# The Natotevaal Recruits. War Chronicle

Андрей Геннадиевич Демидов

"Imagination - is just a part, although a significant one, of what usually denotes reality. Ultimately, it is unknown to which of the two genres - reality or fiction our world belongs." H.L.Borges

Foreword to the novel

"The Natotevaal Recruits. War Chronicle."

By Demidov A.G.


"Imagination - is just a part, although a significant one, of what usually denotes reality. Ultimately, it is unknown to which of the two genres - reality or fiction our world belongs."

H.L.Borges

Philosophy and science fiction, like any other forms of culture can interact in many different ways. Certainly not all their features are equal.

If Borges, for instance, describes philosophy as a kind of fiction with inimitable literature-centrism, Derrida principally refuses to distinguish between (fiction) literature and philosophy, and in the best case fiction critics are only able to collect images and references to philosophy in science fiction works, thus philosophical consideration of fiction is hardly a noticeable opportunity.

In pursuit of reality, and in an attempt to lay the foundation of scientific knowledge, philosophy not only ignored imagination and fantasy along with their products (relating to purely subjective orders) but systematically and consistently tried to get rid of them by all means, so as to approach objectivity and - ideally - entirely possess it.

Only, perhaps, the establishment of non-classical way of philosophizing, that allowed and even suggested alternative interpretations of reality, has gradually changed the attitude to fiction.

It is peculiar that almost at the same time - in the second half of the XIX century - formation of proper literary fiction occurs (of course: Jules Verne, G.Wells).

Only in the second half of the XX century philosophy started to conduct special studies of the imaginary, virtual, semantics of possible worlds, etc. (along with gaining fiction maturity).

However, actual fiction still remained below the horizon of perception, although only fiction provides philosophy with a special field-space for deploying extravagant concepts, as well as unique tools for modeling and experimentation.

In order to highlight these features by heuristic fiction of philosophy and outline the shapes of the appropriate project, it is useful to see philosophy as an operator, which is applied to science fiction as a phenomenon.

If philosophy assumes the reflection of ultimate bases of culture as a whole, claims to critically examine the diversity of the world in general, then by the same gesture, which provides its versatility, condemns itself and has to delve into the specifics of each particular cultural form, each area and region of the world.

For instance, a mathematician studies mathematics, and a musician - music, while figuring out how music differs from mathematics or what comprises one or the other, is not of their concern, but the task of philosophy in its applied sense, so to speak.

Of course, the point here is not about each individual object as such - this table or that tree, though everything depends on the approach.

Philosophy sprouts: in addition to the philosophy of science separately appears the philosophy of mathematics, philosophy of physics and philosophy of biology, along with philosophy of nature and philosophy of culture - and even the philosophy of history, philosophy of law, philosophy of art and so on and so forth.

Therefore, philosophy - in terms of its various fields of application, which potentially generate not only its separate directions, but whole disciplines - it is appropriate to consider it as an operative: "philosophy X" or even "philosophy Y", where anything may serve as an independent variable.

Another thing is that a simple permutation which comprises a bare slogan or manifesto, would certainly be quite insufficient - forming a research agenda requires more or less developed and reflexively drawn project.

In this case, philosophy, like phenomenological consciousness, acquires sustainable intentionality, allowing not only to identify and investigate the specificity of the corresponding sphere, but also - by revealing its ultimate bases - achieve fundamental conceptual results.

Thus one of the methods of interaction of various cultural dominions is implemented - by reflecting one on/in the other, both are modified and thereby get an opportunity to spread, fulfilling their programs with the new material.

Strictly speaking, the status of fiction in itself represents a major challenge, or rather, a whole set of problems.

Fiction, first of all as a product of imagination should seemingly confront reality or actuality: as nonexistent to existing.

However, even the critics of traditional philosophical metaphysics of presence has to acknowledge that everything we say, everything we can think of, is there in a certain way, though differently (and therefore non-metaphysical ontology should be based on a fundamentally different basis - but that is another story), thus straight oppositions do not work and cannot work.

Secondly, fantasy as a set of art depicting/representing/describing the imaginary, would have to confront realism, on the one hand, which also reproduces reality and modernism and the avant-garde on the other, which more or less avoid using references, eluding to the more or less understandable (syntactic, semantic or pragmatic) performativity.

