A monstrous explosion rocked the massive starship to its core. The trapped warship fluttered through space like a fish in a net sparkling like lightning bolts.
An additional hook from the annihilation puncher followed, the cruiser shifted from the concussion, the hull cracked, and the starship began to gently fall toward the blazing purple-scarlet star beyond. A dozen warriors in kaleidoscopically changing camouflage rushed down the corridors with wild cries. One of the girls lost her boots and squealed as the flames running across the spiral floor touched her pink, bare heels, the metal heated by the colossal destructive energy.
Captain Raisa Snegova, who had outpaced her partners, had her scarlet mouth twisted in pain. Bloody blisters escaped her inflamed lips; a fragment of shattered armor plating, having pierced her spacesuit at high speed, had sunk deep between her shoulder blades. The pain was excruciating-she couldn't even give a coherent command. The more cool-headed men were attempting to abandon the dying ship in an organized manner, scrambling to salvage as much of the valuables as possible, especially weapons, and to retrieve the surviving combat and support robots on rescue modules. Some women, more experienced, were even attempting to use emergency escape methods to salvage individual sections of the light-class cruiser, with only a few thousand cosmonauts on board.
Colonel Natasha Krapivina lost half her right arm, and trying to localize the suffering with a trained willpower, she commands:
- Hit the springs, otherwise battery five will dive with everyone into the depths of the stars...
Amidst the cacophony of sounds and rustlings, one can hear the heavy, dying groan of a beardless youth crushed by the shifting walls of a ventilation shaft, sucked into it by the magnetic collapse caused by the detonation of gravity mines. Several other soldiers also fell in, meeting a horrific death in a hell swept by icy winds.
A small, single-seat "erolock" (slang for a fighter-attack aircraft) separated from the damaged vessel. Aboard, Space Guard Captain Pyotr Uraganov peered tensely at the frantically jumping holograms. The starfighter's systems were seriously damaged, forcing manual control. When you're like a WWII pilot, using your hands and feet instead of simple telepathic commands...
The intergalactic battle was in full swing, and the enemy held overwhelming superiority. Ten heavy ships of the Northwestern Confederation were fighting against three starships of the Great Russian space fleet. War is war, and it has been going on for a thousand years, sometimes flaring up and erupting like a bloody volcano, sometimes lulling slightly in a wavering satisfaction-giving the exhausted combatants a chance to catch their breath. Two long-standing historical adversaries, New Russia and the Western Bloc, clashed in the vastness of space.
And now, too, the Russian starships have run into an ambush. For some unknown reason, their kinesis radars have gone blind, and the balance of power has become disastrously uneven. But robots don't get sick, and the Russians don't give in! The cruiser is perishing; a more or less large unit has separated from the first starship, which has already been effectively destroyed, and under the command of the fearless Natasha Krapivina, they are ramming it. The Russian kamikazes are at their maximum speed, blood is even flowing from the nostrils and ears of the girl and several men who are helping her to her valiant death. Her tongue is paralyzed, and in her head, shortly before impact with the Confederate battleship, the phrase resounds: "We will give our souls and hearts to our Holy Fatherland! We will stand firm and win, for our lives have one meaning!"
The remaining battle cruisers are also in trouble. One of them is burning in the vacuum with a virtually invisible bluish rim of flame, while another continues to furiously fight back, emitting annihilation and thermoquark missiles. However, the force field won't hold for long, already under multiple hits: it's crackling and sparking like a welder under voltage. The enemy starships are much larger, a full five light battleships; each has four times the firepower of the entire Russian flotilla, including even the cutters and single- or dual-pilot fighters.
Mighty ships, their military and tactical capabilities rival those of seasoned Russian vessels. A flock of carnivorous enemy vultures-erolocks-flies out from the star, engorged with blood and glowing with crimson protuberances. Now these predators will attempt to attack the escape pods and the few Russian gravity-magnetic aircraft. Pyotr, with some effort, manually turns his fighter, though he has little chance of engaging. Another aircraft hovers to one side. A woman's voice croaks cheerfully.
-Captain! Attack in a spiral, I can easily cover your rear.
Vega Solovieva, a Space Guard lieutenant, performs a figure-eight, deftly pulling out of a dive and covering its tail, where a silver-glistening mechanical "vulture" had attempted to leap. The erolock's frontal matrix deflects the homing thermoquark missile, and a split second later, the enraged vulture itself receives a blast to its weakly protected underbelly. She's still a very young girl-she'll only be eighteen in a few days-and yet she's already distinguished herself in combat. She's even been nicknamed "Annihilation Wing"; only her youth and lack of higher military education prevented her from achieving a higher rank.
Natasha Krapivina isn't as young as she looks-she's already over seventy. In her final moments, she heroically burns to death, having finally breached the battleship's protective shield, forcing the colossus to plunge into an ocean of hyperplasmic tornadoes spewing ammunition. War doesn't have a feminine face, but with each generation, fewer and fewer men are born... Therefore, a redistribution of roles is taking place.
Petr Uraganov executes a complex spiral somersault, passing between streaks of fire. He fires practically without aiming, caught in the moment, intuitively perceiving the kaleidoscope of targets, striking the ero-lock's most vulnerable points. Chunks of plasma fly like searing scissors, precisely striking the juncture between the miniature force field and the vehicle's gravity well. The ero-locks themselves are very lightly armored; the force field is weak and strongest at the front of the vehicle. To avoid being hit, you have to perform a circus act, dodging the converging and tangled laser-plasma pulses. The adrenaline rush in your veins makes your blood cells jump, as if they were horses breaking free from their enclosure, experiencing freedom. And then, barely touching the fresh grass, your hooves carry you at an elusive gallop.
But this frantic rhythm of two hearts bursting through a mighty chest allows one to gather oneself and fight... To fight very successfully against the enemy's superior forces. Another turn and another fighter is shot down. Judging by the emblem and shape of the erolock, it belongs to the Dago civilization. There are such aliens, shaped like swollen maple leaves. These mobile plants are extremely dangerous; a slow thermonuclear fusion sluggishly smolders within them , and they have much faster reflexes than humans. When their unit appears among the Confederates, it means there will be a tough fight, and few Russians will be able to celebrate victory.
Like, for example, on the Volga cruiser, they're trying their best to save it, the skin of the young men and women literally peeling from the scorching heat. And in the air, as if a fashionista had sprayed rose water, molecules of nitrogen and oxygen reacting, raising the temperature, already prohibitive for humans. A girl falls to her knees and, bending down, kisses Perun's amulet, her teardrops evaporating before they can reach the ultra-strong metal covering. Here it is: death, the young man who half an hour ago was trying to pick her up, collapses to the floor, ablaze, the red flesh peeling from his bones...
