The Blitzkrieg

by Yuri Hamaganov

  The last stage of the examination was a deep brain scan, which took almost two hours. Olga doesn’t remember this procedure because Chernova gave her a large dose of sleeping pills. Upon awakening, she was given a package of rations, and then the lieutenant, an already familiar tall Asian man, took the girl to a tiny cabin—her joint accommodations with Comrade Frunze until the end of the flight.

  The old man was already asleep, and Olga spent several hours studying the news, trying to fill the information void of recent months. She should know what happened during this time if she wants to understand who sent her to the Oven and why. It is necessary to clarify many questions, the first being why the calendar reads February 16, 2093.

  The battle for the space station High House 8 occurred at night on January 3, 2092, a year and a month and a half ago. But she remembers a little less than eleven months of this period of time. Suppose she was transported unconsciously on some low-speed prison transport, such as GULAG-19, during one of those months. It still adds up to less than a year. Then what happened on the other days, and where did she spend that time?

  During her absence, the world changed little. There was only one truly important event: Electra Donovan, the daughter of Pierpont Donovan, one of the presidents of the Supernova Corporation, was killed in the wreck of her private yacht Black Swan on the night of January 3, 2093, along with nearly two dozen of her friends and girlfriends. The investigation found that it was an accident and no one's fault, so the case was closed.

  “Just an accident, you say? Okay, let's see what's written about your funeral . . .”

  There wasn’t a full record of the funeral ceremony; apparently, Electra was buried in the Donovan’s ceremonial cemetery, where journalists didn’t have access. The network received only a few shots of the removal of the closed, black luxury coffin, traditionally covered with an old American flag, a heifer accompanying a group of important persons. Who is this unknown tall red-haired girl with a distracted face at the coffin? It seems that she’s the Changed?

  Still admiring the funeral, Olga begins to collect information about herself, without success. Indeed, in the register of the Supernova merchant fleet, there is a listing for Olga Voronov, Ensign, personnel number 294770. She was dismissed due to death on January 3, 2092; the place of the service isn’t indicated, nor are there any personal data or photos. There is no other confirmation that Olga Voronov ever existed.

  A dead girl doesn’t need money, and Olga isn’t surprised to learn that her Supernova bank accounts have simply disappeared. High House-8, too, was never officially registered; now it is an automatic warehouse, where nothing interesting ever happened. Perhaps, if she asks, Uncle Joe will be able to find more information, but . . .

  “Olga Voronov, to the captain!”

  Olga drops the rest of the ration into the utilizer, pushes away from the table, and flies into the far tunnel. The red-haired girl finally breaks away from the screens.

  “If we don’t see each other again, it was very nice to meet you.”

  Olga slowly rises, following the red marks. If she could, she would try to lengthen this path, but the upper deck is inevitable. There is a thick gray hatch with a black sign: “Fedor Klimov, Captain.” Suddenly, embarrassment rolls over her, as if she is a guilty student being sent to the strict principal. She has a reason to worry—if the rumors about the captain of this ship are true, then she may not come out again.

  “Come in!”

  Olga floats into the cabin. For some time, she hangs motionless, looking at the strange dark room. The captain's cabin is the size of an old-fashioned train compartment. The steel walls are covered with wooden panels, and in the far wall, there is a large porthole. In the corner, an artificial fireplace lights up. On the right wall, there are portraits of Stalin and Deng Xiaoping, alongside the Pioneers: Korolev, Gagarin, Titov, Leonov, and Armstrong. Olga also notes a large safe, a wide folding bed, a locker, and a massive table, behind which the master of the cabin and the ship is seated.

  “Well, hello, Olga Voronov.”

  “Hello . . . Comrade Captain of the First Rank.”

  The captain's broad face is unfriendly, and a deep radial burn that cuts across his left cheek doesn’t add attractiveness. Klimov reminds Olga of a particular famous actor from Soviet times—he has the same intelligent look with a squint and a half-smile. The captain is wearing an unusual bright red shirt and a black leather jacket, and his fingers are continuously squeezing a heavy ribbed expander.