However, a critical review of the so-called realism shows that realism, in its full and strict sense not only did not and does not exist, but is generally impossible - because any images of reality would inevitably be imagined (at least to the extent where we distinguish one and the other); after all, this is indicated by the ability of art photography, which directly and almost immediately (literally photographically) reflects the reality, regardless of our perception of it. On the other hand, a careful study of the indirect features of reference removes the inflexibility of its contrast to performativity.

Thirdly, science fiction is in no way related to one form of art, embodied - along with literature and, say, painting - also in cinematography, theater, drawing, comic books, and perhaps even in sculpture.

And even in amusement parks and - necessarily - in computer games: if they can be classified as art, then to a very special, interactive sphere.

In addition, even literary science fiction can neither be classified as a genre, strictly speaking, because it brings together works of a variety of genres (and also of different lines - a novel, a story, a narrative..., space opera, alternative history, detective fiction...) nor as a destination because it can quite easily include different styles (cyberpunk, turbo-realism...), not to mention the traditional, more or less stable division into the two main branches - the science fiction and fantasy.

Moreover, fantasy forms a whole subculture - clubs, a system of conferences, journals and symbols (souvenirs, "baubles", garments, toys, gadgets, meshes, artifacts...), a variety of amateur performances and numerous communities; a set of games (such as role-playing, and multi-user computer games - local network and online) - perhaps, no other social formation can boast of such a diversity.

Nevertheless, it is permissible to speak of science fiction as a phenomenon, the features of which science fiction philosophy is intended to clarify, to such extent in which the entire conglomerate of this diverse phenomena may be lawfully called in short, and to the extent that it can somehow be separated from the rest.

Although we can talk about a more or less pure forms of fiction in the first place - literature, painting, cinema, and supposedly computer games.

Despite the fact that problems of philosophical understanding of science fiction are extremely varied, we can try to group them into a few main lines of problematization - according to the traditional matrix of leading philosophical disciplines.

Ontology of fiction in this case will include a series of issues related to the existential status of products of imagination and fantasy, from mythological characters to heroes of art that represent the original, separate reality - different from the usual, ordinary, standard with its unprecedented novelty and uniqueness.

In fact, fantasy creates special worlds, thus the study of specific rules for creating these kinds of possible and impossible worlds will also refer here: just as postmodernism discovers connections, that are solidly unbreakable, so the rampant variety of fantasy worlds reveals some invariants.

For instance such rules as: the coherency of individual components, fragments and elements; their coordination with one another, fullness of all the emerging opportunities; introduction of the main principle of realizing the scope of all possible layers of meaning in the unity of conceivable horizon.

The situation of a seeming a priori and absolute freedom of the creator in fiction paradoxically uncovers some strange inner necessities and limits, that are defined not only by the specifics of a selected representation language or the coherence of discursive sequence, but also by some, clearly ontological terms-conventions.

Freedom and necessity turn out to be the reverse sides of each other, although not in their dialectical sense.

The development of these new virtual worlds helps to provide better arrangement and ontological characteristics of our world, and the diversification of ontologies and related concepts - the conditions and limits of the ontology itself.

Gnosseology of science fiction will include another series of questions, seizing the ultimate learning experience, modeling of exotic cognitive situations, analysis and presentation of objective consciousness realised with the help of artificial means, as well as unique means of detection and dispersal of visible illusions.

For example, an alien - is a radical instance of removal that allows to adopt a maximally external attitude and distinguish some features which would not be obvious otherwise: the conventionality of the usual, customary, traditional and non-obviousness of the evidence itself.

Unexpected turns of events, large-scale coverage of the grand space-time intervals, sophisticated scenery give the opportunity to see the limits, denoted by the acknowledged meanings and boundaries of natural intuitions and interpretations; realize the inert stereotypes of mundane consciousness.

Fiction as knowledge finally undermines the solid oppositions of the discovered/invented, the found/made, the real/imaginary.

Fiction modeling demonstrates the capabilities of the most flexible thinking and creative ways of comprehending the world: the creation of exotic worlds can tell something about our world also - regardless of whether the scientific or mythological fiction base is being used.

The Heuristic Functions of fantasy in general were among the first to be observed.

This is also backed by the discussion of problems with communication and understanding, which can be seen in colorful contrast to the highlighted situations of meeting of different civilizations, cultures and societies that belong to different worlds, planets, strata or layers of reality - in this sense, the well-known TV series "Star Track" becomes the embodiment of the universal hermeneutic project as it purposefully indicates a potentially infinite attainability of understanding.

