc wouldn’t leave her alone. Shouting something about some code and door.

  She had to wake up. She was dying to wake up. Colors floated in her vision. Olga took the little finger of her left hand with the forefinger and the thumb of her right hand. She broke her finger with a neat movement and cried out with a sudden sharp pain.

  She prohibited the medical kit from giving her the anesthetic. Now she understood what the first mate wanted from her. The code to the Central Post hatch. Only the captain could introduce it because the hatch was fitted with a biometric lock.

  “Lift me. Put my right palm on the controls!”

  The code was accepted. A large round hatch rolled aside, letting them in. Doc threw Olga inside, entered himself, and battened down the hatch. The interior too was a cold vacuum, but once the locks were operated, jets of hot air erupted from the nozzles in the ceiling.

  Now the reserve spacesuit. No one has ever put it on. Doc fastened a roll of heat insulation on the floor and laid Olga onto it, clipping her fasteners so she won’t roll off. The temperature rose to zero. The oxygen content in the atmosphere reached twelve percent. That was the workable environment.

  The android took off the unconscious girl’s spacesuit, extracted a bullet with a surgical manipulator, injected an antidote, sewed up the wound, and injected a stimulant in the vein. Then he applied a small splint to her broken little finger.

  The captain gradually woke up. Doc helped her into the reserve suit, seeing to it that she didn’t touch anything. The vacuum of space had prevailed here for so long that if any of Olga’s skin touched the surface it would adhere and have to be torn free.

  “Are we inside?”

  “Yes. Stay in your suit, Captain. It’s still too cold here.”

  “Switch on the equipment!”

  The Central Post didn’t differ much from the recently destroyed control room. It had a similar operator’s seat and control panel. Olga hesitantly made her way to the chair, fastened herself with the waist belt, and started the test software.

  “How are you, Captain?”

  “I’m all right. Ready to fight on …”

  Olga sank into work. Now the factory was under her full control. She found out the whereabouts of the remaining assassins. They had to walk another couple of corridors before encountering the hatch. The red coffins were with them. No less than forty minutes to go before the rescuers arrived. Olga would have to take everything into her hands again. She quickly scanned the blueprints of that part of the factory and found the required object—a transformer station at the end of a long tunnel.

  “Repairs, ahead!”

  The robotic rats came down through their tunnels to the snow-white roof of the transformer. Their automatic screwdrivers adroitly extracted the long screws. In a couple of seconds, the lid was removed and the rats dragged it away. Inside were thick electric cables covered with a layer of semitransparent insulation.

  “All right, folks, I’ll disconnect the power supply now, and you’ll take off the insulation.”

  Olga de-energized a section, and the rats began skillfully to cut off the insulation with their tiny cutting paws. Now the engines had to be adjusted.

  Electra and four of her crew were moving through a long corridor. In the lead were three men while Electra and a girl were in the rear. On reaching the right turn, the men entered a corridor leading to the Central Post.

  “The orbit correction system functions normally; the fuel supply is twelve percent,” the computer reported.

  “All right, let’s see what we can do.”

  When the vector thrust synchronization was completed Olga called the rats back and switched the power supply back on.

  “Hold on, Doc! Launch!”

  Twenty factory engines started up at full capacity. The triple overload pushed Olga into the seat. The long corridor that Electra and her companion were moving through instantly turned into an elevator shaft, on the bottom of which a transformer station invitingly opened its jaws.

  Electra and the other girl began to plummet down the shaft. Electra managed to grip the wall. The thimbles on her fingers contracted, bending the metal. The second girl flew past with a loud cry. She clasped Electra by the foot, but Electra threw her off by a kick to the head.

  “Nooooo!”

  Sparks scattered as the girl’s body short-circuited the transformer. The body in the spacesuit twitched on the wires as the electric current spasmed Olga’s next victim’s muscles fatal convulsions. Her finger pulled the trigger of her gun, and it began to fire incessantly. Olga mercilessly burned the remainder of the fuel in the tanks, desperately trying to throw off Electra, who held onto the vertical with an iron grip.

