The Blitzkrieg

by Yuri Hamaganov

  “SOS! SOS! SOS!”

  “Now what?!”

  Olga doesn’t like hearing a distress signal—in the past, it always ended for her with big troubles. But the old maritime laws haven’t been canceled, and she raises the entire crew. Uncle Joe, meanwhile, is trying to reach out to the liner, but the Libra is silent. The emergency beacon is continuously giving out a distress signal and coordinates, but nothing more. For some unknown reason, the Libra started its engines, which shouldn’t work on this part of the flight, and now the ship is rapidly descending from a predetermined trajectory. There is only one reasonable explanation for this unexpected maneuver: the Libra is uncontrollable.

  “Captain on the bridge!”

  Olga sends Klimov a report—the Libra launched its engines and changed course, moving along the ellipse M-431, crossing sector 260-82; the engines are thrusting three whole one-tenth G, and there is no communication.

  There are no other ships nearby, so they’ll have to save the sinking liner alone. The first matter to attend to is the life-saving capsule. Judging by the absence of an emergency beacon, none of the capsules started, which isn’t surprising—with a constant 3G overload, it’s almost impossible to use a capsule on a passenger ship. So even better, don’t be distracted by a search.

  “Crew—attention,” says the captain. “Ahead, the passenger ship of the Union is in disaster, and the Bolshevik, according to our old traditions, will begin a rescue operation. Prepare for a change in course and braking; we are going from the highway to the country road.”

  The suit is filled with pickle; the straps grasp the body. Olga sees how the mechanics change the thrust vectors of the shunting engines, preparing to drastically turn the cruiser and slow down.

  “Ignition!”

  The impression is that if the Bolshevik runs right on the wall, the spurt is too strong. The speed rapidly decreases while the ship makes a sharp turn. Natasha confirms the completion of the maneuver.

  “We lay down on the ellipse M-431 and will come up alongside the Libra in 392 seconds if it doesn’t change course again!”

  “Comrades, this time we’ll have an unusual rescue operation. If possible, we’ll assist the crew and passengers, but first and foremost, we must save part of the cargo and several specific passengers. Our Martian friends transported on the Libra a recently purchased high-level artificial intelligence system, which they intend to make the core of their defense. The cargo is accompanied by a team of service engineers. Ensuring their safety and the safety of cargo is the paramount task. Now, an individual briefing. There is enough work for everyone . . .”

  Klimov simultaneously communicates with every Bolshevik, assigning specific tasks: Olga and Uncle Joe will create an “icebreaker”—a set of crackers that will subordinate the Libra's nervous system, putting it under the Bolshevik’s control.

  “So, Olga, now the most important thing is to stop the engines: the Libra is gaining speed, and with every second, they travel further off course. A little more, and the ship won’t have enough fuel to return to its former orbit. We break through the defense, take control, stop the motors, shift the rudders, and perform a maneuver to return the Libra to the right course.”

  “I'll make an icebreaker, but how do we download it? It can’t be done remotely via the radio channel; there is a serious defense mechanism.”

  Joseph unfolds in front of her a scheme of an unknown torpedo.

  “A torpedo-burglar—Wolff has a couple in the pantry. We lay the icebreaker in its memory, and then the torpedo will hit the Libra in the area of the external information bus and deliver our burglar to the address.”

  In the meantime, the cruiser is catching up to the passenger ship: now the Bolshevik and the Libra are separated by two dozen kilometers. Severov directs the optical instruments on the liner, and Nastya highlights it with powerful searchlights. Uncle Joe calmly reads out the damage: even a short list is enough to understand how bad things are.

  “The central post is completely destroyed . . . the radiation level is within the norm . . . the depressurization of the hull is around band 49 . . . the sixth and seventh decks are completely de-energized . . . there are holes in compartments 19, 64, and 102 . . . watch the light signal . . . ”

  In one of the portholes, a white light flashes briefly— someone has seen the ship approaching and is giving a distress signal.

