by D. Rus
My Alpha-prime had already discerned the shape of the moss around the box and outlined the box itself in green. As ill luck would have it, an all-purpose Varangian cyst was attached to the wall right next to it. It could attack and hold off an opponent more powerful than itself, although not a way much more powerful one, and usually only one time. It had no recharging systems, no nano-factories, no camouflage – basically none of that extra stuff for losers. It relied on a single strike of utter devastation, a kamikaze worm designed to sacrifice itself to deal extreme damage to the enemy. Like a shell does to a tank. A plane to a battleship. A missile to a city of millions.
I was lucky; the Varangian wasn’t capable of long-term off-line operation. Its worms were an instrument for swift impact on enemy communications.
Of course, the military had also provided it adequate resources for dealing with low batteries; the worm could connect to the ship's power system and even attach its reserve power cord to the connection terminals of the still-warm batteries of a technosentient bot. It could unarchive the matrices of the required forms and elements to assemble a pretty accurate energy converter from its nanites and thereby extend its off-line life span by a significant amount. However, this led to the decrease of its assault mass.
My Alpha-prime cautiously beat off the Varangian’s first attack, then the second, gaining confidence. It repelled the third attack like it was nothing.
“Everything’s going according to the plan,” my implant told me in a message of a calming green color.
I nodded. It was still better to refrain from inhaling the unfiltered air. I tore the moss off the wall in layers, tossing it on the deck, revealing the meager contents of the emergency box. I grabbed the loot and shoved it into my pouch without even looking.
It included several things; regenerative cartridges that filtered out carbon dioxide and generated oxygen – a very useful item for increasing HI; a couple of personal force field harnesses capable of wrapping up their wearer in a vacuum-sealed cocoon impenetrable to fire for some time; an all-purpose first-aid kit – a very beneficial find, capable of reviving even a seriously wounded person a few times; a dead communication console; and a tiny output device for a remote control to the module survival control system.
I held back a sigh of disappointment. No weapons, no batteries, no quality spacesuits. I suppose I should have been grateful that the loot was real, and not a bunch of props like the foam plastic spears and spades on the fire shields of certain military units of my time. It looked like they had a way of keeping the shrewd warrant officers in check in the future.
I kept running, swiftly moving my feet and scooping up a few berry clusters on the way. They were both tasty – seriously, the first edible thing in that rusty old tub of a ship – and healthy. They increased one’s adaptability to the environment by four percent.
I carefully dumped the berries into the breast pocket of my open poncho jacket. This article of bush-league workmanship was a gift from Lina. She had timidly presented it to me with a red face, angry at herself for blushing. She had even embroidered corporal spheres with colored wire on the chevron. What a clever girl! When did she even find the time? I wondered.
I would repay her with a kiss on the cheek and some sweet berries. I would have liked to kiss her more intimately, but I couldn’t; my hormones were raging, and Lina could feel everything. Turning away in time or sitting down and crossing my legs would not save me.
My second target was the corpse doubled up by the far wall. My implant beeped as it swiftly scanned the spacesuit covered with moss, collecting information and determining the location of the loot.
I pulled off this corpse’s boots as well. We were in desperate need of footwear. All we had were wet puttee imitations held together with twisted optical fiber strips. It was pitiful; a unique combination of the urban and rural.
These boots were rather ordinary one-size-fits-all shitkickers for a technical character – disposable, intended for work in an aggressive or radioactive environment. On the battleship Marat, that meant nearly every cabin.
After that, I strictly traced my Alpha-prime’s instructions as I was short on time. I took the corpse’s belt with an all-purpose multitool, a slot for tiny test servobots aka “roaches,” their work readiness marker coal-black, a civilian neurogun, and a non-statutory wide-screen tablet.
My implant enviously displayed the optional device info: “Imperial Fox-4.7-bravo with a pseudo-AI with a programmed framework. Features 256 12th generation coprocessors, user memory integration, and passive defense system. Part of a limited edition, only 9 million copies in all of space. The reproduction technique has been lost. The orbital factory on Juno has been destroyed by the Hive’s second wave. Cracking the device with the tools on hand is impossible.”