The axiology of fiction includes another series of questions that draw the attention to the subtle aspects of working with values.

Properly speaking, there is no such notion as values of fiction, of course - not because it is impossible to estimate the products of fantasy (that is quite possible), and not even because it is impossible to come up with things or ideals, worthy of aspiring no less than ordinary and mundane (this is also feasible, although with an even greater difficulty), but simply because it is impossible to evaluate something that is make-believe: in a sense of combining the perception of some value as a value, worthy of becoming a finite basis of goal-setting, and - at the same time - as an arbitrary convention, that can easily be replaced at any time, or freely given up.

Another thing is that fiction provides a unique opportunity for revaluation of all values (almost according to Nietzsche"s project), or at least for evaluating different versions of the hierarchy of values and preferences.

But in any case, there should be a certain binding to ones or the other values accepted as default, because otherwise it would be impossible to perceive new, unusual and unfamiliar ideas as essential.

The utmost escapism is inevitably related to the main flow of life - the question is always about the desire to escape from something and the destination of running.

However, there are things which one can never get away from - himself for example, - and this turns out to be the most important, the most valuable thing, and that is what one has to deal with in the long run, but in order to find this balance, everything has to be checked for strength and sustainability - as well by the means of fiction.

Of course, the diversity of aspects of fiction capabilities listed above is in no way exhaustive.

At least two relatively autonomous aspects are worth mentioning separately, as they are distinguished on other grounds.

The social aspect of science fiction - and probably the most significant behind its limits - is primarily associated with the expression and comprehension of the ideals of social order (directly and primarily in the form of various utopias and anti-utopias - respectively, the positive and the negative), and also provides the development of the future, with a reinterpretation of the past (alternative history), with recovery of the socio-cultural condition of the world and forming human relationships, not to mention overcoming xenophobia and tolerance development.

For example, Rorty highly appreciates the role of fantastic experiments carried out in the novels of George Orwell, which help to understand the nature of a man, the formation of the modern concept of a fair society and avoidance of violence.

By the way, the heated debates on the program of so-called gender studies elegantly complement the fictional models of societies, cultures and civilizations, built on a completely different (from what we are used to) principles: it is not just about the possibility of existing of other life forms (in one case - the androgynous, and in the other - proclaiming and accepting dominance of homosexual contacts over heterosexual), but also more exotic ways of existence - the robots, for instance, which also happen to be discriminated like women, blacks, gays, children and other peculiar characters.

Anyway - fiction is indispensable in demonstration of the fundamental conditionality of all forms of human interaction, even if it reproduces the steady absoluteness of the required functions.

Finally, we could also mention the ability of fiction to act as an emphasized workaround, as a form of Aesop's language, which allows to disguise ideological and political journalistic statements for works of art avoiding censure, if such products in fact, do not belong to the fiction itself in a quite indirect way.

The discursive aspect of fiction is primarily associated with the means of its realization and perception.

The main question is what conditions and assumptions are necessary for the existence of fiction as purely fantastical, not accepted as a brazen lie, that is, or an attempt to mislead or a story about reality.

After all, fiction is also expressed with initially limited means (ordinary language - minimally modified, or built up); the fact that these means are certainly excessive (realities, concepts, constructs, concepts...); on the one hand, fiction works are unlike purely formal search experiments of avant-garde and modernism, and on the other hand, from the popular science literature, support the delicate balance of subtle contrasts of the usual and unusual, explicable and wonderful, traditional and new, natural and artificial...

For example, the metaphorical transfer is often used inversely, if the standard step is to compare technical progress with natural or magical, the device of reverse provides a unique effect.

Thus fiction forms, constantly reproduces and maintains a special horizon of expectation in the space of the absence of the true/false opposition, in other words, creates new evidence with the help of the self-extracting code and its reader, who has a taste for such a recoding and other similar intellectual procedures.

The subject-indicating focus of language means is transformed by the means of fiction discourse in the functioning process into subject-projecting, the goal of which is to reveal the unprecedented.

Thus, science fiction acts as discursively embodied means of literature and/or visual arts (painting, drawing, sculpture, movie...) as something given, represented, described, but nonexistent, but real and materialized at the same time - unlike, abstract art for instance.

The peculiarity of the fictional in this sense is mostly defined by separation from the rest and self-restraint, by the act of mental balancing in testing the different types of discourse.