  “The target has been found. Torpedo—fire!”

  Three seconds of flight, and the burglar pierces the port side. Joseph completely switches his attention to penetration, cracking the serious electronic protection of the Libra.

  “I’m inside. The main computer is destroyed, the auxiliary machines have been damaged by an electromagnetic impulse, the backup control room isn’t damaged, the duty shift is dead, and I can’t detect any surviving officers. Numerous internal injuries and multiple victims. The main engine room and the reactor compartment are in order; the fuel reserve is at twenty-seven percent.”

  “Stop it and get ready to turn!”

  The engines are switched off; the ship is moving by inertia.

  “A thirty-second warning!”

  On the Libra, the warning system comes to life.

  “Attention, passengers! Attention, passengers! We are beginning a rescue operation. Get down! Get down! After thirty seconds, begin the turn!”

  The thirty seconds expire; Klimov takes over the Bolshevik, while Yuri operates the liner, starting the maneuver. Granddad boosts the passenger's engines, mercilessly burning thermonuclear fuel, the gravimeters passing the mark of seven and a half G. The Libra starts to move away from the disastrous course leading to an infinite void, first slowly and then picking up speed. The Bolshevik repeats the maneuver, circling the liner like a small moon.

  In the meantime, Uncle Joe continues to resuscitate the ship's network, while also refining the overall picture of the damage. The Matrix of the Libra was destroyed along with all those who were connected at the time of the blast. A significant portion of the compartments are inaccessible to observation, the nerve endings burnt there. The situation is similar to a paralyzed person whose body isn’t under the control of the brain. It won’t be possible to repair all the damage remotely; emergency repairs are needed on site.

  Olga tries to find the engineers they need, but all attempts are unsuccessful—the Libra’s passengers weren’t equipped with individual motion sensors. It was considered insulting, and now it’s impossible to determine who is where and in what state—alive or dead.

  After making a turn, the liner returns to the abandoned section of an invisible arc, going to a distant Martian orbit.

  “Finish the maneuver, and stop the engine! The fuel reserve is at four percent,” reports the pilot.

  “The Libra has settled on its previous course,” the navigator confirms. “The estimated time to reach the Martian orbit is 2,809 hours.”

  “Excellent work, comrades. If we were ten minutes late, the Libra would have gone off into emptiness. Veniamin—shuttle to take off!”

  The mutilated passenger ship continues its flight to Mars; the Bolsheviks are preparing to carry out a rescue operation on site. Leaving Severov as the cruiser chief, the captain heads the rescue party, taking Elena, Wolff, Domcheev, the Twins, and Olga. The Marines will accompany them; they have the skills of space rescuers.

  Veniamin meets the girl at the hangar, puts on a powerful jet pack, fixes the mounting belt with a set of tools, and shows her to her place in the landing compartment. The ramp rises; after two seconds, the air is drained from the hangar, the hatch is opened, and the Red Star smoothly emerges outward. Several Marines cling to the handrails on the hull. Yuri takes the remote control, and a small ship leaves for the Libra.

  “Olga, its Joseph! After docking, your team will be divided into three groups. Chernova and Wolff will reconstruct the medical compartment and begin receiving the wounded. Veniamin and Anatoly will go to look for the cargo we need. Klimov will take you and Boris and go to
the reserve control room. It’s urgent to restore control of the ship without my help—they are still flying to Mars. Perhaps you’ll have to work alone in other compartments, and Lobo will cover your back; you have worked well with him. And Elena wants to talk . . . ”

  “Olga, I’ll try to explain briefly. On board the Libra roster, according to the payroll, there were 1,785 passengers and 244 crew members. A lot of deaths have been confirmed, and there are hundreds of wounded—such maneuvers for unprepared civilians end badly. Nobody controls the ship, which means that inside are panic and a deadly terror, so don’t be surprised at anything, and do your business calmly, not paying attention to what is going on around you. Remember the primary task. Lobo, as usual, will stop any attempt to prevent you. Good luck!”