That last phrase made me stop drooling and concentrate on looting. This corpse also belonged to someone who had been on stimulants. There was enough to throw a party in his pockets and first-aid kit: mind boosters, stress killers, night-time spray “Horsepower,” and the mysterious pills called “Uncle Basil's Punchfest.” These future folks had a way of stimulating any physical or mental feature. Those who couldn’t afford a quality implant quickly got addicted to the various creations of the pharmaceutical industry.
I imagined for a second what would happen if these pills were introduced on Earth. Everyone would want to boost their mind prior to an exam, increase their reaction time and muscle strength upon running into gangsters, or to impress a girl in bed without the adverse side effects. Unless, of course, they developed a tolerance to these drugs or went broke.
If the Amazonians weren’t lying and really would return us home, I would definitely pack a hundred kilotons of stimulants into an intersystem truck and make the Earth a happier place with this questionable gift.
I raced back. Suddenly, I yelped in pain, jumping nearly to the ceiling. I felt as though I had just gotten stabbed in the thigh with red-hot steel.
My implant informed me: “Reactor flea bite. A19 percent HP loss. Paralysis of nerve fibers and irreversible muscle cramps in the neurotoxin injection area. Take immediate measures to remove the embedded larva.”
The implant’s log exploded with panicked reports: “Critical load on survival control systems. Injecting maximum dose of drugs number… Neural network of damaged limb is not responding… Backup path… Negative.”
Dragging my stiff leg, I swiftly limped to the exit. I swore loudly so that the group would recognize me; there was no time to play hide-and-seek.
I barked at the soldiers on watch at station three: “Step aside! I need a ski track! Fuck the damn Amazonians far and wide with all their fleas and special effects!”
I plopped down onto a dry spot, shook the loot out of my pouch, and grabbed the multi-tool that my Alpha-prime highlighted. Tapping on the blade of the “eternal” knife, I expressed my gratitude to my implant; it had already imprinted an image on my retina detailing my thigh with a snowflake-shaped web of virtual lines. In order to remove the quickly developing larva, I had to cut my flesh open following these lines exactly.
I was scared to death. But I did not allow myself to be injected with sedatives. I’m a human, not a robot. I also forbade the implant to control the fine motor skills of my hands. I will do this myself! I thought. Should I make too deep of a cut and puncture my own artery, so be it, it’s my fault!
The knife was outstandingly sharp. It cut my flesh in layers like foam in a bathtub. I felt no pain; the leg was no longer mine, but the rightful meal of that foul creature.
My blood got in the way, pouring all over the surgical site. Lina, who didn’t understand my actions but sensed that they were necessary, sat down next to me, carefully hugged me by the shoulders, and, pulling off her shirt, started sponging my wound.
I was no longer the only one who was nervous, missing the mark now and then and cutting flesh for nothing. Lina wept soundlessly. The blood-soaked shirt in her hands would brush against the wrong areas.
My heart missed a beat. My implant promptly loaded the artificial pacemaker module to the RAM. But I merely waved it away, happily narrowing my eyes; the girl’s touch was tender and caring. Waves of empathy and panic swept over me. Bingo! This is the componentry of love, no? She loves me. Subconsciously, perhaps? And do I love her?
Something really firm suddenly crunched under the sharp blade. It couldn’t have been a bone as the knife could easily slice through bones.
My Alpha-prime highlighted the target in red. It was the larva. Using my thumb, I drew a pictogram of magnetic tweezers on the multi-tool’s touchscreen. Touchscreens were archaic, but comfortable. The intricate combination of force fields enabled me to firmly grasp the half-inch-long insect. The reactor flea could survive in the most extreme environments; it had such armor that a volcanic vent was like a health resort for it.