A combat robot oozes droplets of lubricant from its wide muzzle, seeming to roar in agony, sending up a prayer to the electronic gods, based on binary code. The ventilation system fails, turning into a semblance of small but numerous black holes, threatening to absorb everything and everyone.
Here are two charming warriors, clinging futilely to a boarding mortar, trying to stave off death. Their delicate, pink faces are contorted, and their beautiful features are distorted by unbearable pain. But the force of the sucking tornado increases. Fingers are torn off, crimson blood spurts from torn muscles and tendons, and the girls are plunged into the meat grinder. On the fly, the red-haired girl collides with the young man, ramming him in the stomach with her hat-like head.
They manage to smile at each other before departing for a place of no return. Another woman, already more than half charred, scrawled on the wall with her charred hand: "The brave die once, but live forever; the coward lives once, but is forever dead." The bluish-green flame intensifies, engulfing a body that, just moments ago, was exquisite, worthy of the most prestigious catwalks. Now the girl's bones are exposed, and the strong muscles, hardened since infancy, crumble into white ash.
A damaged boat, hit by a thermoquark explosion, is ablaze and somersaulting, carrying a human crew and a couple of members of the allied race, the Livi. Such very cute creatures, shaped like humanoid frogs, but framed by the petals of the most beautiful flowers. Now the antigravity has broken, people, the Livi are like peas in a hysterically shaking rattle.
Only this time, this child, amusingly tossing the boat, is composed of the torn and twisted dimensions of a tormented space. Here, the bare legs of a girl, unable to stop, are wasted. Several warriors' combat suits have completely fallen apart, and they, naked, scarlet from the heat, crash into the walls and partitions. Hematomas swell and bruises spread across their muscular, yet perfectly proportioned, female bodies.
The blows are so powerful that even the extremely strong bones of the girls and boys, enhanced by bioengineering from a space civilization, break. Scarlet bubbles fly out of their painfully open mouths, and with them, the souls of those lucky enough to end their torment.
The blood the flower frogs release is light green, and the aliens themselves are flattened into a pancake, then the elastic structure of their bodies returns to their shape. They are truly more elastic than rubber, though they are unable to avoid damage. And the finale was a flame bursting into the boat, greedily devouring the flesh.
And here's a young man in an ero-lok, charging forward. The imperial anthem is playing in his head, and hatred is coursing through his veins. A larger, three-seater doesn't have time to escape, and in the vacuum, a blinding orange pulsar flares.
For a moment, the Confederates freeze and retreat - the Russian spirit is invincible! It is not to be trifled with! And this is, indeed, a vision of technotronic hell.
Pyotr, fortunately, doesn't see this and continues his attack. The enemy fighters scatter, another one disintegrates in the vacuum, and a maple-like body tumbles out of the shattered cockpit. Greenish-yellow streams of blood flow from the shattered body, forming balls and floating along with the shrapnel. And in each ball, a thermonuclear flame glows. Meanwhile, his partner, the charming but menacing Solovieva, has slit the belly of an enemy erolock.
-Clever girl!
Peter screams and his voice dies away, somewhere behind him a blinding bubble swells, like a comet exploding upon entering the dense layers of the atmosphere, a flash of light shatters into shards of glitter, and three Russian erolocks immediately burn in the flames of hell.
The last cruiser, like an ice floe thrown into boiling water, begins to float in a multitude of fiery lights running across the streamlined surface of the ship.
The shattered Russian starship refuses to die. Its guns fire desperately at the enemy. And with some success, the armored plates of the turrets are torn apart, sending the guns, torn from their sockets, flying far away. Flying through space, these proboscises continue to fire searing blots of annihilation. Warriors die, but to surrender is to deaden the soul.
Now there are only two of them left, and several hundred enemies. A dense stream of hyperplasma crashes down on his erolocks, and no amount of maneuvering allows him to escape such a colossal density of fire. It's like a butterfly caught in a torrential tropical downpour. Only each droplet is hyperplasma heated to quintillions of degrees.
The machine explodes, and only the cybernetic device manages to eject him from the destroyed erolock. The captain experienced a severe shock; his lightweight spacesuit became incredibly hot, and sweat poured into his eyes. Numerous enemy machines scurried by so quickly that the warrior's keen vision barely made them out, seeming like blurry spots darting through the vacuum. Suddenly, he was shaken, as if caught in a net, pulled toward the enemy starship.
"They've put a lasso on me. They want to take me prisoner." Pyotr picked at his molar and used his tongue to squeeze out a small pellet. A small annihilation mini-bomb would solve all his problems at once. Torture, abuse, and death awaited him in captivity anyway. Better to die immediately, saying, "Glory to Great Russia!" With his last thought of the Motherland.
The worm gnaws at my consciousness and whispers in my ear: "Don't rush, let the enemies get closer, then you'll take many more with you into the bottomless darkness of space." Or maybe I just don't want to die!
Peter hesitates: before his eyes flashes, in general, a life that is not particularly long, but full of events.
Most people are born in special incubators, and only low-skilled workers can be born the old-fashioned way. Pyotr's parents were officers in the elite Almaz special forces unit, so he was only eligible for a start in life through artificial means, controlled by modern computers. Even as an embryo, doctors discovered such a fortunate combination of genes in him that he was among the chosen thousand. Every year, from billions of infants, a special thousand were selected-the best of the best. These were the smartest, strongest, most determined, most gifted people in the New Russia. And the only one among them, having passed numerous stages of selection, at the age of thirty became the number one man-the Supreme Commander-in-Chief and Chairman of Great Russia. From early infancy, the thousand best boys underwent a rigorous selection system, and were taught everything from combat skills to a wide range of sciences, primarily the art of governing a vast empire. Beginning at the age of five, twice a year, and from the age of ten, three times a year, they took complex, multi-level exams to determine the most worthy ruler of the state. A powerful artificial intelligence monitored the candidates, employing the latest nanotechnology and hyperplasma computers, eliminating chance, connections, bribery, or the influence of the powerful. Now, the great country had its ideal ruler for all time. Peter was among these thousand. He was physically very healthy, possessed a phenomenal memory, grasped all knowledge on the fly, and his extraordinary reflexes were legendary. It seemed he had every chance of becoming the ruler of Russia upon reaching the age of thirty, ruling it for exactly thirty years, after which, according to the imperial constitution, he would resign, vacating the chair for another most outstanding representative of the greatest country. This was the immutable law of succession of power; there were no elections-power belonged to the very best. Even if Peter had not become ruler, there was still great competition. Still, the highest positions awaited him ahead - in the administrative apparatus of a gigantic Empire stretching across a dozen galaxies.
