The Blitzkrieg

by Yuri Hamaganov

  “It's impressive. Okay, what should I do?”

  Elena is speaking now.

  “Do something useful and don’t distract me. It's best to read something out loud, poetry or a good book.”

  “Well . . . Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank . . .”

  Olya reads, comfortably sitting cross-legged in the void, folding her arms behind her head. She tries to read calmly, in order to think less about the fact that her existence can stop at any second. At least, if she isn’t lucky, this last refuge will be quite a pleasant and beautiful place.

  Olga is in the middle of reading until the trial begins when Chernova interrupts her.

  “Enough.”

  “Well? What is there?”

  “It's definitely not a mine; otherwise, we wouldn’t be talking to you right now. This is something much more interesting. Uncle Joe, turn it off!”

  An hour later, Olya is again sitting in Klimov's cabin, sipping black tea with sugar and lemon and concentrating on Chernova’s report.

  “In short, what conclusion do you make?”

  “We were mistaken in assuming that they were implementing or extracting something. Both options are incorrect. Those who performed the operation tried to hide in the furthest depths of her consciousness some important data, which she already had in her possession, and hide it so that the secret can’t be detected from the outside, but you can access it any time you need. Apparently, this is classified information about the plant’s working circle.”

  “Uncle Joe, what do you think?”

  “It's a strange thing, boss. To begin with, we don’t know who threw Voronov in jail without trial and investigation and for what reason. Perhaps Mr. Donovan was avenging the death of his beloved daughter. Maybe she was locked into prison so that the truth about the events at High House wouldn’t come to light, locked up with the key thrown out, having had technical secrets previously withdrawn. And now it turns out that Olga's secrets remained with her, only carefully hidden. I'll venture to assume that we are dealing not with revenge, but with kidnapping.

  Someone unknown, but very powerful, on the pretext of attacking the station, declared Voronov dead and hid her in a private prison. To all the rest, she is dead, and an unknown kidnapper received a high-quality specialist who is worth billions. I think they wanted to use her later; that's why they didn’t implant the resonator in Olga—they were afraid to reset the settings.”

  Olga, trying to appear indifferent, is deliberately considering the situation. Again, these secrets, it seems, are absolutely necessary to everyone. Who else wants to get this trophy, and in what way?

  “So, a scandal in a noble family? How much would you say she is worth?”

  Chernova sniffed contemptuously.

  “We won’t get anything from this, Fedor. It’s impossible to extract data without access codes; even the most powerful machines of the Politburo can’t cope here. There's a respectable multi-stage defense, and when we try to break inside, we're guaranteed to get a cheerful, foolish little girl who will giggle gaily until the end of her life. To open this casket, you need to find the one who closed it and get the key.”

  “And happiness was so possible. Okay, will she be able to work?”

  “After I upgrade her, yes, she will.”

  “Uncle Joe, what do you say?”

  “I think it's worth a try. I like her. The girl has original thinking. Female technical logic is an interesting thing.”

  “Roger. Leave us, please.”

  Chernova and the ship's computer turn off, leaving Olga alone with the captain. Klimov remains silent for some time, assessing the joys and sorrows of the near future, and then asks, “What do you know about the Bolshevik?”

  “The former Union Navy cruiser, now a private ship, belongs to you. You are mercenaries, fighting for those who pay and taking on the work that no one else can do—or so they said about you online. If this isn’t true, then I apologize.”

  “Partially correct.”

  A three-dimensional model of the solar system appears between them.

  “As you know, the inhabited space is divided into three zones of influence, and every ship and colony belongs to one of them.

  The first sector, red, is the zone of the Union influence, our patrons and allies: sometimes they hire us to perform those jobs that they don’t want to do themselves. The blue zone is controlled by the competitors of the Union—Supernova Corporation and its satellites. This territory is hostile, and we don’t appear there unless there is a special need. And finally, the third, and the most interesting and extensive, is the Free Zone, the Wild Space.