The most widely open and extremely pointed (though, again, not to a radical break) fiction discourse becomes the generative source for filling the gaps in lacunae, detected in the accepted discourse or the worldview.

Fiction is attractive due to its invincible variety; it opens new conceptual space and carries away to an amazing, wonderful, mysterious, unknown, unusual, supernatural and going beyond the limits.

Like a mental experiment in physics (Maxwell's demon, Schr;dinger's cat, Einstein"s elevator) fantasy provokes construction of unexpected concepts in other sciences, including a collection of imaginary constructs that have numerous applications - the imaginary logic of Vasilyev, the unspeakable communities and imaginary social institutions.

But this goes far beyond science, of course, - Tolkien's epic "The Lord of the Rings" for example, could easily be interpreted as a full-fledged version of a modern esoteric doctrine.

At the attempts to locate science fiction into a tight conceptual grid it often happens that all the definitions fade and moreover blur the stereotypical schemes of perception and thought.

Science fiction fans are well aware of the harm which "science-fiction mass consumption products" do to this genre.

Heroes there are substituted with schemes (even super-schemes), supermen with crystal-clear and empty soul.

With stagy ease these "heroes" use their abilities in time and space, unlimited even by common sense.

Cinematography did not go far beyond from the publishers in this sense, making new "supermen" and new "star massacres" rich with dynamics which are made at a really fantastic technical level.

Therefore, the appearance of such work as a novel by Andrey Demidov "The Natotevaal Recruits" should become a significant, and even iconic event not only in the paradigm of fiction, but of the literary process in general.

Why are we talking about literature in general in this case?

Because literature is always a non-fictional (and sometimes distorted) reflection of the present.

But can we say that works of fiction genre reflect the future?

No, we cannot.

The present is refracted and repeated in a special form in them.

The future - is just a prism through which science fiction writer considers his time, his contemporaries. However, this prism still allows the readers to see features of future in the present.

That is why we can confidently say that fiction helps a person in a world, that is changing with tremendous speed, especially nowadays, when the rate of change has dramatically increased, and all these changes can be both beneficial as well as threatening to the mankind.

Fiction, that describes possible changes, prepares a person for a real change and helps either to adjust to it or to change oneself.

But are these changes of human nature really needed and are they possible?

We live in a world, predicted by science fiction writers decades ago.

Andrey Demidov"s protagonists live in a world, the suppositions of which we are making today, the premises of which we can see even now.

It is a world in which the most formidable predictions of science fiction writers and futurists have come true.

A world, in which nuclear weapons have been brought into play, killing millions of people and a world, where the survivors envy the dead.

This is a world where Christian and Muslim civilizations meet in a deadly combat, a world in which tolerance and liberalism have been completely refuted.

This is the world where the danger of physical, intellectual and moral degradation of the mankind as a whole - is an obvious fact, the everyday reality of life.

Essentially, it is a world without a future.

Andrey Demidov"s heroes do not even get a chance to think about the future.

They have other problems to deal with.

Their past is war, their present is war, and their future - mysterious, enigmatic and unknown - will most likely result in war.

War - is the occupation of the novel's characters.

They are fighting for their race, their land, their families, but by chance they will have to take part in battles of a totally different level.

In childhood, joyfully shooting the space fleet of "the evil empire" on cheap game consoles, the novel's characters naively believed that monstrous plans of "Star Wars" would be carried out somewhere far away from Earth and certainly never dreamed of being at the forefront of these space wars, but soon... In a while they are going to find themselves taking part in a totally different war:

"Getting out from a pile of floppy disks and coils of a collapsed rack of the archive, Whitehouse was anxiously listening to the established silence.

The emitter of "Das Rhein" was quiet.

Mackliff was pottering about nearby, "Yes, it has been a long time I was hit in the face like that..."- he said, letting trickles of blood pour into the weightlessness down his smashed nose.

The speaker of internal communication rustled again:

- "Das Rhein" calls up "Independence", "Das Rhein" calls up "Independence".

Raumwaffe Colonel Manfred von Conrad speaking...As a result of penetration of a cumulative rocket, depressurization of all compartments has occurred. I beg permission to move to your Shuttle.

Whitehouse approached the microphone as quickly as it was possible:

- Yes, hurry up. We will open the lower gateway.

German astronauts appeared in ten painfully long minutes.

Covers of cadmium suits were torn apart; glass of pressure helmets was smoke-stained, identification badges looked faded.