But instead, he revealed-or at least, that's what the official documents stated-his main flaw, strangely uncovered during such a thorough investigation-mental instability. He gave in to a fit of anger and shot his mentor, Calcutta, with a blaster. According to the investigation, it was because the general had been overly harsh with him and had even publicly humiliated him. As a result, instead of a brilliant future, he would have faced the death penalty. However, certain circumstances led to a prison sentence being substituted for the standard sentence of ejection onto the plasma surface of a star. While in a penal colony, he was subjected to psychoprobing, dulling many of his exceptional abilities, including those of a paranormal nature. After all, he could have used them to escape. Perhaps he would have perished in the uranium mines, but he was lucky-according to the law, all first-time offenders could serve their sentence in penal corps instead of penal servitude. Well, since the convicts died like flies, it was little different from the death penalty.
In the very first battle, only two hundred and forty soldiers survived from a regiment of fifteen hundred condemned soldiers. Peter repeatedly looked into the face of the evil old woman with the scythe, feeling her icy breath, but he managed to survive, and even for his military exploits, he was transferred from the penal corps to the guards, and then received the rank of captain. He was not yet thirty years old, and should his life really end so ingloriously? Then let him perish under the roar of an explosion in an annihilating flash. Peter tried to clench his jaw, but nothing worked-his cheekbones, and his entire body, were paralyzed. And that meant captivity and torture were inevitable.
Maple-leaf-like Duggans surrounded him, familiar human silhouettes scurrying among them. But Pyotr had already witnessed their atrocities and understood that some humanoids could be worse than extragalactic monsters. He was enveloped in a semblance of a force field that propelled him along the surface, then his body slowly floated toward the scanners. Using the officer's ultra-powerful gravior X-ray machine, they scanned him down to the last molecule, then removed the annihilation "bomb" from behind his mouth. A mocking laugh echoed.
- Cowardly Russian, you didn't even have the courage to commit suicide. Now you're ours.
The speaker, judging by his epaulettes, was a Confederate colonel. With a brazen movement, he jabbed his fist into Pyotr's nose. The blow knocked his head back, drawing blood. Icy felt a salty taste on his lips.
-This is just the beginning, soon you will have to drink the full cup of pain.
The colonel wasn't joking, and although there was a way to erase all thoughts from a person's brain using a neuroscanner and tomography, the evil Yankees wouldn't deny themselves the pleasure of torturing a prisoner.
The large black man took a drag from a massive cigar and slammed it hard against Pyotr's forehead. The Russian captain didn't even flinch. A graviolaser beam shot out from his cap badge, causing excruciating pain. Uraganov suppressed a groan, though his skin smoked and sweat dripped from the effort. The black man in the major's uniform let out a venomous laugh.
-Russians have thick skin!
Pyotr spat contemptuously into the repulsive black mug. The dark-faced man roared and punched Uraganov in the temple. He wanted to continue, but two representatives of the Dago civilization clung to the enraged gorilla. He tried to shake them off, but the seemingly velvety maple leaves clung tightly, clinging with their suction cups. The voices of the aliens resembled rats' squeaks, and the stresses were placed as if the words were being spoken on a sped-up tape recording:
"John Dakka, control yourself. This isn't how a Confederate officer should react to the antics of a Russian savage. We'll take him to the cyber-chamber, where specialists will slowly disintegrate him into atoms."
Peter's arms were twisted, clearly intended to cause pain. Four guards stepped onto the moving walkway, and they smoothly moved toward the torture chamber. Along the way, Ice heard a muffled cry; he tried to turn around, but the force field held him in a death grip. Two guards turned Peter around themselves.
- Look, macaque, at how they're cutting up your girlfriend.
Captain Hurricane's eyes widened. Vega, completely naked, was bound by a translucent matrix that allowed material objects to pass through, but prevented her from moving.
Meanwhile, John Dakka, with sadistic pleasure, applied a massive plasma iron to her satin nipples. Her high olive-gold breasts were covered in burns.
- The girl, unable to contain the pain, cried, strained her muscles, it was visible how they collapsed, the veins came out from the strain, the veins of her wonderful body swelled.
- What a bitch. There's worse to come.
Peter groaned.
-Let her go, it's better to torture me.
-No! Human.
The representative of the Dago civilization hissed, his webbed limbs twitching reflexively.
-For you, earthling, someone else"s pain is more terrible than your own torment.
The sadists continued to torture the brave Vega as they walked, burning her, electrocuting her, twisting her arms from behind, and pricking her with needles. Only when they reached a transparent, mirrored hall did the torture temporarily cease. Peter was brought into the room and hoisted onto a cybernetic imitation of a plastic rack, his joints brutally dislocated. Then Vega was suspended next to him. The black executioner, smacking his lips with relish, cauterized her graceful foot, seemingly carved by a skilled craftsman, with a heavy cigar emitting a special kind of infrared radiation. Crimson streaks covered her bare pink heels. Vega screamed and twitched, but the hypertitanium rings firmly bound her ankles. The torturer clearly enjoyed her suffering; his rough, gnarled hands ran over her feet, then twisted her toes, slowly twisting them and then yanking them out sharply, trying to force out moans.
Lieutenant Solovieva, in order to somehow ease the pain, shouted:
- The Holy Fatherland lives in consciousness, but retribution will come to you, enemies!
Even in her exhausted, tear-stained state, the girl was very beautiful. Her sunlit blonde hair caught the spotlights, and her skin shimmered with copper and gold. Her blistered burns seemed to only add to her unique charm.
The general, entering the cyber-torture chamber, fixed his gaze on Vega. A glimmer of sympathy flickered in his eyes.
-It's a pity that I have to torture such a beauty.
Then his gaze pierced Peter's face. His eyes became angry and hard.
-So you are that Russian who was among the chosen thousand.
A nasty little voice creaked.
Ice gave the Confederate general a piercing look and remained silent.
-What, bastard, did you freeze your tongue?
John Ducka barked.
- Stop groping her legs, this is not a brothel!
The general made a sharp gesture, indicating to the black man that he should leave. He shuddered, backed out of the room.
"Now we can talk calmly. And if you want to live, you'll answer our questions. Otherwise, you'll face..."
The general crossed his fingers, a gesture that made no impression on Peter - a hint of imminent death.
- Well! Peter parted his lips. - What's the point? You're just going to kill us anyway. And just rip out the information... Or don't you have a psychoscanner?