  “Sit down.”

  Olya gently lands on the folding chair, fixing the belt in one movement.

  “To begin with, if you don’t mind, I'd like to hear your story.”

  Olga tells the story of her short life—training, exam, work, Texas Bill's disaster, later years, and, finally, pirate attack. She only withholds the identity of Electra’s killer, as well as her contacts with Arina's friends and a homemade rocket that already crossed the Mars orbit. Klimov listens attentively, occasionally asking short questions.

  “You know the rest.”

  “We know. As you might have guessed, we didn’t come to that private prison for you. We were hired to find and release another client, which was very difficult, because we lost his tracks. Fortunately, the implanted transmitter of Comrade Frunze managed to page us, and we began to prepare the evacuation. However, we needed help from inside to collapse the prison security system at a critical moment. We needed an ally, and you became that ally. We didn’t know if we could trust you, and you didn’t know if you could trust us, so the risk was mutual. Chernova told me about the bomb in your head, which you grew for a month, every second risking being torn to shreds—how did you do it?”

  “I assembled the charge at the molecular level from the particles of my ration, almost dying of hunger in the process. Fortunately, in my personal file, it wasn’t indicated that I have such a specialty.”

  “I'm taking off my hat, Comrade Olga. As I said, the risk is mutual, and, in the end, I'm surprised that everything turned out well. But the task is done, and you are sitting in my office. And although I am seeing you now for the first time, we have heard about Olga Voronov.”

  “Thank you. It’s interesting to know exactly what happened.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Between them appears a short personal dossier on the Supernova merchant fleet officer, compiled, apparently, in a rival organization—the Union.

  “Now I’ll share information. Of course, we knew that High House 8 isn’t an automatic warehouse; we knew exactly what they were doing there and who controlled the factory. In the end, this is a joint project, which is why we were unofficially informed of some important details. There was a very strange accident with numerous victims; the plant received serious damage and, worse, lost its operator. Your body wasn’t given to your parents for a funeral; according to the contract, it belongs to the corporation. But we were more concerned about the disappearance of the curator, because he is a citizen of the Union. Mikhail Petrov is missing, allegedly kidnapped and killed by supporters of Electra.”

  Olga has prepared herself for this news for a long time, and yet, the hit is hard. The man who saved her with one accurate shot is most likely no longer alive.

  “What about the investigation?”

  “There was no official investigation; everything had to be done in secret. Most of Elektra's accomplices were killed. Their accomplices on Earth were detained, interrogated, and then released, in quiet, and as a result, there wasn’t a single court session. The problem is that these aren’t simple terrorists; the whole group consists of the corporation's golden youth, so their wealthy parents were vitally interested in stopping the investigation.

  Therefore, it was decided not to disclose the truth and not to punish anyone. The case was closed after the death of most of the suspects. And they wrote a convenient version that explained that the passengers of the Black Swan perished in a catastrophe. In the same accident, a plant operator was killed who tr
ied to help them, but, unfortunately, she didn’t return. They even wanted to reward you posthumously, but the recommendation was lost somewhere.”

  “So, they put the brakes on everything?”

  “Yes. Union authorities, who also owned part of the High House, agreed not to disclose the truth and to support the version of the accident in exchange for compensation for plant repairs and lost profit. After the payment, the incident was declared exhausted. Perhaps you will be pleased with the fact that Supernova forced Donovan's family to pay this compensation, since it was Electra who arranged all this mess. The Donovan clan, one of the oldest and most influential in the corporation, came to an end; they were ruined and surrendered all their positions to competitors.”

  Olga isn’t particularly happy about the collapse of the enemy's family—this victory won’t return Petrov.

  “As I understand it, in this situation, my unexpected resurrection will be extremely undesirable for many influential people?”