Their eyes were empty, staring at one point. Their faces looked like the astronauts have just returned from the underworld. There were four of them, Colonel von Conrad, Navigator Eichberger and board gunner Hoffman, who was laid next to the fourth, Matthias Leiseheld, whose body was inside a funeral package with a small black-and-red-and-yellow flag pinned to the chest.

He was killed when one of the missiles hit the emitter tower.

- Well, what do we do now? - Eichberger asked gloomily.

- Allah Akbar. That's what. - Von Conrad looked up at his Navigator with his dull eyes, reddened from capillary bleeding, and brushed the edge of his hand across his throat.

A game of this self-confident giant with legless midgets went on for several minutes, after which the remaining Stergs were turned into rubble with a few exact salvos.

- Now, that"s what I call real war! - Von Conrad broke the deathly silence and clapped his hands. - Bravo, Swertz."

Soon the soldiers from Earth will become space soldiers, the recruits of Natotevaal, and the victory or the defeat of the space race, for which they have decided to fight, will depend only from them.

This is where the author gets a chance to study human psychology and behavior in new, seemingly improbable situations.

Heroes will act in a new reality for them, which is hard to perceive, even in terms of technology - even though the author smartly describes all the technical details, they are not presented as a contrived conglomeration of terms, although composed in the form of a document:

"Digital Coded Telegram NO5

To:

Commander of the "Independence VH-O" group,

Captain-Commander

yagd Audun Tskugol.

Regarding the raider "Krovur":

During the battle for Terhoma in the Blue Plume area, sector A55S00; sub-sector 354 the following features of the raider "Krovur" were detected;

- The raider is a plate-shaped aircraft with two modes: cruiser and combat.

-in cruiser mode its body is solid, has a radius of 4.7 Krs and an average thickness of 1.01 Kr.

-in combat mode, a remote cabin separates from the central part of the body, leaving a 2.1 Kr radius void and the raider turns into a toroidal body.

At the time of the fight its cabin, which is a standalone warship moves away at a safe distance.

About ten objects get separated from the main body simultaneously; they most likely perform the repeater functions of the cabin because a variety of interference and communication blocks are commonly used in combat.

-Repeaters, due to their small size are survivable against the enemy; they line up in a chain which connects both parts of "Krovur".

-experts believe that the "swarming fly" maneuvers are only possible due to a radically new type of engine, different from the megrasine ones.

"Krovur" probably has gravitational driving force, which is two or more artificial groups, asynchronously rotating inside the computer by thickening the rim, which is no more than a looped-through accelerator channel.

This allows "Krovur" to change the direction of the flight instantly, along and across its body, which is almost unattainable for our "cigar-shaped" vessels."

However, the scientific and technical achievements, no matter how incredible they are, do not cancel or devalue human emotions and qualities - the duty of friendship, loyalty, personal courage and honor - these feelings are eternal and timeless. The strength of these feelings will be time-proved, and it will depend only on the hero whether these tests will end up with victory of the spirit or shame.

Therefore, when we read the list of the fallen Natotevaal recruits, we see an eternal granite plate in front of our eyes with names of the heroes of the Second World War, and this feeling is intensified with a Russian name of one of the characters:

"Here rest:

Jean Batiste Dunois,

George Fujieka,

Wolf Lauer Hoffman,

Otto Franz Eichberger,

Mathias Leiseheld.

And the soldiers of Natotevaal:

Richard Aydem,

Alexander Vladimirovich Dybal.

God bless their souls,

And the souls of all the commandos from Earth,

Who have fallen in Natotevaal."

A detailed analysis of various aspects of science fiction as a phenomenon of literature and philosophy, that precedes the story about the novel of A.Demidov was not accidental.

This novel, written over ten years ago, not only did not lose its sharpness and relevance, but, on the contrary, is intended to be a significant milestone for all intelligent readers.

For all those who are still interested in secrets of space and the dual and contradictory role of scientific progress in modern society, and feelings of the characters who undergo the hardest tests of courage, devotion to duty and humanity.

Moreover, the novel "Chronicle of Natotevaal" has the potential to become a cult product for fans of science fiction - it is imbued with romance of heroism, great sense of humor and it is literally impossible to break away from reading it.

But, nevertheless, the novel is anything but entertaining light reading: the author raises complex issues of science, politics, philosophy and moral before his heroes and the readers.

In the tradition of the best works of fiction of the 20th century, Andrey Demidov reveals the unknown in his novel, something that might either happen tomorrow or will never happen at all.