  The Red Star hangs a kilometer from the Libra. The luxurious liner looks deplorable—there is a huge hole in the place of the destroyed central post, one of the walking galleries on the upper deck is unsealed, and in several places the hull is deformed by overloads. Olga sees what appears to be people through one of the portholes.

  “Marines—engage!”

  Marines are rushing to an independent flight. Looking at them, Olga recalls Petrov's words that in any landing operation, the moment of docking and disembarking the personnel is always the most difficult and dangerous. Only after the Marines occupy one of the service locks and carefully check its mechanisms does the Red Star goes on approaching.

  “Fifty meters. Land, win, and fly away!”

  The ramp opens, and first Klimov and then the other Bolsheviks leave the shuttle one by one; Olga goes last. She hasn’t been in open space for more than a year, but her old skills haven’t been forgotten, and the girl easily handles a jet pack.

  “Yuri, drive the Star away for five kilometers and turn on the autopilot; we are entering.”

  Here is the hull of the Libra—Olga grabs with her fingertips and quickly gets into the lock, which slams behind her. From the lock chamber, the Bolsheviks enter the service tunnel. Inside, it is dark. Small fragments are floating in the air, and periodically, someone knocks on the bulkhead. They are moving to the nearest intersection, where the detachment is divided at the entrance to the passenger deck. The corpse of the waiter is hovering ahead; apparently, he broke his neck during the first explosion, and trays with still-hot dishes surround the dead man.

  “It’s Joseph; I see several junior officers, one of them waiting at the exit to the right walking gallery. You have to open the hatch; the locks seized.”

  That's the right hatch—Walking Gallery, Section 3. Going to the bulkhead, Klimov knocks his fist, listening to the sound.

  “You can open it; there’s air on the other side.”

  Domcheev explores the locks for a couple of seconds using X-rays and ultrasound and then opens the tool box.

  “I’ll have to burn it!”

  The lieutenant applies a viscous translucent gel from a tube to the ceramic lock and then pushes a tiny drop of catalyst with tweezers.

  “Light filters!”

  For a moment, nothing happens, and then the corridor lights up with the brightest violet flame. The burning lasts eight seconds, then it stops instantaneously, the pyrogel completely burnt out. Raising the filter, Voronov sees droplets of molten armor hovering around the massive figure of Domcheev, and in place of the locks, a round hole with fused edges.

  “Done!”

  Lobo jerks the hatch to the side; the powerful headlamps illuminate the spacious gallery full of people.

  For thirteen years, Olga has repeatedly gotten into dangerous situations and has seen enough of it all, but she hasn’t ever seen a more unpleasant sight with her own eyes. Mass panic in an enclosed space—that's what it's called. The passengers, as if gone mad, rush to the rescuers, shouting something, pushing the dead and mutilated. The Marines instantly open transparent fiberglass shields, preventing them from approaching the Bolsheviks. All are shouting something; Olga sees the money in their hands, and dark drops of dried blood are shaking in the air.

  “Attention!”

  Klimov's voice, strengthened by the speakers, overcomes the hysterical cries.

  “Stop the panic! Attention! We've come to help you! The critical situation is over; the ship is controlled. There will be no more drastic maneuvers! Soon, we’ll begin to provide medical assistance. Officers to me, officers to me!”

  The peak of panic over, the crowd falls silent, parts a bit, and lets through a girl in the blood-soaked form of a junior officer of the civil fleet, a fresh wound on her head and a stunned look.

  “I . . . I'm an officer.”

  “Rank and name!”

  “Victoria Smith, Ensign.”

  “So, Commander Smith, congratulations on the assignment of an extraordinary rank: take over the command; you are the senior in rank from the surviving crew members. And now we are going to the backup control room. Lena, bring her to life!”