I increased pressure on the touchscreen, turning the tweezers into clamps. The tool’s two-foot-long battery beeped warningly; it was almost dead. Yet it carried out my order, quickly increasing pressure on the work surface; 220 pounds per one tenth of a square inch… 660… 1,500… 2,200…
Squelch! The larva popped. A green mist hung in the air. Those who came in contact with it had a look of surprise on their faces as they read the message on their interfaces: “Constant buff received: +1% to poison resistance. Cumulative up to +15%. Risk; random intoxication is possible.”
At the same time, my RC symbol lit up: “Self-administered field surgery completed. Score: satisfactory. Reward: +5 RC points as well as one credit toward the ‘Battlefield medicine’ subject area.”
Lina, who leaned on my shoulder in exhaustion, shuddered; she also received a reward for assistance and an honorable stripe for helping a wounded comrade.
Our phlegmatic doctor powdered my wound with ground moss. As we had established by trial and error, this moss had zero regenerative effect, but stopped bleeding almost instantaneously.
I rose, putting my weight on my good leg and trying not to lean too much on Lina, and related what had happened: “Aggressive morph-fauna. We desperately need CASs. Even the simplest spacesuits, the light ones. I assume that things will get more difficult.”
I surveyed the soldiers. They were slowly getting accustomed to discipline. Only ten of those around me were out of bounds. They tried to stay out of my sight, lurking in the light mist of the stripped moss. Seeing a part of the action and catching a freebie buff was enough to make them happy.
My nerve fibers slowly recovered, contorting my body with pain. I allowed my implant to dull these sensations until they matched the normal human pain threshold. I didn’t need those extra 200 percent, but I was intent on keeping what was mine.
Pursing my lips, I said through gritted teeth, “I’ll take a break before going in again. Muromets will distribute the loot. All the meds go to the Doc, against receipt.”
Dumping the rest of the goodies out of my pouch, I limped to my cabin. Lina squeezed in under my shoulder, not wanting to break off the comfy embrace. Hidden loot weighed down the inside pocket of my trousers. As the commander, I absolutely had to have my own reserve fund.
Ah, and here it is, the long-awaited bunk. Lina, halt!
Chapter Ten
The persistent knocking on the cabin door woke me up. I glanced at the virtual interface clock – a habitual motion by now. What the hell?!
Instead of the appointed half an hour of rest, I had slept for four hours. My alarm clock icon had been deactivated, its current status showing up as the aggressive statement, “Do not disturb, will tear your throat out!”
Damn! I thought. Did I do this, by reflex, wanting to preserve the beauty of the moment? Or did the implant assume high responsibilities and concern itself with providing me with much-needed rest? My nerves certainly weren’t paid for by the government, and were already like overstretched violin strings.
This sleep turned out to be very therapeutic. I felt like I had been woken up by a pleasant ray of sunlight on a Sunday morning. My mood was wonderful. Why? Because I found Lina resting her fair-haired head on my chest. She had fallen asleep as if she had nothing to care about. This was probably the first time she had slept like that; like a kitten curled up in a ball, its warmth a source of pure joy.
I couldn’t hold back and carefully touched my lips to her velvety cheek. She smiled in her sleep and leaned closer, trustingly offering her face to be caressed and cuddling up to my side.
The wolf pup in me stirred dangerously. It sniffed the air greedily, relishing the scent of the chaste female body, then curiously leaned forward…
Lina gave a start, clearly discerning this image, and recoiled, nearly falling off the narrow bunk.
I had the response time of Bruce Lee times two by now. I wrapped an arm around the girl’s tiny waist, preventing her fall, and gave her a reassuring smile. I thought my hand would catch fire; Lina was still shirtless, and the heat of her bare body drove me outright crazy.
My primal instincts made me suppress her conscious attempts to resist. I brought her close with confidence, reaching for her moist, open lips like a boss…
Boom! Boom! Boom! came the knocking again. I heard Muromets’s voice, “Wake the hell up, Commander! The monster broke through the gateway’s armor. We can see it through the hole. Take a look, you won’t believe your eyes!”