The author clearly highlights the difficulty of the way to complex, unknown future - it is a long and difficult path, with mistakes and defeats on the way; and the victory will not be easy, but endured, with a promise of new ways and new challenges.

To many of the questions posed by Andrey Demidov in the novel "Chronicle of Natotevaal" humanity does not yet have sufficiently complete and convincing answers.

Humanity will search for these answers as long as it exists; it is obliged to, if we want to go forward, not blindly.

Searching through fiction in particular, and the book you now hold in your hands will become a reliable, but demanding assistant, and possibly - your spiritual guide to a modern, distorted world.

Because "imagination - is just a part, although a significant one of what usually denotes reality. Ultimately, it is unknown to which of the two genres - reality or fiction our world belongs".


The Natotevaal recruits

(War chronicle)

A novel


Many of them strong, fierce and cheerful

Those who killed elephants and Men

Those who died from thirst in a desert,

And froze on the edge of eternal ice

But still faithful to our planet,

Strong, cheerful and fierce...


Nikolay Gumilev


***

Digital Coded telegram VHV

Confidential level: B.

To the commander of the 156th squadron of 1U Fleet,

Colonel Kokum Yohoud.

Yagd Colonel!

I have to inform you, that yagdishwalder-42 of the entrusted squadron, did not reach the area of concentration to participate in the landing attack operation the "Eartl".

I also do not have the data concerning the dislocation of LG-42.

Natote!


16-00.


Mars 17

Year 4725

From the beginning of Natotevaal.

Commander of the tactic group "Eartl",

Lieutenant Colonel, yagd Aprehum Scisert.


***

Digital Coded telegram AHM

Confidential level: A.

To the commander of the 156th squadron of 1U Fleet,

Colonel yagd Kokum Yohoud.

Yagd Colonel!

I have to inform you, that two hours ago the picket boat from patrol division 255, has detected pieces of the 1st class battleship"s "Marshall Tote" armor plating in sphere sector A13N45. The battleship has traces of mixed impact nuclear attack and surface melting, typical for annihilation weapons of the enemy.

With the help of convoy raider "Haldesmemur", of 17th separate destructive crew, we were able to detect and gather a great number of combat vessels and airlifters" fragments with mark of yagdishwalder-42.


Natote!

/A copy to the Special secret service Department

of the 3rd Galactic Directory


19-45.


18 Mars

Year 4725

From the beginning of Natotevaal.

Commander of the picket boat "Ropin-6"

255 patrol division,

Lieutenant Kannet Prehur.


***

Digital Coded telegram AHO 69

Confidential level: A.

To all combat vessels of the squadron 156 Fleet 1U.


I hereby order:

- To abort all current tasks and block the areas adjacent to the sphere sector A16N45 according to the scheme "Net".

- To organize a search for survivor vessels and rescue boats of yagdishwalder-42

- To bring the lock scanners of the second and the third watch on combat duty

- Cancel leave and enter the mode of 1A degree alert

- Commander of the "Tybentite" battleship, Captain Grafog Tertisote should launch an investigation concerning the circumstances of the YAG-42 destruction.

Natote!


/A copy to the General Headquarters

Of the 3rd Galactic directory


19-55.


Mars 18 a.c.


Commander of 156th squadron of 1U Fleet,

Colonel yagd Kokum Yohoud.


***

The earth, covered with glittering scales of cirrus clouds, decorated with scrolls of ocean cyclones seemed to be a figment of someone's whimsical fantasy.

Slowly spinning around like a huge lazy ball, it seemed, it took dense blackness from deep space and spread it on its surface in various colors and shades of blue, from smoky, white and blue on the edge of the atmospheric film, to dark ultramarine over the ocean breaks.

Awakening continents slowly crawled out on the sunlit side, showing spots of deserts, forests, wormholes of megalopolises, negligent strokes of Islands and zigzags of coastlines.

Pilot of the shuttle "Independence" Lieutenant of the SAS air forces, Ronald Whitehouse sighed deeply and not paying attention to this magnificent picture, rubbed his neck on the collar of his spacesuit:

- When it comes to it, nothing ever turns out! - He put a krypton cutter that has not yet cooled off, in his backpack, circled around the bent bracket that jammed the docking rim of the rescue capsule, and perched on the edge of the shunting engine.

Aiming, he slung a piece of the rod from a broken solar battery from hand to hand, and brandished:

- Geronimo!