  It includes more than sixty thousand inhabited objects, the territory of private capital without state regulation, where each colony has its own policy of survival. In the absence of the state, the concept of the law in the Free Zone is very conditional: piracy, robbery, and local wars are usual things there. And here, we are entering the business.

  If a colony has problems with pirates who rob its ships, we solve this problem. If a Union ship crashes in this zone, we are the first to come to the rescue. And so on …

  We aren’t just mercenaries. We are the army, the police, the courts, and the rescuers all in one. Where anything is decided by money and guns, our heroic crew represents the Law—not for free, of course. Do you understand?”

  “In outline.”

  “Then you must understand that as a result of our activities, we have a lot of enemies. And when you become one of the Bolsheviks, they will become your enemies, too, forever. Afterwards, you can leave the cruiser, but you won’t be able to leave your past. Have you taken this into account when considering enrolling in our crew?”

  “I had powerful enemies even before meeting you.”

  “Also, you must understand that when you join our crew, you begin a new life. Officially, Olga Voronov is dead. Only my crew and the one who put you in the Oven know about your existence at the moment. For all the rest, you don’t exist—so be it; it's better for you now. You will serve on my ship under the guise of a new personality.

  We destroyed a private prison, and now your kidnappers probably consider you dead, but sooner or later, they will understand that you managed to escape. Most likely, they will start looking for you, and here, a new person with new documents will be very helpful. This new life implies, among other things, a complete lack of contact with all your old friends.”

  Olga thinks about Petrov, not remembering her parents.

  “I had only one friend, and I don’t even know now whether he is alive or not.”

  “So, let's leave the past behind. And last, but not least, the Bolshevik enters the auxiliary fleet of the Union as a private ship. This means that in peacetime, we don’t obey them, but in the case of war, our ship is at the disposal of the fleet headquarters. The crew is liable for military service, and if war begins, you will be drafted too.”

  “I've been in the service since birth.”

  Klimov smiles with his famous sly grin.

  “Well, then, if you aren’t attracted to the career of a young prostitute in Freeport, I officially invite you, Olga Voronov, to hire on as part of my crew as a flight engineer in the rank of Leading Seaman, to become a personal assistant to our brain, Uncle Joe.”

  The rank of Leading Seaman is the lowest rank on the Bolshevik. Working for Supernova, she ran the High House with the rank of Ensign, so this is a significant drop in the career ladder. Olga takes a breath, counts to ten, and clearly says, “I accept your offer.”

  Klimov gives her a tablet with a sheet of stamped paper.

  “A private ship is a small state, and in this state, I am Mr. President, the pope, and Comrade Stalin in one person. By signing this standard annual contract, you become a member of the crew of my ship and a citizen of my state. I'm not just an employer; I'm your naval commander, which excludes the possibility of disobedience. My orders are law for you; any violation becomes a state crime, fo
llowed by appropriate punishment. If you agree to such conditions, read the contract carefully and sign.”

  Olga quickly reads the document, thinks for a minute, then signs.

  Klimov takes the contract and shakes her hand.

  “Leading Seaman Voronov, I congratulate your admission to the crew. I wish you successful service.”

  “Thank you, Comrade Captain.”

  The contract is removed, and a magnetic tray with two sealed cups takes its place.

  “According to our tradition, the inauguration is marked by vodka. I don’t know if there was alcohol in the High House, and—”

  “I'll have a drink.”

  “To the new leading seaman! To the new Bolshevik!”

  “To the ship and her crew!”

  The Stolichnaya burns her mouth, but Olga staunchly endures this test; the naval traditions can’t be violated.

  CHAPTER THREE: NUMBER TWELVE

  After she passes the initiation ceremony, the captain makes an announcement about the position she is filling and introduces her to the crew, wishing her a successful service and expressing the hope that the Bolsheviks would accept the girl into their friendly labor collective. Olga smiles shyly, feeling that she is being examined from all sides: they are assigning her a value, and this value, she suspects, won’t be too high at first. She doesn’t know much about her new colleagues, only that there are eleven people in the crew, as well as an unspecified number of Marines and robots. To her, having grown up in solitude, this small collective seems indecently huge. Tomorrow she’ll have to get acquainted with her new comrades.