The general's gaze lit up with a strange, boyish passion and he winked strangely:
"We have everything, but after a psychoprobing or a total psychoscanning, you turn into complete idiots, and sometimes you just die. Besides, this method isn't always effective."
Peter understood the leader's concerns. He knew that recently officers had been implanted with special electronic thought-blocks that destroyed their brains during psychoscanning. He, of course, had the appropriate protection installed, preventing the information from being read.
The general looked with glassy eyes.
-I advise you to cooperate with us.
- No! - Peter leaned back on the rack. - I will not betray my homeland.
- It's a pity, though, we'll try new tortures on you.
The general waved his hand. Two Dugouts and another sinister figure, resembling a pine cone with suction cups, entered the room.
-Check the strength of their skins.
The pine-cone-shaped creature raised its pistol and fired a pink dust. Before it could reach its victim, it settled below, turning into a smear. Then the Dag adjusted the hose and sprayed water. The smear began to boil, and right before our eyes, a lush, prickly plant began to bloom. Shimmering with blue and purple leaves, it touched human skin. The touch of the velvety leaves stung twenty times more than nettles. Then the predatory plant revealed its needles, which pierced nerve ganglia with precision. A similar monstrous flora grew beneath Vega, its spines spinning and biting into flesh, tearing it apart.
-Well, how are you enjoying yourself, stubborn Russians? Would you like to continue?
Peter cursed, barely holding back the pain.
-You won't get anything out of me.
The partner whistled, twitching hysterically.
- No problem! Our star fleet will catch up with you, and then you'll be the one answering our questions.
The general waved his hand - the supposedly intelligent plant continued the torture - acid flowed from the needles, and then an electric shock struck, a fiery web pierced the entire body, smoke billowed out, and the smell of fried meat filled the air.
Pyotr knew how to endure and tune out even the most excruciating pain, but his less experienced partner, unable to bear the suffering, began to scream. Her cries brought a look of tenderness to the general's face.
-What can girl do, do you want to tell us something?
-Go away, you goats!
The general burst out laughing.
- She knows what she's talking about. Let's order the plant to brutally rape her.
The monster held out a sharpened log and attacked the girl. The young Russian woman writhed in the crooked thorns, and wild howls followed.
Peter couldn't stand it.
- Leave her! What do you want?
The general made a gesture - the plant stopped, blood dripped from the young Vega.
-Tell us everything you know, we'll start with the cipher codes.
"No!" Peter felt ashamed of his momentary weakness. "We have no guarantees; you'll still kill me later, and my girlfriend too."
The general assumed a serious expression, took out a cigar and lit it.
"It will all depend on whether we need you or not. If you agree to continue collaborating and working for us, passing on information, then we can save your lives. What's more, you'll be paid."
Peter felt that he was unable to say yes, on the other hand, his intuition told him that he should bide his time, and then perhaps a chance would arise.
- Your dollar is worth nothing in our stellar empire, and the Ministry of Counterintelligence is not asleep, there is a risk that my own will execute me.
Apparently, the general was pleased; the stubborn Russian was hesitating, which meant he could be pressured.
"Don't worry, you'll have a pretty good cover story. Besides, we have a lot of experience infiltrating your ranks with spies."
Peter sighed heavily.
-Everyone who is captured is thoroughly checked, because escaping is like performing the twelve labors of Hercules, and in SMERSH they don"t believe in miracles.
The general took a drag on his cigar.
"Who saw you captured? The witnesses were eliminated, your fighters were shot down, but you managed to eject and remain stranded on an uninhabited planet. You'll be rescued after you send a signal, and until then, say you were wandering in the jungle. Is that clear?"
Peter already had a plan of action in his head.
-Well, okay, maybe I'll agree if you let Lieutenant Vega go.
The general bared his teeth in response.
-The girl clearly doesn't want to cooperate and besides, she will become our hostage.
Then something happened that Peter least expected: Vega arched her back and screamed.
- I agree to work for you, I have personal scores to settle with the Russian authorities.
The general became cheerful.
"Wonderful! The quasar is flaring up, so you agree too." A thought flashed through my head. "Well, these Russians, I didn't even have time to put pressure on them, and they've already broken."
-Yes! I hate the tyrants who rule our empire.
"Then excellent! Every message you send will be generously rewarded, and we'll transport you to the planet Kifar. But first, as a sign of our cooperation, tell us your codes and passwords."
Although codes and passwords change frequently, and the captain himself only knew the parameters of previously downed Russian starships, he lied, providing false information, just in case. Who knows, maybe the Western Confederates would exploit this for their own ends. Then, after him, a girl testified, also pushing outright disinformation.
Having collected the data, the Confederates were satisfied, and they couldn't hide their joy at having recruited two Russian officers so easily. They were then led to the mess hall for one last meal before being transported to the wild planet. Vega limped slightly, her scorched feet ached, and her body was covered in healing ointment. Along the way, she accidentally brushed her broken toes against the robot's hyper-titanium leg, and she let out an involuntary gasp.
"Calm down, beauty," Peter said. "It would humiliate us if we showed that we were in pain or were afraid."
"They're just seeds to me," Vega replied.
The dining hall was sparkling clean, with Confederate flags hanging from the walls, fluttering gently in the gentle breeze. Scorpion-like robots served them in the dining room, squeezing several colorful varieties of nutritional paste from thick tubes. Although the food was synthetic, it was nevertheless delicious, and the aromatic coffee poured into cups invigorated him, driving away his gloomy thoughts. Pyotr felt out of place, ashamed of his agreement to collaborate with the Confederates, even though it was the only way to avoid death or, at best, hard labor. It would also be a good idea to probe the thoughts of the Confederates around him-mostly Americans-and the scurrying aliens. Particularly alarming were two plump, cylinder-like creatures of the underwater world, weighing at least half a ton. These monsters ate protein, and in very large quantities, and most importantly, Peter couldn't remember which catalog he'd seen such scaly creatures in. Apparently the Confederates had a new ally, and that wasn't a good sign; he'd have to tell SMERSH about this. Having finished eating, Peter and Vega donned their old combat suits. Their bones were healing rapidly, and the girl felt much more energetic. After loading them into a spaceship, the Confederates towed the newly minted spies away from the cluster of their ships. They were accompanied by a large, burly alien and a large Dug. The Iceman peered into space and counted about a dozen submarines. Suddenly, the image wavered and began to drift.
New, clearly Russian starships emerged from the thick of space; there were at least twenty of them. The Confederates wavered and, unwilling to engage in combat, fled en masse. Space was visible shaking, annihilation jets blazing from the ships' tails. A couple of starships finally fell behind, and Russian submarines struck them.