A blow.

The bracket trembled slightly, but didn't move an inch.

The astronaut himself flew off to the whole length of the tether on an impact and, after he had stopped the indiscriminate tumbling with great difficulty, began to maneuver the back pack, attempting to re-approach the odious piece of iron:

- Hey, Mackliff, Mackliff, hey! I can"t do it. We should try something else. Maybe we can descend with the Germans?

Air crackled, and the nervous voice of John Mackliff, the flight engineer, came through:

- The Germans are in no better conditions than us. Depressurization of the capsule. All of their life support systems have failed. Ronald! If you don't straighten out this piece of iron shit, we are going to die, damn it!

Prickly shivers ran down Whitehouse"s back; the indicator of the sleeve altimeter showed indifferent figures-"334".

Only three minutes ago the altimeter was showing 335, 5 miles at perigee. "Independence" was falling down rapidly, narrowing down the number of turns of orbital rotation. Having miscalculated the power of the back pack jet, Whitehouse hit the casing of the radio telescope, broke the sun visor of his pressure helmet and having made a ridiculous flip, found himself on the other side of the Shuttle.

At the right side of "Independence", like a dark sprout, the streamlined hull of the German military ship "Das Rhein. WN-4962" was sticking out.

An authentication check box of the Euro-Asian Community contrastingly stood out on its black armor.

Six hours ago, when "Das Rhein" started a complex maneuver on the selection of the supply container in close vicinity to the research Shuttle, one of its shunting engines broke down.

At high speed the armored nose pierced the belly of "Independence", which was covered only by sunshield.

The blow was terrible.

The right solar battery and the wall-mounted fuel storage containers have been torn off from the shuttle; the shield of the aerodynamic braking was messed up, a valuable telescope was broken to pieces, the rescue capsule was damaged, almost all of the flight control systems were deactivated, and the equipment for ozone-plasma synthesis, intended for ozone input into the atmosphere was broken as well.

Jean Dunois, the flight supervisor and George Fujieka, the second pilot were killed because of depressurization of the laboratory and the engine compartment.

Dick Aidem, the general major of the SAS air forces, received multiple fractures, concussion of the brain and now was lying unconscious in the control room under the supervision of the navigator - Alexander Dybal.

The German ship was less damaged.

However, everything that had been fixed in it without welding, was swept away from its places by inertial acceleration; the clamp bolts were cut from the storage batteries, as well as the main and local computers, propulsion systems, aiming systems, food containers, not to mention personal belongings of the crew, rubbish, rags and oil from the broken gyroscope that appeared out of nowhere...

All of these things were sadly floating inside the battle station that now looked more like a garbage truck, rather than a military ship.

The Germans were all alive, but two of the four officers had fractures and the board gunner Wolff Lawyer Hoffman was in a comatose state.

Otto Franz Eichberger, the navigator of "Das Rhein", who was performing the duties of a doctor, having examined the Lieutenant just sighed:

- Poor Hoffman, he can only be saved on Earth, in a special "Raumwaffe" hospital in Dusseldorf.

Several minutes after the collision, having lost the opportunity of using their engines and in a state of shock, "Independence" and "Das Rhein", sharply started to de-orbit and began to fall.

A few minutes later, having lost contact with the outer world, people realized that there was no possibility to use their rescue capsules and from the thought of it they winced; this was not just a heavy accident: it was a disaster.

For the last two hours Whitehouse has been shaking the bracket, Mackliff has been trying to somehow establish the external communication, and call the repair vessel on duty.

All the while three Germans were consistently working on sealing their capsule.

Now, seated on the cracked telescope casing "Hubble-514", Whitehouse was a doleful observer of their vain efforts to hammer in the titan-stratum fiber into the microscopic cracks by melting them with krypton.

The titanium was bubbling, forming small spheres of an unpleasant brown that burst like soap-bubbles on the rough armor plating, leaving quickly evaporating blots.

At the same time, it was clear that only the astronaut in a pale blue commander"s space suit worked well, and the other two could barely move.

The one, who was meticulously melting the titanium fiber in equal intervals of time, most likely had a broken left arm; it was hanging like a whip.

The other only stirred when an instrument box slipped out of his hands and he had to catch it frantically.

- Listen, Mackliff, do you know what they are doing? Mackliff, hey! Did you fall asleep? Hey!" - Whitehouse knocked his hand in a dirty white glove on a box of internal communication, which has been finally disturbed; and heard a voice of the flight engineer in response, that sounded muffled like in a dungeon:

- Yes, I can hear you. Who are you talking about?