  The main computer wakens her at seven in the morning, Moscow time. Yesterday, Klimov appointed Olga as a subordinate to artificial intelligence, and now Uncle Joe willingly takes on the duties of a senior officer.

  “Good morning, Comrade Voronov! Congratulations on the first day of your career in our valiant crew. The brain of the Bolshevik Party, Joseph Vissarionovich, Uncle Joe to friends, greets you.”

  “Good morning! I’m ready to begin my duties and wait for instructions.”

  “Instruction number one—go down to the saloon and take breakfast. Bon appétit.”

  The change of the time of day on the warship is rather conditionally—inside most of the inhabited compartments and tunnels, there is eternal blue twilight, and only the bright lights of the saloon disperse the darkness. Olya breakfasts in proud solitude, freely sprawled in an armchair and enjoying every moment. Apparently, this is the last period of free time before a long period of hard work. In exactly half an hour, Uncle Joe again gets in touch.

  “So, let's get started. Comrade Voronov, now you need to go through the introductory course to get to know the Bolshevik and its crew. Close your eyes . . . ”

  Time stops. Olga's mind is becoming one with the ship. And now she knows this ship and realizes its most complicated mechanism and her place in it.

  The Bolshevik is a quintessential spaceship—a machine designed and built exclusively for space flights, which is unable to land on large planets like Venus and Earth.

  The ship looks like a car axle with a wheel on it. The axis is the main building, a cylinder eighty-five meters high and fourteen meters in diameter. Located above the center of the cylinder is a fifty-meter disk, where main engines and a large battery of powerful electromagnetic cannons named after the marshals of the Soviet Union are installed.

  In the center of the disk are the ship’s heart and brain—the reactor and Uncle Joe’s compartment. This is a thermonuclear reactor; Olga has never seen such a complicated mechanism on such a small ship. The artificial sun provides the Bolshevik with its unprecedented speed and the crushing power of the cannons that decides the outcome of many space battles. The engines, the reactor, and the computer are united in a single second deck, protected by an armored cocoon. Protecting the rest of the ship wasn’t possible; otherwise, the mass would become prohibitive. Olga carefully examines the armored disk and then goes higher, to the first deck.

  There is a central post, where five officers control the ship: a radar station, a range-finding post, and a number 3 battery number. There are a lot of unfamiliar instruments and machines—some of the data aren’t available. She, as a beginner, doesn’t have full access. This situation must be simply endured.

  The third deck is the living space under the disk: crew cabins, a galley, a medical compartment, a gym, and a saloon, where her body is at the moment.

  The lowest is the fourth deck—a number four battery, the hold, a dock for the shuttle, a Marine cockpit, and docking nodes. Plus, there are a variety of auxiliary compartments, in which only robots can work. There are many other important things that must be learned and remembered, but the general structure of the ship is now clear to her.

  Here is her workplace—a tiny compartment for the engineer-operator on the second deck, which has been empty for a long time. This capsule next to the reactor has the dimensions of a large, expensive coffin. It is from here that she’ll adjust and repair the entire ship's nervous system. A big plus of the compartment is that her workplace is inside the armored deck. Olga, already faced with depressurization, rates this moment as very positive.

  “Well, how do you like our tugboat?”

  “In a nutshell, it’s amazing!”

  “Accurately stated! This ends the first lesson. It's time for you to meet your friends; they are already waiting.”

  Uncle Joe breaks the connection: Olga spent five minutes in the Matrix. During her absence, several colleagues came down to the saloon, and now she watches them with interest. In front of her are three officers from the first deck.

