* * *
Freeport was founded seventy years ago; it’s one of the oldest cities outside the Earth. Several frantically bold and unprecedented greedy businessmen founded Freeport as the first private lunar industrial company to extract minerals and water ice from underground glaciers. They encountered many problems in their noble undertaking. The main one was the lack of personnel—there were few people wishing to go to the moon on a one-way ticket. But the problem quickly resolved when they recruited fifty men and women who were sentenced to death and leased to the enterprise by the US government.
For the next five years, the colony fought desperately for survival and high profits: three rounds of personnel died of hunger, depressurization, and fires. With the development of the space industry and traffic growth, the terrible ghost of starvation died away and the colony expanded, becoming a real city, and then Freeport was bought in its entirety by an English billionaire, a big fan of libertarianism.
The new owner first declared independence and second issued a decree on the liquidation of state administration. Henceforth, the state no longer held on to Freeport’s thirty thousand citizens. Taxes, army service, and the criminal code were abolished, the police force was disbanded, and freedoms of speech, entrepreneurship, religion, and sexual relations were declared. Every citizen was now completely free in his thoughts and actions, his freedom no longer limited by anything, except for the interests of other citizens, who were also completely free. Conflicts of interest among the free citizens weren’t long in coming—after about half a year, a quarter of the original number of citizens left, and the others died, unable to adapt to the new conditions, including the owner of the city, who was strangled by one of his deputies.
In the meantime, Freeport was noticed by a powerful South America gang who began to explore outer space, looking for a reliable base. They immediately captured the city, since there was no army that could resist the invaders. Assessing the internal freedom, the bandits quickly established a totalitarian regime in the city. Since then, Freeport has continued to exist, periodically replacing the anarchy of gangster wars with the dictatorship of the victors.
Here, minerals are still mined, water is pumped from deep wells, and space ships are built and repaired, but this isn’t the main focus of the city—there are plenty of mining and industrial cities on the moon. The main thing that sets Freeport apart is the fulfillment of desires. There is no desire, whim, or sin that can’t be satisfied here, and there is no product in the solar system that isn’t sold in the local markets. Here, you can get anything if you have enough money for it. And the risk of being robbed, raped, murdered, and broken down into organs, threatening everyone who steps onto the streets of this city, is perceived as a natural payment for the opportunities provided. Freeport is one of the criminal capitals of the solar system and doesn’t hide this status—Freeport is proud of it.
Shortly after landing, the crew travels into the city, towards entertainment and active rest, so necessary after a long flight. The cruiser is never completely empty—at least two Bolsheviks carry the watch at all times. Uncle Joe is always in full readiness, in addition to the Marines patrolling the dock and the surrounding area—the events on dock №28 once again confirm the need for such measures.
No one forgets completely about business. The captain leaves somewhere for a couple of days, along with Comrade Frunze, to discuss the details of the future contract. Elena and Wolff go to the markets to buy supplies and equipment for the next mission, and soon the caravans of loaded electric cars are pulled onto the ship. Olga, still not fully recovered from the operation, is sent to get the goods, and for the next twelve hours, she, along with the Marines, carefully examines the containers before loading them on board.
The girl checks the contents with the complex system of mine detectors, shines X-rays, and takes samples of provisions, water, and oxygen, doing everything necessary to prevent a possible diversion. Having completed the verification, she signs the invoices and fixes the signature with a personal isotope seal, taking full responsibility for the cargo received.
* * *
The next morning pleases her with a complete lack of pain—her bones have completed their transformation. Olga lies motionless, enjoying a forgotten rest, but then her idleness is interrupted by a call to the captain. Klimov briefly greets her, then holds out two sealed metal packages.
“Your task is to deliver this money personally to the recipient and take away several goods from him. Plus, there, you’ll get documents for a trip to Lunograd.”
“Should I go alone?”
“If your plans include suicide—yes. If not, you go with the Marine. Take your insurance.”