  “Warning! Critical fuel consumption!”

  “Now you’re telling me!” Olga exclaimed.

  The engines switched off one by one, and weightlessness set in again. Electra rushed into the safety of the next corridor like a bullet. Olga searched for her, muttering the rudest Russian curses.

  Her assassins were right behind the wall. Electra flew up to the hatch and tapped.

  “Open the module door, Hal!”

  The locks, Olga thought. The Central Post was an armored cocoon. Its lone vulnerability, a hatch three inches thick, was additionally protected by the power field. Ordinary tools couldn’t open it, at least not in those thirty-five minutes left before the rescuers arrived.

  The assassins opened the cases on their suits and started assembling some mechanism in front of the hatch, fastening its components to the support frame screwed onto the floor.

  “Oh, that’s unfair!”

  Olga recognized it as a miniature laser cutter powered by a thermonuclear battery—a prototype not yet put into series production. Obviously, Electra had broken into her piggy bank.

  “What shall we do, Captain?”

  “I don’t know,” Olga answered. She wistfully looked around the Central Post. There wasn’t thing in it suitable as a weapon. Nothing except the conveyor controls.

  Olga recalled Petrov’s stories about his navy service. On the last day of the war, Ivan the Terrible and its escorts were engaged in an action against an enemy squadron five times their size. The enemy shells had turned the Petrov’s into a red-hot piece of metal taken out of the forge. But the men and women serving on the Ivan would not give up. They undertook a maneuver that was desperate in ancient times and unthinkable in modern space battles. The Ivan rammed into the Excalibur, flagship of the NASA Navy, and died in an explosion that destroyed both ships. Only five crewmembers out the seventy-two onboard the Ivan survived. One of them now worked as Olga’s curator. He had taught her one simple but extremely useful thing.

  “If we die, we’ll die with a bang. Doc, emergency stoppage of the conveyor!” the Mistress of the High House ordered.

  The factory went still. For the first time since the catastrophe, the reagent stopped flowing through the pipes. Heedless, Electra’s gang continued to complete the installation of the cutter.

  “Start pumping out the reagent from the sections I designated!” Olga ordered.

  The light filters on the assassins’ helmets lowered. Another second and dazzling sparks flew asunder in all directions. A very thin beam cut the emptiness, piercing the gray surface of the armor plate. The cutter traced the support frame, cutting the armor centimeter by centimeter. There remained almost no reagent in the pipes around the assassins except in one section, which Olga had left filled up.

  The assassins watched the laser open up the lock, unaware of a small valve slowly rotating behind their backs. Another turn and the
valve opened, releasing black drops of the reagent. They glittered, reflecting hot iridescent sparks that radiated a dazzling multicolored glow.

  “More, more, just a little more,” Olga whispered.

  The cutter was just short of completing the circle. The hatch would break open any moment.

  “Get ready, Doc!”

  There was a little fuel left in the tanks of the farthermost engine. Olga ignited those two hundred and twenty liters, and they provided just enough thrust to divert the drops of reagent onto her attacks.

  “What the hell …” one of the men cursed as a black large drop spattered the glass of his helmet. He had no time to complete the phrase.

  A nail-sized drop collided with a spark flying from under the cutter. Inflammation. It was as if a bunch of anti-personnel grenades exploded in the corridor. The shockwaves rumbled over the walls like repercussions of a pneumatic hammer, knocking out the hatch. With a bang the air instantly rushed outward, the light went out, and all unfastened objects flew into the hole.

  A figure holding a rifle and lighting his way with a head torch appeared in the hatch. He fired a short burst, and a dozen bullets bit into the spacesuit fastened to the operator seat.