  After taking Ms. Smith, the Bolsheviks continue on their way, ignoring the panicky screams of the passengers who decided that they were being left. Chernova gives the commander urgent medical help along with a couple of sips of strong coffee combined half and half with cognac. Strong medicine has a life-giving effect; Ms. Smith quickly comes to life.

  “The engines launched right after the explosion. At three and a half G, I hit my head against the wall and was then pressed to the floor; I couldn’t get up. Blood was everywhere, the ship's network was dead, I couldn’t communicate with anyone, there were no instructions . . . then came a request for officers . . . was this from your ship?”

  “Yes, we took control of the Libra and turned the ship; you went into emptiness. All the duty shift are dead; we are looking for anyone who survived. You’ll now work with us from the backup control.”

  “Did we take the right course? Can we reach Mars?”

  “Yes, the remaining fuel is barely enough. And as for oxygen and water, I'm not sure—be prepared to impose a strict rationing. You now have almost four months to go before you reach Mars. Introduce a state of emergency and strictly maintain order; you are a captain now.”

  The backup control room is located in the very center of the ship, which provides it with maximum protection. Judging by the dates on the seals, the heavy hatch wasn’t opened until last summer. Opening the sealed room, the Bolsheviks begin to launch the equipment.

  There is no doubt that this wasn’t just a catastrophe—it was a terrorist attack. Someone intended to destroy the liner, having detonated a powerful bomb on board. The destructive effect of a conventional explosive is repeatedly amplified by a pulsed bomb, the flash of which burned the ship's Matrix along with the senior officers connected to it.

  “Give me a stable connection with the Bolshevik, plus control of the reactor compartment and the engine room!”

  “One minute, Comrade Captain!”

  Olga connects the backup electronics, Boris is busy with the power plant and life support systems, and the Libra is coming to life. Now the damage map is more detailed; all the surviving repair robots have received tasks and have gone to work. Their schedule will be busy for many hours ahead. Having finished with the backup electronics, Olga is assigned the task of starting the repairs on the site.

  “Lobo, accompany her!”

  Moving to the bow, Voronov receives a message that Elena and Wolff have reached the medical compartment and are arranging it, expecting to begin receiving the wounded in five minutes. There is no news from Domcheev; he’s busy searching for the necessary cargo.

  The way to the bow compartments lies through the passenger decks: they exit the tunnel in the entertainment zone—casinos, slot machines, simulators, and attractions. Here, as everywhere else, there are a lot of wounded and frightened people, but the panic has already passed; the passengers managed to organize under the guidance of a brave barman and are now trying to help the wounded, after removing the bodies of the deceased. Many people want to talk with Olga, but she doesn’t have time, and Lobo ge
ntly but firmly removes those who approach too close. Passing the emergency transmitter to the barman, she goes on.

  “Passengers, attention!”

  Chernova's voice comes from everywhere.

  “We are ready to begin receiving the wounded. Follow the third deck to the medical compartment; help those who can’t move independently!”

  The yellow dotted lines appear in the air, indicating the way; the Marines occupy the main intersections to prevent a stampede.

  “If there are doctors among the passengers, immediately contact the Marines; we now need everyone who knows how to provide first aid!”

  The casino is left behind; now they are in the wellness center—massage parlors, spa salons, bathrooms with mineral water, solariums. Several noisy women crowd at the closed door, unsuccessfully trying to open it. Voronov calls up the plan for this section and realizes that behind this door is a nursery for the youngest passengers. She doesn’t have to worry about them; babies suffer flight in special capsules that provide reliable protection against overloads, but no one can’t explain this to the mothers.

  “Lobo, open the door, then catch me.”

  She is referring to the right hatch, leading to the bow compartment, about which there is still no information; there's not even any electricity. Entering the sluice, Olga closes the hatch and specifies the exact location of the repair terminals—she needs to get into the crew’s dining room.

  The manometer indicates normal pressure behind the bulkhead, but the girl knocks just in case, listening to the sound. It's all right; she can enter. Launching a backup generator and shining a light, Olga opens the door, flies in, and only then realizes that she is trapped.