Before their boat had time to disappear from sight, Peter managed to notice how the cold flame engulfed the enemy starships and they began to crumble into shiny, dead-light debris.
Vega couldn't help but scream, throwing her hand forward.
- Well done, look how our guys gave those monsters a good beating. They're running away like rats!
The pine-shaped alien tensed. Vega smiled, and, strangely enough, it had the desired effect, and the pine cone went limp.
-Military fortune is fickle and perhaps you will soon have to see this for yourself.
Added by the girl.
The interstellar speedboat activated its invisibility cloak, then turned and banked. Not far from the star Parakgor, the planet Kifar floated slowly. It was a fairly large celestial body, twice the size of Earth, wild and unkempt.
The craft dived, its skin glowing slightly as it entered the dense atmosphere, sparkling with pink light. Then it landed smoothly on the lumpy surface, suspended in the gravity field. Such vessels could easily have landed directly on the putrid swamp. Then the capsule detached, and the alien crew landed them on the ground. The maple-shaped representative of the Dago civilization finally gave instructions.
"The signals are weak here in the lowlands, so you need to climb to the top of that mountain over there." Maple Leaf pointed to the white-glowing peak. "From there, your signal will be easily detected by Russian ships."
-Why don't you transfer us there right away?
Doug answered with a lisp.
"It's been a long time, you need to let your people see how far you've come to the mountain. That will explain the loss of time."
-Okay then, let's hit the road!
Both Peter and Vega were eager to leave the non-humanoid creatures aggressively hostile to their country as quickly as possible. They immediately picked up speed. The boat, too, didn't linger and sailed beyond the horizon.
The first steps on the planet were easy, even though the gravity was almost one and a half times greater than on Earth. The battlesuits were equipped with auxiliary muscles, allowing them to gallop like a foal. An azure-pink sun shone down from above, it was hot, and the air was intoxicating with an excess of oxygen. The surrounding nature was lush: large silvery dragonflies the size of cranes, gigantic butterflies, and enormous arthropods resembling dandelion parachutes circled overhead. A veritable jungle-trees twenty spans wide with three-headed boas covered in curved spines hanging upside down. A forty-legged tiger with picturesque fangs crawled right through the branches, its bright purple stripes striking a beautiful contrast against the orange background. The golden leaves swayed, a breeze making them rustle and play a strange music. Seeing the humans, the tiger reared up-a massive, thirty-meter-long monster with the jaws of a shark. Its roar shook the treetops, bending them to the lush grass beneath. Petr, unfazed, drew his blaster, but Vega managed to get ahead of him, firing a massive plasma pulse straight into the creature's mouth. The beast exploded, and purple, lemon-flecked blood sprayed across the trees.
"Wow, you have the reflexes of a cobra!" Peter praised Vega.
-What did you think? I had a good school.
At these words, Ice's spirits sank again; he remembered his school, the best in the empire. There, he learned to kill, even outsmarting modern robots-something only a few can do. Then, all his superpowers were taken away from him, and he became a mere cog in the war machine.
To distract himself, the captain quickened his pace. The battlesuit and blaster gave him confidence, the plasma batteries were full of energy, and what's more, he'd heard that the labs were already developing a new weapon that could be recharged with plain water. That would be fantastic-hydrogen nuclei fused into helium, and a small fusion reactor in your hands. It spews out energy, and you annihilate enemies with it in droves. Soon, in a few years-no, that's a long time. Or maybe it's just a matter of months before this weapon reaches the troops.
Something resembling a sharp wire jumps out from underground, it hits the armored suit, the hyperplastic aromatizes the blow, leaving a scratch, the unknown animal bounces back and is immediately cut down by a minimal beam from the blaster.
-There is so much of this filth here, you can"t breathe.
Vega awkwardly joked:
- What did you think? You'd only be drinking pineapple vodka. We'll have to fight here too.
As if to confirm her words, another magpie leaped from a tree and was destroyed by a simultaneous volley from Peter and Vega. The remains of the charred carcass fell at their feet, landing on their foam-soled boots.
- Precision, politeness of kings!
Peter laughed. The trees thinned out slightly, and the road began to climb.
It seemed like walking had become easier, but it wasn't. The grassy surface ended, and a sticky liquid appeared underfoot, clinging to their shoes and making it difficult to walk. They had to activate the auxiliary mechanisms of their combat suits, but it was still incredibly difficult. Living suction cups grabbed their legs, digging in with a death grip. Unable to bear it, young Vega fired a charge at the suction cups. It worked, a living wave swept across the swamp, something screeched and cackled, and the ground began to collapse beneath their feet. It turned out they were walking on a practically continuous organic carpet. To avoid sinking completely, they broke into a run, the waves swirling beneath them, a terrible force of living cells trying to wash them away and suck them into a vortex. Russian officers were accustomed to facing death, and some kind of protoplasmic soup couldn't evoke anything other than a furious desire to shoot and not surrender. Vega-that impatient girl-fired her blaster several times, ratcheting up the already brutally churned-up turbidity. In response, they were doused with such a dense stream that the living, seething mica crushed them in a dense mass. Even the auxiliary muscles of their battlesuits were powerless against such a grip. In desperation, Pyotr switched the blaster to maximum power and the widest beam. The burning laser pulse cut through solid organic matter, creating a sizable hole. He twisted Uraganov's arm carefully, so as not to hit Vega, and swept the beam around himself. For a second, it felt better, but then the biomass clamped down on them again. Peter showed his stubbornness, furiously firing pulses, trying to break through the biological quagmire, Vega keeping pace. His forehead was covered in cold sweat, the blaster was clearly overheating, the heat felt even through his glove. Finally, the charge ran out completely, the plasma batteries died, and a terrible force squeezed the suits. Vega screamed in desperation, her alarming, ringing voice piercing her ears.
-Petya! Is this really the end and we'll be stuck here forever, sweating in this crap?
Hurricane strained his muscles to the limit, but the mass, now harder than concrete, held him tightly:
- Don't despair, Vega, as long as we're alive, there will always be a way out.
Peter redoubled his efforts; the hyperplastic of his battlesuit crackled alarmingly, and the temperature inside the suit rose noticeably. Vega continued to twitch frantically, her face flushed, her eyes drenched in sweat.