  Olga sprang from behind the seat and returned fire by shooting a harpoon with a cable attached to its end, which she had taken from the emergency kit. The grappling hook struck the shooter’s helmet, smashing the glass. He fell away, and Electra took up his place. Her single precise shot knocked out the improvised weapon from Olga’s hands.

  Electra slowly flew into the Central Post, keeping her gun leveled on Olga. Small fragments and bloody mist hovered behind her. That was all that left of the cutter and her companions.

  “I must admit, Miss Voronov, you’ve defended your House with persistence of the Texans at the Alamo. But I took your fortress by storm. Any last words?” Electra looked into Olga’s face with a smile, expecting something. But Olga addressed someone else.

  “Thank you, Doc.”

  Electra wanted to say something, but Olga would never hear what. Doc rose up behind Electra, holding a long thin pipe whose pointed end had pierced Electra’s spacesuit in the neck. A few drops of blood flew out of the hole and instantly froze over like purple snowflakes.

  Electra tried to raise her pistol, but Doc wrenched the pipe to the side. More blood flew out from her neck. The android lowered the pipe, and Electra’s body drifted away, bouncing once against the floor of the Command Post.

  ‘Olga … I had … to …” Doc uttered slowly.

  “I know,” Olga replied. “Thank you.”

  The blue lights in Doc’s eyes went out; his body floated up into the emptiness. Olga didn’t rush to him for repair for she knew that it was useless. In saving her life, Doc had knowingly committed an unthinkable crime—deliberately violating the First Law—then had burned out his processor by way of punishing himself.

  The fight for High House Eight was over.

  Ten minutes later Olga was sitting on the edge of the factory building, dangling her feet into the void. An axis slowly rotated in front of her. She shifted her stare from the pier with the broken Black Swan to her shattered House. The rooms and everything inside them had been blasted into debris revolving around the station like Saturn’s rings.

  “Let’s finish it off once we’ve got an opportunity to do this.”

  A small thin rocket, whose head was carrying Arina’s central processor, started to turn on the launch pad. Olga wouldn’t have dared to undertake such a launch without hacking the House’s radar stations and telescopes, but now that the tracking devices were dazzled by a great number of small fragments, she decided to issue the launch. Besides, the rescue workers would arrive and an investigation would start, in the course of which the rocket would surely be discovered. No, she couldn’t wait. Olga smiled happily and sent it away, on its multiple-year voyage to Jupiter. Somewhere along the way it would be picked up and then, perhaps, Arina would live again.

  EPILOGUE

  Bad weather reigned supreme over the Spanish coast. The storm ripped off roofs, uprooted trees, and incessantly bombarded the ground with myriads of hailstones. The temperature was holding at zero degrees Celsius, something unthinkable a century before.

  However, under the armored Fuller domes over the former air force aerodrome, the weather was quite good. In here, there were other things to be afraid of.

  The Duesenberg SJ, manufactured one hundred sixty-two years ago and once belonging to Greta Garbo, had smoothly rolled up to the end of the runway and stopped, leaving the motor running. There remained only one such vehicle in the whole world, and only one person could afford to drive it. Sitting behind the steering wheel was a tall girl with long red hair. Her beautiful face was perfectly calm if not bored in an idle sort of way. But the stare of her penetrating blue eyes could burn through any falsehoods that a person might hide behind.

  “Any news?”

  “Yes, Miss Donovan. We’ve just received the acknowledgment. With deep regret we have to inform you of the death of your sister. Accept our condolences.”

  The girl got out of the car and leaned with her back against the door. She removed a paper-tipped Belomor cigarette from a silver case and lit it with a golden lighter. She took a draw and turned her still impassive face to the man waiting. Her movements were both smooth and exceptionally precise.

  “Has the investigation started?”

  “Yes. Space Security Agency operatives have arrived at the station. I’m afraid it will be impossible to conceal the cause of your sister’s death.”

  “The truth will always be revealed.”

  “But aren’t you afraid?”