  “That's right, Comrade Voronov. The case is closed, the plant is restored under the supervision of another operator, compensation has been paid, and the false version is accepted as convenient for all. And then suddenly you appear, alive, healthy, and knowing the unpleasant truth. Given all this, Olga, what are your future plans?”

  If Olga had any further plans, they are now suddenly collapsing under the weight of the unexpectedly revealed circumstances. It’s clear why nobody at Supernova particularly worried about her loss; all had more important things, for example, saving their rich children from the tribunal. And what should she do now?

  In forty hours, the Bolshevik will land in Freeport, the largest private lunar city, where the cruiser must deliver the rescued old man. There she will have to leave the ship and step into the unknown. And Freeport is an extremely unpleasant place for a young girl without money and papers—she knows that well. Of course, she still has secret accounts in the Bank of Lunograd, which should be enough for now, but first she needs to get to Lunograd. In addition, Olga needs a civil identification card under an assumed name. Without it, she won’t be allowed to cross the bank door.

  She needs to decide something; Olga looks into the captain’s eyes and begins the most important conversation in her life.

  “I can’t leave your ship, Comrade Klimov; they could kill me there on the first street. Therefore, I ask you to let me stay on the Bolshevik. Hire me as an assistant to the ship’s mechanic or to another post—I learn quickly.

  As far as I know, your past operator was seriously injured and was written off to the shore. I seek to replace him. You won’t regret it; I am in the top ten thousand of the best specialists in working with artificial intelligence in the entire solar system, and—”

  Klimov laughs, not letting her finish the conversation. Taking a breath, the captain of the private cruiser looks at the girl unkindly.

  “You are a very prudent and persistent girl, Comrade Olga. And you know all this already. But why do you want to join my crew in the lowest post so badly? You can go to any Union city with all your knowledge, and there, Supernova’s agents won’t be a threat to you. Why do you need a sailor's position on my ship?”

  “Because I don’t want to change one golden cage for another. The Russians, Chinese, and Indians will only help me in exchange for the technology of white powder, the same water purifiers that the High House uses. And for this, they need an operator—which is me. They will build another plant or laboratory; I will become the mistress of another High House and will spend at least twenty more years there until I give them all my secrets—another twenty years in the role of an expensive tool, as if my childhood wasn’t enough. I don’t want to replace one master for another. I didn’t risk everything when I helped you to save the client and run for that. Therefore, I am ready to work for you at least as a simple sailor.”

  “Those are the words of a truly free man—either very courageous or overly self-confident. But still, why my crew? Why the Bolshevik?”

  This time, Olga smiles briefly, remembering her childhood dream.

  “I've always dreamed of becoming like you, Comrade Captain—becoming the captain of my own ship, being the real master of my destiny. For many years, I thought about it, prepared myself, worked, and saved money. And now I have no money and no work, but there is a chance to fix it all. Your crew is one of the highest paid in the solar system. Only the Queen of Wasp receives more. And by working with you, I can earn a couple of years on my first ship and open my business.

  But even this huge amount of money isn’t the main thing; I can earn money somewhere else. The main thing is that I can gain experience, unique experience in your unique crew. I won’t have another opportunity like this anywhere, and I would have to be clinically insane to refuse. Therefore, once again, I ask—take me on as a sailor. I promise, you will never regret this decision!”

  Klimov does not answer immediately, as if testing her patience. Olga stubbornly waits. Finally, without hearing any other suggestions, Klimov speaks without visible interest.

  “You're right about money and experience. And you're right when you say that we have a shortage. We again need a computer expert. Perhaps, I repeat, perhaps you are suitable for us. You have the right education, and, more importantly to me, you have real combat experience—”

  “I can, I'm ready, on any terms! I can handle—”

  The laser-like scar twisted with his short grin.