The insurance policy printed on synthetic parchment states that Olga Ivanova, a Bolshevik crew member, has fully paid the customs duty as well as the duty for space, air, water, heat, and electricity, which she uses when visiting public places in Freeport, and has also made an insurance deposit.
“Excuse me, but what does the insurance deposit mean?”
“At the moment, most of the city is under the control of the Trump Aces gang. Aces control the entry and exit from the city and provide security to newcomers—those who have enough money for insurance. The insurance deposit means that you have contributed a large sum to an Aces cashier for your safety, and if someone takes illegal actions against you—stealing, robbery, mutilation, kidnapping, rape, murder—the Aces strictly punish the offender. Such a policy is quite adequate for the protection of the usual tourist, but we are notorious people, thus the Marine comes along as a guarantee. In addition, the insurance deposit doesn’t apply to the whole territory of Freeport. It doesn’t work in areas of increased danger, and it isn’t valid in national neighborhoods where ignorance of the local language is usually punished with a bullet in the forehead. Go now.”
Olga takes her breakfast and descends into the landing compartment, where Veniamin is waiting for her.
“Hi, Raven. You decided to see this nice town? Come on, I'll introduce you to your bodyguard.”
Unlike other Marines, this one is more like a man—an elegant metal body, proportional arms and legs, and an almost human skull, which greets Voronov with vicious red sensor eyes.
“Comrade Voronov, this is Lobo, your faithful knight. Lobo, this is Olga, our new colleague. You are now fully responsible for her. No one, I repeat, no one should do her the slightest harm—in case there are problems, retaliatory measures are at your discretion.”
“Thank you for your confidence, Comrade Lieutenant. Comrade Voronov, nice to meet you," Lobo says in a melodic voice, holding out a titanic palm, which Olga gently shakes, remembering that the Marine can crush her hand with a light movement.
Like other Marines, Lobo is a cyborg, but this cyborg is unusual—only the brain that once belonged to the polar wolf remains from the living organism. Similar creatures that combine the power of a combat vehicle and the mind of the most dangerous predators have long been in the service of the Union fleet, proving their superiority over the NASA military robots during the war. Being free, and officially enrolled in the crew, the Marines carry out their service with honor and pride—as their natural warrior and killer instincts require. Money isn’t particularly important to them, but they respect the rewards, although they don’t serve for medals—they serve and fight just for the pleasure of war.
“So, Marine, let's prepare you for the exit.” Veniamin drives a motor cart with weapons and equipment. Lobo takes an unknown assault rifle and then sets an armory module on his back, combining a machine gun and a grenade launcher. Grenades of various types, a multifunctional truncheon, and an old revolver—an eight-inch Ruger .454, Lobo's war trophy. Armed, the Marine puts on a leather cloak and closes his titanium skull with a gray cowboy hat.
“Ready for work and defense.”
Veniamin looks at the address and then picks up the three-dimensional map of Freeport, instantly identifying the intended route.
“So, th
e destination is Rabinovitch's shop, Riley Reid Boulevard, number 2867 on the right side, the third level, opposite the Titty Twister. From our dock, it is two kilometers by trawl, further on foot—one and a half times more. Now listen carefully—Lobo goes behind and slightly to the right, so it's easier for him to control the situation. He has a constant view of three hundred and sixty degrees; plus, I'll connect him to your contact lenses, so he’ll see with your eyes. I'm sure that you won’t be threatened with such a guard, but if things start getting hot—listen to his orders like Moses listened to the voice of the Lord.”
Veniamin looks strictly at Olga, then hands her a tiny earring.
“This is a communicator; Joseph updates the codes every fifty seconds. Don’t turn it off in any case! Now, put the bulletproof vest over the T-shirt.”
The bulletproof vest appeared to Olga to be suspiciously light.
“Is it reliable?”