  “Afraid of what? I’m ready to appear before the Council, to testify at the court martial. Ready, if necessary, to be interrogated with whatever drugs they want to pump into me. You know why?”

  The man waited as she drew on her cigarette.

  “Because I’ll be speaking the truth. I didn’t know anything about Electra’s plans. I suspected she might attempt something of the sort, but those were nothing but my personal suspicions. Electra was brave, strong, confident in herself, and capable of leading others. She had principles and ideals …”

  The cigarette burned to the end, and the woman lit herself another one.

  “My dear sister lacked nothing but brains.”

  A short and sharp laugh ensued.

  “Just think of a twelve-year-old girl carrying out such a pogrom! We have to admit that at least once in a blue moon our human resources can find an efficient manager for this position. She’s a great operator. Yes, she is, that Olga Voronov. I take off my hat to her.”

  The girl threw the cigarette butt on the cracked concrete and crushed it with the heel of her boot.

  “I’m returning to the capital. Keep me informed.”

  “Miss Donovan, I once again offer you my deepest condolences.”

  “It isn’t necessary.”

  The Duesenberg turned around sharply and headed for the hangars. The gusts of wind ripped a gap in the heavy clouds, opening up a black star-spangled sky for a few minutes. Jenna stopped her car, produced a pair of antique binoculars from the glove compartment, and tracked across the void until she caught sight the tiny star that was High House Eight.

  “Well done, Olga Voronov. Bravo and goodbye!”

  She got back into her convertible and drove away.

  To be continued…

  BONUS: GROND-2 THE BLITZKRIEG First Chapter:

  GROND-II: THE BLITZKRIEG

  PART ONE: BACK IN BUSINESS

  CHAPTER ONE: JAILHOUSE ROCK

  Six vertical scratches and the seventh on the diagonal. Another week passed. Olga Voronov hides the shard of rock in her pocket, steps back, and looks at her improvised calendar. Forty-seven weeks now.

  A very romantic way to count days, something out of an old adventure film, but Olga couldn’t think of anything better. She wants clear, physical proof of the time that she’s spent in
this cell. Forty-seven weeks, almost eleven months. More than enough time to conceive and give birth to a child.

  It's time for another broadcast, internal batteries have already charged.

  “Ensign Olga Voronov, Supernova merchant fleet, personal number 294770, the place of service—the orbiting station High House-8. I was kidnapped January 2 and have been detained here for eleven months already. To everyone who hears me—inform the headquarters or the Space Security Agency, they are looking for me. At my plant, I earn a half billion a month; for my salvation, you’ll be paid any reward whatever you want. Repeat—Ensign Olga Voronov, Supernova merchant fleet, personal number 294770, the place of service—the orbital station High House-8. I was kidnapped January 2 and have been detained here for eleven months already…”

  Olga translates this message dozens of times a day in thousands of languages known to her, hoping that the directed signal will overcome the thick walls and someone will hear it. Someone will find out that she has been held here for almost a year.

  Here is a square room, three meters by three meters. The walls, floor, and ceiling a dull red stone. The rock is dark and smooth: basalt with veins of quartz and olivine, similar to a turbid glass. Olga isn’t versed enough in geology to find clues in the rock to determine where exactly on Earth she is. Carefully examining the walls on the first day, she managed with great difficulty to break off a small sharp fragment to etch her calendar. With this, her successes ended.

  A windowless steel door on robust hinges—for forty-seven weeks the door has never been opened. The ventilation grooves in the corners of the ceiling are so narrow that even mouse couldn’t get through. Twice a week, the small steel hatch on the ceiling opens and a ration package fell through. She hasn’t eaten real food or drank water once in the entire forty-seven weeks; her unknown jailers supply her with the capsules they’d kept on the High House for emergencies that Olga had tried out of curiosity but never had to rely on. But over time, she got used to them; they’re considered first-class rations for battleships crews.