  “Don’t run ahead of the locomotive, Comrade. And don’t talk about any conditions, or we will give you only bread and water. In short, you are suitable for us on all points except one serious circumstance. Judging by the survey, they did something with your brain, before getting you to the Oven. What exactly isn’t yet clear, but I don’t think that it is anything pleasant. Who knows, maybe you can’t work anymore. Maybe you are useless now.”

  Olga's fingers are tightened with a dead grip, her nails digging into her palms. Can’t work—this is worse than death.

  “In general, it’s necessary to clarify your professional suitability, and Comrade Chernova will do that now. Uncle Joe, send her to Elena and get a full report by sixteen hours.”

  "Roger. Comrade Olga, follow the signs.”

  “I—”

  “Follow the signs.”

  Klimov takes out a mouthpiece of smoky glass, inserts a Belomor cigarette, and with visible delight, lights up. In zero gravity, smoke doesn’t rise but surrounds his figure like a miniature nuclear mushroom. The conversation is over.

  Chernova is expecting her at the medical compartment and, without saying a word, points to the operating table.

  “Uncle Joe, connect the patient in the test mode. I’ll watch from the main line.”

  “It is possible to delay the signal to a third of a millionth of a second. Excuse me, the defense demands that.”

  “Well, that's within the permissible limits—”

  “I'm sorry to interrupt your friendly conversation, but could you explain what's going on?” The girl isn’t going to hide her irritation. Only now does the Lieutenant Commander pay attention to the patient.

  “Well, my friend, as you probably already guessed using a simple calculation of dates, you spent a considerable amount of time unconscious before waking up in the prison cell. Agree?”

  “Yes, I’ve missed almost three months. Even taking into account the flight from Earth to Venus, a lot of time has disappeared without trace.”

  “That's what we'll try to find out; let's follow the trail of lost time. Apparently, a series of neuroelectronic operations have been conducted on you, the purpose of which is unknown, but it must be clarified. They either withdrew something from your memory, or vice versa, introduced something deeply. If it makes you happy, I can say that everything was done at the highest level; a real master worked on your brain. Since all my usual diagnostic tools have failed, we will try a deep dive. You, me, and Uncle Joe. Until we start, maybe you have any idea about what they could have done with you and wh
y?”

  Olga pauses for a moment's reflection.

  “I can assume that they extracted secret data about the High House production process. This information has a huge commercial value; these water purifiers are one of the most important Supernova monopolies. Unsurprisingly, they decided to remove these secrets before sending me to prison—it's safer for their money. If there was any introduction, I have no idea what they could have introduced.”

  “Also, they could turn you into a mine,” Uncle Joe snarls. “There is such a dirty reception in electronic war: A set of malicious codes is introduced into the carrier’s nervous system along with a powerful charge of interference. The carrier doesn’t suspect anything, but when he connects to any computer, the mine will burn both.”

  “Thanks, you calmed me down. And now what should I do?”

  “As planned, we will conduct a survey in a black box, a closed test space for dangerous experiments. So, if you have a mine inside, its undermining won’t hurt either the ship or me.”

  “And what will happen to me?” Olga frowns at Elena.

  The voice of the surgeon is still quite calm.

  “Well, one Olga will be lost to the world. You will be killed either by the mine itself or by the electromagnetic protection of the black box. Don’t worry, your death will be lightning fast; the brain will burn for only a couple thousandths of a second. I don’t think that it will hurt. You'll tug your legs a couple of times and that's all. In addition, it is unlikely that your death will be a great loss in terms of the fate of the universe . . . ”

  “What if—”

  “My dear girl, you don’t have a choice, so no more ‘what ifs!’ Turn it on!”

  The operating table disappears. Olga is hovering in cosmic emptiness; before her is the huge glowing cloud of a spiral galaxy. She feels a pleasant, warm breeze and hears the soft sounds of some ancient instrument, a harpsichord or clavichord.

  “So, this is what the Milky Way looks like, approximately, if you look from a distance of fifty thousand light years.”

  Uncle Joe's voice is heard from the darkness; Chernova must be somewhere nearby.