CHAPTER 2
The new capital of the Great Russian Empire bore the almost old name of Galaktik-Petrograd. It was located, if measured from the Solar System, in the direction of the constellation Sagittarius. A starship would have to travel even further, almost to the very center of the galaxy. Both stars and planets were much denser here than on the far fringes of the Milky Way, where old Earth found refuge and peace. The forces of the Western Confederation were almost completely expelled from the central galaxy. However, the battles left their mark: many thousands of planets were heavily destroyed, and Mother Earth was seriously damaged, or rather, practically destroyed , becoming an uninhabitable, radioactive lump of rock. This was one of the reasons for moving the capital to the richest and most peaceful place in the spiraling Milky Way. Now, breaking through here has become more difficult, so even in the conditions of an all-out space war, where the front line is an abstract concept and the rear is a convention, the center of the galaxy has become Russia's primary base and industrial stronghold. The capital itself has expanded and completely swallowed up an entire planet-Kishish-transforming into a colossal, luxurious metropolis. Elsewhere, war raged, but here, life was seething, with numerous aircraft cutting through the lilac-violet sky. Marshal Maxim Troshev was summoned to see the Minister of Defense, Supermarshal Igor Roerich. The upcoming meeting was a sign of the enemy's sharply increased military activity. The war, tiresome to everyone, was devouring resources like a predatory funnel, killing trillions of people, and yet, there was no decisive victory. Forced militarization left its mark on the architecture of Galactic Petrograd. Numerous colossal skyscrapers are arranged in neat rows and checkered squares. This involuntarily reminds the marshal of similar formations in space armadas. During a recent major battle, large Russian starships also formed neat lines, then suddenly broke formation, striking the enemy flagship. The previously agreed-upon battle degenerated into a melee, some ships even collided, then exploded in monstrously bright flashes. The vacuum became colored as if colossal volcanoes had erupted and rivers of fire had erupted, streams of hellish flame overflowing their banks, covering the entire area in a destructive wave. In this chaotic battle, the army of Great Russia prevailed, but victory came at an extremely high price: several thousand starships were transformed into streams of elementary particles. True, the enemy was destroyed almost ten times as many. The Russians knew how to fight, but the confederation, which included many races and civilizations, snapped back fiercely, offering stubborn resistance.
The main problem was that the enemy confederation's main center, located in the Thom galaxy, was extremely difficult to destroy. A relatively ancient civilization of maple-shaped Dugs had inhabited this star cluster for millions of years, building a truly impenetrable fortress, creating a continuous line of defense.
The entire Russian army wouldn't be enough to destroy this space "Mannerheim" in one fell swoop. And without it, the entire war devolved into bloody skirmishes, with planets and systems repeatedly changing hands. The marshal surveyed the capital with a sense of nostalgia. The scurrying gravitoplanes and flaneurs were painted khaki, and the dual purpose of these flying machines was evident everywhere. Even many of the buildings resembled tanks or infantry fighting vehicles with tracks instead of entrances. It was amusing to watch a waterfall erupt from the muzzle of one such tank, the blue and emerald water reflecting four "suns," creating a myriad of hues, while exotic trees and enormous flowers grew on the trunk itself, forming outlandish hanging gardens. The few passersby, even small children, were either in military uniform or the uniforms of various paramilitary organizations. Homing cyber mines hovered high in the stratosphere, resembling colorful trinkets. This cover served a dual purpose: it protected the capital and made the sky even more mysterious and colorful. As many as four luminaries illuminated the sky, bathing the smooth, mirror-like boulevards in dazzling rays. Maxim Troshev was unaccustomed to such excesses.
-The stars are too densely located here, that"s why the heat bothers me.
The marshal wiped sweat from his brow and turned on the ventilation. The rest of the flight proceeded smoothly, and soon the Ministry of Defense building came into view. Four combat vehicles stood at the entrance, and ray-like creatures with a sense of smell fifteen times stronger than a dog's surrounded Troshev. The Overmarshal's massive palace extended deep underground, its dense walls housing powerful plasma cannons and potent cascade lasers. The interior of the deep bunker was simple-luxury was discouraged. Previously, Troshev had only seen his superior through a three-dimensional projection. The Overmarshal himself was no longer young, but a seasoned warrior of one hundred and twenty years. They had to descend by high-speed elevator, descending a good ten kilometers into the depths.
Passing through a cordon of vigilant guards and combat robots, the marshal entered a spacious office where a plasma computer displayed a massive hologram of the galaxy, marking Russian troop concentrations and the locations of expected enemy strikes. Smaller holograms hung nearby, depicting other galaxies. Control over them wasn't absolute; interspersed among the stars were numerous independent states, populated by various, sometimes exotic, races. Troshev didn't gaze long at this splendor; he had to deliver his next report. Igor Roerich looked young, his face almost wrinkle-free, his thick blond hair-it seemed as if he still had a long life ahead of him. But Russian medicine, under wartime conditions, wasn't particularly interested in prolonging human life. On the contrary, a more rapid turnover of generations accelerated evolution, benefiting the ruthless war selector. Therefore, life expectancy was limited to one hundred and fifty years, even for the elite. Well, the birth rate remained very high, abortions were only for disabled children, and contraception was banned. The Overmarshal stared blankly.
"And you, Comrade Max. Transfer all the data to the computer, it will process it and give you a solution. What can you tell us about recent events?"
"The American Confederates and their allies have received a serious beating. We are gradually winning the war. Over the past ten years, the Russians have won the overwhelming majority of battles."
Igor nodded his head.
"I know that. But the Confederates' Dag allies have become noticeably more active; it looks like they're gradually becoming the main hostile force toward us."
-Yes, exactly, Super Marshal!
Roerich clicked on the image on the hologram and enlarged it slightly.
"You see the Smur galaxy. The Dug's second-largest stronghold is here. This is where we will launch our main attack. If successful, we can win the war within seventy, maximum one hundred years. But if we fail, the war will drag on for many centuries. You've distinguished yourself more than anyone else on the battlefield recently, and so I propose that you personally lead Operation Steel Hammer. Understood!"
The marshal, saluting, shouted:
-Absolutely your Excellency!
Igor frowned:
"Why such titles? Just address me as Comrade Supermarshal. Where did you pick up such bourgeois gloss?"
Maxim felt ashamed:
"I'm Comrade Supermarshal, I studied with the Bings. They preached the old imperial style."
"I understand, but the empire is different now; the chairman has simplified the old customs. Moreover, a change of power is coming soon, and we'll have a new elder brother and supreme commander. Perhaps I'll be dismissed, and if Operation Steel Hammer is successful, you'll be appointed in my place. You need to learn early, because this is a huge responsibility."
The marshal was more than three times younger than Roerich, and so his patronizing tone was entirely appropriate and didn't cause offense. Although a leadership change was about to occur, and their new leader would be the youngest of them all. Naturally, he would be the best of the best. Russia's number one!
- I'm ready for anything! I serve great Russia!
-Well, go ahead, my generals will fill you in on the details, and then you'll figure it out yourself.