  She sees a tall young man, whose eyes are constantly closed behind black goggles—Yuri Tokarev, pilot. Next to Yuri, putting a hand on his shoulder, is a slender girl, the owner of an impressive bust and bright blue hair—Natalia Ivanova, navigator. These two control the ship's flight, and, apparently, they are not only connected through their working relationship.

  “Well, how is the first day in the service?”

  This is Anastasia Melnikova, the same red-haired girl, the operator of the radar station; her post is located at the very top of the main building. She sits high and looks far. Olga doesn’t like the impudent look in her emerald green eyes.

  “It seems to be relatively normal. I have been assigned to a workplace.”

  A sweet smile in return.

  “Is it the galley?"”

  “No, I couldn’t get to the kitchen. I was assigned to Uncle Joe as an apprentice; I'll set up the equipment. So, if you have any software problems, call me.”

  Another lightning-fast contemptuous look. Natalia, sipping a bowl of beef broth, chokes with laughter, takes a breath, and turns to Olga.

  “Listen, is it true that you killed the daughter of the Supernova president?”

  “Well, I have that fact in my heroic biography. But she was the first to attack me, so it isn’t my problem.”

  Anastasia leans over to her.

  “And you're not afraid of bounties being placed on your head?”

  “Not much, because bounties aren’t announced for dead girls. Officially, I’m don’t exist, so now I'm planning to start a new life—”

  “Voronov to the second deck!”

  “Sorry, friends, duty is calling. Bon appétit!”

  Climbing to the second deck, Olga tries to understand why the redhead took up arms against her, but she doesn’t come up with any convincing answer. With the rest of the crew, she has a normal working relationship, so she decides not to worry about it. She would just need to be more careful about the radar operator.

  She enters the second deck through the separate airlock with unusually thick walls. Inside the armored disk, she sees the same tunnels, only brightly lit, and feels strong streams of air from the fans, in addition to the continuous rumble of the reactor cooling system.

  “Uncle Joe, I'm here.”

  “I see. Now we need to introduce you to the local contingent. The
y’ll be your closest comrades and neighbors. To the right is the mechanics’ main post. Granddad is now working.”

  Olga knows that Granddad, by the old naval tradition, is the senior mechanic of the ship. The Bolshevik’s Granddad is Commander Dmitry Burlakov, a tall, indistinct man of indeterminate age in a pair of snow-white overalls, whose eyes are covered with huge protective goggles—right now, he is working in the Matrix, checking the power plant.

  “Hello! I'm Olga Voronov, the new engineer-operator!”

  Granddad looks at the girl with bewilderment then smiles broadly and extends his hand, not removing the white glove.

  “OMG, now we got a maiden in the reactor compartment! So, I'm Granddad, the local Dark Lord, the second deck in my jurisdiction, which now includes you, too. Does the girl understand this?”

  “That's for sure, Comrade Commander, the girl understands everything.”

  “Then I congratulate you and wish you successful fulfillment of your duties. I'll tell the twins to escort you to Uncle Joe.”

  In the tunnel behind her, she hears a scuffle, and then the twins fly in, pushing each other out of the way—the brothers Kuznetsov, Boris and Anatoly, two twin bearded men, both mechanics and gunsmiths, the chief assistants of Granddad. Boris has on a red baseball cap, a red checked shirt, and red braces. Anatoly wears a blue baseball cap, a blue shirt, and blue suspenders. There is no other way to distinguish them. Olga recalls the words of Uncle Joe. Well-groomed red beards can’t hide the fact that both twins are very young, not older than twenty-five.

  "Look what a beauty joins us! I was afraid that they would send some nerd!”

  “Yes, definitely, fortune smiled at us. Now I’ll show her to her workplace—”

  “Why you?!”

  The twins play for the right to accompany Olga with their fists; Boris is lucky.

  “Follow me, comrade.”

  A couple of turns later, they are at the round hatch made of thick smoky glass, behind which is her combat post.

  “Mind if I go first? You see, this office hasn’t been used for a long time, so I need to clean it up after the last owner. Uncle Joe, open it!”