“Depends on the caliber and the gun. Of course, the laser and the electromagnetic accelerator will blow through it, but it will stop conventional bullets, plus giving you protection from knives of all types—exactly what is needed for an easy walk in this city. Don’t deviate from the designated route; don’t talk to anyone, no matter what they say; don’t pay attention to what is happening around—look over their heads. Chest with a wheel, tail with a gun.”
Olga looks inquiringly at the cart.
“Can I get a gun?”
Veniamin grinned.
“No, my friend, I won’t give you a gun—you don’t know how to use it. From unfamiliar weapons, there is more harm than good. Here, for you—it will be much better than a pistol.”
He gives her two small hand grenades, reminiscent of an old pineapple grenade.
“The Wasp Grenade. Do you know how it works?”
“Yes, I once saw one in action.”
Domcheev passes into the Matrix for a split second.
“It’s done; the grenades are synchronized with your contact lenses. If you feel that your life is threatened, tear off the ring and throw it under your feet. Wasps will go out and surround you, one charge for an hour of flight and fifteen shots. It’s a direct attack on the enemy with a simple movement of the eyes: fix your eyes on the target and shoot. No one else can guide them—a guarantee against an attempt to intercept control. Well, you're ready.”
The main hatch moves away, revealing access to a flexible tunnel.
“Lobo, if someone is sticking to the girl, tear off his head.”
“Roger, tear off his head, Comrade Lieutenant.”
Olga goes into the tunnel; Lobo follows her, moving silently in his soft boots.
Several moving highways lead from the port area to the central quarters, and Voronov travels through, watching the situation with a quick, attentive look. They are at level zero—wide windows have been cut through the ceiling of the tunnel, and behind the windows is absolutely black, empty sky. The stars aren’t visible on the moon in the daytime. People in the overalls of cosmonauts and technicians, as well as robots of various types, are moving next to them. As they approach the residential areas, the passenger traffic increases.
"We're at the entrance to Riley Reid Boulevard."
The escalator takes them down, deep into the moon, and they arrive at the city gate, which opens as soon as Olga brings the credit card to the receiving window.
Freeport is an old city; new lunar cities are built differently. Riley Reid Boulevard is an indoor pit with a depth of one hundred meters, stretching away for a dozen kilometers. The far end isn’t visible beyond the low horizon. In the center is a wide street, along which electric cars move, and transparent floors are laid over the street at four levels. Thirty-story buildings rise at the sides. The light from the ceiling windows isn’t enough, and on the lower levels, eternal twilight reigns, which unsuccessfully tries to disperse a few lamps. The noise is ceaseless: the hum of fans, the muffled roar of jackhammers on the ground, the whistles of pneumatics, loud music, advertisements, and scraps of phrases in all the languages. And then there’s the smell, this strange smell that is inherent in all lunar cities—hot iron and burnt insulation with the scent of grub from cheap diners.
Olga stays motionless for some time, as if not daring to step forward—this is the first time in her life that she has seen such a large number of people in reality and not in the Matrix. But the momentary confusion passes, she says to herself, "Good luck, Mrs. Gorsky," and then she resolutely rushes to the nearest ramp—Rabinovich's shop on the third level.
Olga goes slowly. She doesn’t want to take off a full meter with each strong step. The girl has gotten used to moving on small rollers, and she is far from having the grace of the locals gliding around at high speed. People are everywhere—people of all skin colors, speaking all the languages of the earth and the cosmos. Many townspeople cast long, assessing glances at her, some men and women lustfully smile and call out to her, but no one else takes it any further—the fear of the silent figure is too obvious. Olga realizes that Domcheev wasn’t joking when he recommended tearing off any trespasser's head; the presence of the Marine creates a vacuum around her in the middle of the city crowd, and she likes it.
And yet Lobo has to intervene once, when some pimp urges Olga to shoot in a porn film. The insinuating voice, describing the charms of her possible career—she’ll undoubtedly become a star with such an innocent young beauty—suddenly turns into a mournful screech when the Marine's palm rests on the pimp’s shoulder. The guard of the pimp, having noticed the bright spot of the target designator on his crotch, takes a prudent decision to freeze as a pillar.