Having saluted, the marshal left.
The bunker's corridors were painted khaki, with the operations center located nearby, slightly deeper. Numerous photonic and plasma computers were processing information streaming in from various points across the mega-galaxy at a rapid pace. Lengthy routine work lay ahead, and the marshal was free only after an hour and a half. Now a protracted hyperspace jump to a neighboring galaxy awaited him. Enormous forces were expected to gather there, nearly a sixth of the entire Russian space fleet, representing several million large starships. Such a force would require weeks to secretly amass. After the smallest details were ironed out, the marshal ascended to the surface. Afterward, the cool depths erupted into intense heat. Four luminaries gathered at the zenith and, bristling with crowns mercilessly licking the sky, poured multicolored rays onto the planet's surface. A cascade of light played and shimmered like eye-searing snakes along the mirrored streets. Maxim jumped into the gravplane; it was cool and comfortable inside, and raced toward the outskirts. He'd never been to Galactic Petrograd before, and he wanted to see the colossal capital with its three hundred billion inhabitants with his own eyes. Now that they'd left the military sector, everything had changed, become much more cheerful. Many of the buildings had a very original design and even seemed luxurious-they were home to members of the wealthy class. Although the dense oligarchic layer had been thoroughly pruned during the all-out war, it hadn't been completely destroyed. One of the magnificent palaces resembled a medieval castle, with exotic palm trees bearing lush fruit instead of battlements. Another palace hung on slender legs, with a highway rushing beneath it, resembling a brightly colored, star-spangled spider. Many of the buildings where the poorer people lived also didn't evoke associations with barracks. Instead, magnificent towers or palaces glittered, with statues and portraits of leaders and generals from glorious centuries past. After all, not everything could be painted khaki. Furthermore, the position of one of the largest cities in the universe required beautiful architecture. The tourist section, with its moving walkways and structures shaped like giant roses and blooming, intertwined man-made tulips framed with artificial gemstones, was particularly colorful. Add to this the strung-up daisies and whimsical intermingling of fairytale animals. Apparently, it must be pleasant to live in such a house, shaped like a kindly bear and a saber-toothed tiger, and children are so delighted. Even adults are amazed when such a structure moves or plays. The marshal was particularly impressed by a twelve-headed dragon spinning like a carousel, with multicolored fountains spurting from each mouth, illuminated by laser spotlights. Fireworks shot from its teeth from time to time - like air defense systems, but far more festive and picturesque. The capital is home to a myriad of fountains of the most bizarre shapes, shooting multicolored streams hundreds of meters into the air. And how beautiful they were, intertwined in the light of four suns, creating a watery pattern, a fabulous, unique play of colors. The compositions were avant-garde, hyperfuturistic, classical, medieval, and ancient. They were ultra-modern masterpieces, a product of the genius of the architect and artist, enhanced by nanotechnology. Even the children here were unlike those on other planets, where the military forced them to lead a Spartan lifestyle. And the children were cheerful, smartly dressed, and beautiful: their multicolored clothing made them resemble fairytale elves. There weren't only humans here; half the crowd was made up of extragalactics. Nevertheless, the alien children happily played with the human children. The active flora was especially beautiful. Troshev even encountered intelligent plants that had become a large-scale space civilization. Lush, golden-headed dandelions with four legs and two slender arms. Their babies had only two legs, their golden heads densely covered with emerald spots. Maxim knew this race well-the Gapi, three-sexed plant creatures, peace-loving, absurdly honest, but by the will of fate drawn into an all-out interstellar war and becoming natural allies of Great Russia.
There were also plenty of incredibly shaped representatives of other races-mostly neutral countries and planets. Many wanted to see the grandiose, incredible, beyond even the wildest imagination, capital of the Russian Empire. Here, the war seems distant and unreal; it truly is thousands of parsecs away, and yet a sense of unease never leaves the marshal. Suddenly, the thought occurs to him that intelligent beings also live on the planets they will have to attack, and that billions of sentient beings could perish along with their wives and children. Oceans of blood will be spilled again, thousands of cities and villages destroyed. But he is a Russian marshal and will fulfill his duty. He believes that this holy war is bringing closer the moment when intelligent beings throughout the universe will never again kill each other!
After admiring the tourist center, the marshal ordered the gravplane to turn around and head for the industrial districts. The buildings here were slightly lower, simpler in layout, more massive, and painted khaki. Perhaps even inside, they resembled barracks. The factories themselves were located deep underground.
When the gravplane landed, a flock of barefoot kids immediately approached it with rags and cleaning supplies. They were clearly eager to wash the car down as quickly as possible so they could then squeeze a few coins for their services. The children were skinny, ragged in tattered, faded khaki, with large, ragged holes in their bellies-their skin glistened with a chocolate tan. Its blackness further accentuated the whiteness of their short-cropped hair, their bright eyes, and their sharply defined cheekbones. It was clear that the protracted war had forced them to tighten their belts, and a glimmer of sympathy was growing in Troshev's heart. The driver, Captain Lisa, apparently didn't share this sentiment, barking angrily at the barefoot boys:
-Come on, you little rats, get out of here! - And even louder. The marshal himself is coming!
The boys scattered, the only thing visible were the flashing of dirty heels, the bare feet of the poor children, worn down by the hot basalt surface. It was hard to see them constantly running barefoot on a surface scorched by four "suns" at once, and the poor children didn't even know what shoes were. One of the rascals, however, was bolder than the others and, turning around, stuck out his middle finger-an insulting gesture. The captain drew his blaster and fired at the impudent boy. He would have killed him, but the marshal managed to nudge the overzealous driver's arm at the last moment. The blast missed, creating a sizable crater in the concrete. Shards of molten rock struck the boy's bare legs, tearing away his tanned skin and sending him crashing to the black concrete. However, with an effort of will, the future warrior managed to suppress a cry and, enduring the pain, jumped up abruptly. He straightened up and took a step toward the Marshal, though his scratched legs held his skinny body unsteadily. Maxim slapped the captain hard, and Lis's plump cheek bulged from the blow.
"Three days of hard labor in the guardhouse. Keep your hands at your sides!" the marshal commanded menacingly. "And don't let your hands and throat get out of hand. Children are our national treasure, and we must protect them, not kill them. Understand, monster?"
The fox nodded and stretched his arms out at his sides.
- Answer according to the regulations.
The marshal shouted loudly.
-I understand absolutely.
Maxim glanced at the boy. Smooth coffee-colored skin, sun-bleached blond hair. Blue eyes, seemingly naive yet stern at the same time. Large, ragged holes in his stomach revealed a sculpted, slab-like abs. His sinewy, bare arms were constantly in motion.