A plasma grenade up your ass, Muromets! I thought. To ruin such a moment!
Lina shrank back and instantly covered herself with mental shields. I was able to take her by surprise only because she had slept without worry on my strong shoulder, her guard down. Her primal instincts had taken over, untrammeled by the extraneous trash of reason. She was immersed in a sense of complete safety, believed in the correctness of the situation, and had complete confidence in the future.
You can jingle your imaginary balls all you want, girl, but you’re still an ordinary woman inside, desperately in need of a man with whom you’ll finally be able to relax and feel like a weak woman under secure protection.
I rose off the bunk, releasing her slender frame – I couldn’t call her fragile as she was pure cyber-modified muscle with a virtually non-existent fat layer, just enough for a little emergency fuel for the body.
“It’s open, Murom, come in already,” I said.
“Sure you won’t rip my throat out?” the big guy asked sarcastically, squeezing inside and curiously staring at Lina, who instantly blushed.
The tiny cabin became crowded.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I replied, not so kind anymore.
Why is the world constantly checking me for weaknesses? I wondered. Perhaps this was the leader’s lot, to constantly prove your status, keep the bullies in line, and always be prepared to defend your principles and worldviews by words and actions. Or perhaps all ways of life are similar? Is it just that most other people are more resourceful and flexible than me? They adapt, compromise, smooth over the differences, and avoid conflicts. Father, you have left me too soon, giving me your main lesson in conclusion…
Annoyed, I decided to try something out and ordered my implant, “Remote access to implant EK531245-t. Tighten the nano-armor layer in the collar area by 300 percent. That’s right, by narrowing the neck diameter. He’ll know better than to grin next time!”
“Access denied. Confirm command with an admin’s signature.”
“As you were,” I whispered aloud, enjoying the alarmed look on Muromets’s face.
His firewall probably informed him of my creative remote strangulation attempt. He’ll know better!
“Let’s go already, ya loudmouthed alarm clock. Show me your monster.”
The built-in interface radar alerted the group that the leader was approaching, so I didn’t catch anyone shirking their duties this time. They pretended to be working away, casting glances at the now significantly weakened bulkhead gate.
The armor clearly wouldn’t last very long. The composite fibers slid apart like rotten sackcloth. The overstretch
ed layers rocked like waves, partially absorbing the mighty blows.
My implant instantly calculated the material’s rupture point: two-three hours under current stress. I cursed, angry that I had slept for so long when there were so many things to do.
Muromets understood and gave me a report, “Mud bath’s ready. We’re still weaving the net, making it bigger and increasing knot size. We’re trying to sharpen the impact girder, but it’s going to give after a while. The ropes are ready; we’re just tinkering with the ceiling fasteners. We’re also upgrading personal weapons. Retreat paths… None. The group is ready to fight, although no one wants to die. It’s too painful.”
I nodded. Everything was going according to plan. But it wasn’t enough.
The lookout at the bulkhead gate recoiled from one of the holes. The next instant, the gate shook under a powerful blow and trembled like a giant membrane, emitting a disgusting sound.
Pressing his hands to his ears, the lookout cried, “Nineteen seconds till next kick. The bastard’s saving up strength.”
We hurriedly pressed our eyes to the tears in the gate. The broken Kevlar fibers pricked and burned our cheeks; due to various internal tension points, the material had warmed up to about 160 degrees.
“A huge thing,” Murom whispered to me. “What sort of creature have the gods sent us?”
I looked at him in surprise. Clearly his implant couldn’t identify the monster, while mine did so immediately. I’d have to admit to it…
I read aloud the reference my Alpha-prime displayed, “A heavy counter-boarding bot Crab, manufactured in the Russian Empire, at the full-service factory of New Kharkov. Class: surface. Purpose: mobile short-range counter-air defense, destruction of enemy targets that land on the ship’s exterior: landing parties, diversionists, nano-cysts, induction- suppression modules. Most likely, the Crab picked up a xeno-virus, or is externally controlled by a parasite. Now, it’s armament…”