“Gentlemen, the girl isn’t interested in your proposal. Good day.”
They pass the Eros area filled with prostitutes and the Katniss Everdeen monument, and there it is—Rabinovich's shop, opposite the Titty Twister.
Olga walks over to an inconspicuous steel door without a sign, looks around, and then taps in Morse code M and T. For thirty seconds, nothing happens. She feels herself being scrutinized, and then the door opens, inviting Voronov to a narrow, steep staircase. After climbing to the top, they appear in a spacious semi-dark room, with the lights from advertisements pouring in through the windows. This is something between the artist's studio and the auto repair shop; the smell of hot metal and soldering is even stronger here than on the street.
“Hello, Comrade Olga, hello, Lobo, it's good to see you. Welcome to Rabinovich's den.”
An elderly man in a white shirt with arm ruffles and a green cap comes out to meet them. Rabinovich shakes hands and then invites them to the work table. Without saying too much, Olga puts her bags on the table then sits down on a rotating chair, propping her head in her hands and examining the unfamiliar tools and machines. Rabinovich opens the packages with a cutter, manually recounts the red-black banknotes with the profile of Stalin, then smacks the money in a box and places on it several sealed, numbered bulbs of dark opaque glass.
“I don’t want to boast yet again, but this is the best work that can be done for such a term and fee. You, the new operator, will install the very components that Uncle Joe asked for; all the accompanying information is attached. Pay special attention to number three—the product requires additional verification because it wasn’t received in the usual way: it wasn’t stolen, it just wasn’t paid for. That one handed to Klimov personally, a one-time use, can’t be overwritten. The information he was looking for wasn’t easy to get.”
“Lobo, check it, please. Sorry about this, but I'm new in business.”
“But you've already learned Uncle Joe's lessons. Don’t apologize, Comrade Olga. As someone once said, healthy mistrust is—”
“A good basis for joint work, I know.”
“It's all right,” Lobo confirms.
Olga puts the goods in a small backpack and is about to leave when Rabinovich calls her.
“Wait, that's not all—your personal documents are almost ready. Wait another ten minutes; I'll give you gefilte fish.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I try to conform to national stereotypes as much as I can.”
Gefilte fish are served on a small silver tray, along with a spicy tomato sauce and extraordinarily strong sweet tea—Olga finds the improvised afternoon snack very tasty. Rabinovich goes into the back room, covered with insulating panels, and after a while comes back with a small quartz card, which Olga learns is the passport of a citizen of the free city of Freeport. The master twists the card in his fingers, and in the dim light of the street lamps, a three-dimensional image appears—Olga's head.
“This is a standard local document and at the same time a means of payment. Using it, you can get into any lunar city. Remember—you aren’t Olga Voronov anymore; you are Trillian Jones, born and raised in the colonies. Learn, please, ‘your’ personal data.”
Olga carefully takes the card, meticulously examining it from all sides.
“Can I use it permanently?”
“No, this is a one-time pass for one particular case. Klimov briefly told me the essence of your problem. This fake is enough to get you where you need and allow you to take from the bank what belongs to you. But money attracts attention, so the document will be exposed and not suitable for further use. On your return to Freeport, come to me. Trillian Jones will cease to exist, and I’ll make a new passport, which you can use as a permanent ID without attracting attention.”
***
Leaving Rabinovich's shop, Olga hears the voice of the navigator.
“Hi, Raven.”
“Hello, where are you?”
“Raise your head.”
The girl looks up and through worn-out fiberglass flooring sees Natasha, Yuri, and Wolff at the entrance to a small cafe.
“We return aboard soon, but there is still half an hour; join us.”
They occupy seats at small tables of artificial cane. Lobo remains standing, not relying on the shaky highchair.
The Blitzkrieg Page 6