Troshev asked in a kind tone:
-What is your name, future soldier?
- Yanesh Kowalski!
The ragged fellow shouted at the top of his lungs.
"I see the makings of a strong warrior in you. Do you want to enroll in the Zhukov Military School?"
The boy became despondent.
- I would be glad to, but my parents are just simple workers and we have no money to pay for a prestigious institution.
The marshal smiled.
"You'll be enrolled for free. I see you're physically strong, and your sparkling eyes speak of your mental abilities. The main thing is to study hard. These are hard times, but when the war is over, even ordinary workers will live in excellent conditions."
-The enemy will be defeated! We will win!
Yanesh shouted again at the top of his lungs. The boy wished with all his heart for a swift victory for his homeland. He wanted to tear the Confederates' guts out right then and there.
-Then take a place in the line, first in my car.
The fox winced; the boy was dirty and the plastic would have to be washed after him.
Having turned around, the gravito-craft flew towards the government and elite quarters.
Yanesh looked greedily at the huge houses with luxurious decoration.
-We are not allowed into the central districts, but this is so interesting.
-You'll see enough.
And yet, moved by compassion, the marshal urged the gravplane to approach the tourist center. The boy stared, wide-eyed, devouring the sight. It was clear he was eager to leap out of the car, run along the moving plastic, and then climb onto one of the mind-blowing rides.
Usually stern Maxim was kind and gentler than ever on this day.
"If you want, you can ride one of the 'Mountains of Joy' once and then come straight to me. And 'Rich Man,' take the money."
And the marshal threw down a shimmering piece of paper.
Vitalik rushed towards the rides, but his appearance was too conspicuous.
Near the entrance to the space ninja room, he was stopped by massive robots.
- Boy, you're not dressed appropriately, you're clearly from a poor neighborhood, you should be detained and taken to the police station.
The boy tried to escape, but he was hit with a stun gun, knocking him to the pavement. Troshev himself had to jump out of the car and run to sort things out.
-Stand with me, this cadet.
The policemen stopped, staring at the marshal. Maxim was wearing his ordinary field uniform, but his military commander's epaulettes glittered brightly against the four suns, and the military had long been the most respected men in the country.
The eldest of them, wearing a colonel's shoulder straps, saluted.
- Sorry, Marshal, but the instructions prohibit the presence of beggars in the center, where we receive guests from all over the galaxy.
Maxim himself knew he'd made a mistake by releasing the ragamuffin in such a respectable place. But a police officer can't show weakness.
-This boy is a scout and was carrying out a mission from the high command.
The colonel nodded and pressed the button on his pistol. Yanesh Kowalski jerked and came to his senses. The marshal smiled and extended his hand. At that moment, the four aliens suddenly bristled with beam guns. In appearance, the aliens resembled roughly hewn tree stumps with blue-brown bark, their limbs gnarled and crooked. Before the monsters could open fire, Maxim fell to the pavement, drawing his blaster. Fiery trails streaked across the surface and slammed into the colorful statue, disintegrating the picturesque pedestal into photons. In response, Troshev cut down two of the attackers with a laser beam, and the two surviving aliens fled. One of them was also caught by the relentless beam, but the other managed to hide in a protective crevice. The monster fired from three arms at once, and although Maxim was actively moving, he was slightly grazed by the beam-burning his side and damaging his right arm. The enemy's beams grazed the "Mad Water Lily" attraction. An explosion followed, and some of the people and aliens enjoying the ride collapsed into the lush bushes.
The marshal's vision swam, but he was surprised to see Yanesh tear a piece of the slab and hurl it at his opponent. The throw was accurate, hitting a row of five eyes. The creature of the black hole shuddered and twitched, its face appearing above the barrier. That was enough for Maxim's well-aimed shot to end the monster's life.
The mini-battle ended very quickly, but the police weren't up to the task. During the brief encounter, the cops didn't fire a single shot; they simply lost their nerve. The marshal immediately took note of this.
- All the best fights at the front, and in the rear or doing police work only cowards sit out,
The plump colonel turned pale. Bowing low, he crawled toward Maxim.
- Comrade Marshal, excuse me, but they had heavy ray guns, and we...
"And what's this?" Maxim pointed to the blaster hanging from his belt. "A mosquito slingshot."
"There are no mosquitoes on this planet," muttered the colonel, who was pretending to be a hose.
"What a pity, apparently there's no work for you in the capital. Well, so you don't sit idle, I'll try to get you sent to the front."
The colonel fell at his feet, but Maxim no longer paid him any attention. He motioned for the boy to come over, helped the brave Yanesh leap aboard the gravplane, and then shook his hand firmly.
-Well, you're an eagle. I'm glad I wasn't mistaken about you.
Kowalski winked in a friendly way, his voice sounding quite loud and joyful.
"I only made one successful throw. That's not much, but if there had been, there would have been a hundred."
- It'll be okay soon. You'll graduate from school and go straight into battle. You've got your whole life ahead of you, and you'll still have your fill of fighting.
"War is interesting!" the boy exclaimed enthusiastically. "I want to go to the front immediately, pick up a laser beam gun, and wipe out the Confederates."
- You can't do it right away, you'll be killed in the first battle, first learn, and then fight.
Yanesh snorted resentfully; the self-assured boy thought he was already quite skilled, including shooting. Meanwhile, the gravitational craft flew over the vast Michurinsky Park. Gigantic trees grew there, some reaching several hundred meters in height. And the edible fruits were so enormous that, having hollowed out the center, one could comfortably house pets there. The pineapple-like creatures with golden skins looked very appetizing. And the striped, fairytale-like orange-purple watermelons growing on the trees were mesmerizing. However, contrary to expectations, they didn't evoke the boy's particular admiration.
"I've been to forests like this before," Yanesh explained. "Unlike the central areas, everyone has free access there. Although it's a long way to get there on foot."
"Perhaps!" said Maxim. "But still, look at the plants here. There's a mushroom there that could hide a whole platoon."
"It's just a kind of large fly agaric, and an inedible one at that. When I was in a jungle like this, I collected a whole bag of cut-up fruit pieces. I especially liked the pawarara-the skin is very thin, and the taste is simply amazing-a fig is nothing compared to it. You have to be careful when you cut it, though; it might burst, and the stream there is so strong it'll wash away before you can even squeak. It's a shame the fruit here is so big. You have to carry it piece by piece in a plastic bag, and that's very heavy."
Maxim spoke softly, condescendingly clapping Yanesh on the shoulder.
-Not everything can be measured by food. Let's go down and pick some flowers.