- The Germans of course, damn it!

- Oh well...They must be messing around with their capsule, like us.

- They are caulking it, like an ancient boat with titanium fiber!

- So are they making progress?

- Seriously? Have you lost your mind, John? Will titanium fiber stand the temperature of atmospheric friction? What about the buffing? I have a feeling that they are doing it only because they want to be engaged in some sort of activity. Perhaps it is easier for them to await their deaths like that.

- Well you do not even try. You are so lazy you will not even wait for your death.

- There is finally a teacher for me! This is insanity. It"s madness to be engaged in this work.

- Of course this is crazy. They are total morons. It is clear as a noonday. They managed to bump into us in void space. I would understand if this happened at zero orbit, because it is crammed with satellites, transports, spotters and other junk waiting for liquidation. - Mackliff coughed and fell silent. You could hear him grinding something and breathing heavily.

Whitehouse took a deep breath.

His stomach was aching with hunger. Cocoa from the thermos has been drunk an hour ago and he did not want to crawl clinging to the rail, get through the narrow doors of the airlock system to change the thermos, check its tightness, and climb back. He had no strength for that.

- Hey, Mackliff, what about the connection?

- Maybe I will be able to fix it...or maybe not, - the flight engineer was obviously nervous.

Whitehouse glanced at the altimeter that was showing 301 mile in perigee, and crawled to his bracket, gently scouring the safety cable.

In order to distract his mind from the gloomy thoughts and a hungry rumbling in his stomach, he switched the intercom headset to a broadcasting wave.


A familiar tongue-twister struck his ears:

- You are listening to CNC, the official radio broadcasting company of the Yokohama pact countries.

Takashi Midzuki is on the microphone.

Transmitting the latest news...

Today at three o'clock (Tokyo time), in Brussels the long-awaited conference on rectification of the consequences between troops of the Islamic States Coalition and the Euro-Asian Union had begun.

The representatives of the military command of the North American community and the Pacific Union will take part in the conference because their troops were also involved in the conflict last year. The conference is held behind closed doors, but it is known from reliable sources that the main issues will be the exchange of prisoners of war and the withdrawal of the forces from the line of demarcation Bombay-Balkhash-Baku-Ankara.

According to our observers, a compromise can hardly be reached, as the main condition of the BIT leader, General Yasser Mohammad Vazir, is the immediate lift of the ban on the export of oil products from the countries of BIG, and the abolition of all trade sanctions... Listen to what is said in the...

A green lamp lit above the right eye of Whitehouse; Mackliff demanded him to switch to internal communication. After the tell-tale voice of the speaker, flight engineer"s speech seemed sluggish:

- Gosh, Ronny! What were you doing? Stop dreaming. Listen, I fixed the transmitter, but I have a feeling that we are being jammed. Do you hear me? Hey!

- I can hear you, but if you do not stop shouting in the headphones my membranes are going to burst. Nonsense! Who would possibly jam someone here? The Germans may be fixing something and that must be the cause of this interference.

-No, it"s not that, the background noise is too stable for ordinary interference.

-You are always imagining things; - Whitehouse slowly turned around and in three hundred yards from the Shuttle saw a matt cylinder with a thin light pen. And he braced his feet on the basis of his camera as if he was capturing an enemy on the wrestling mat of the Amateur club.

- Looks like it is giving in... I have to increase my efforts. What if I try and give a push with my space suit engine? I wish a miracle would happen, for once!

Whitehouse pushed the power lever up and started the back pack.

His shoulders cracked from the tug and a fierce vibration pierced the body, he felt his chest being pressed into metal. On the upper panel of the pressure helmet the reboot lights of all systems of the space suit glimmered violently. The engineer"s voice burst through the roar of the jet:

- Ronny, this is a miracle! The fall has slowed down, and we began to level off, it seems that one of the shunting engines turned on!

- Yeah and Elvis Presley rose from the dead and helped it with a bright song...This is not a shunting engine, but my back pack has turned on - Whitehouse could not finish the sentence.

He just clenched his teeth and let out a howl, trying to take a breath with his sandwiched diaphragm. A string of orange circles flashed before his eyes, his head felt heavy. The torso control panel cracked and sank in, the temperature rose sharply.

The hum of the back pack became a roar and suddenly stopped.

The red lamp flashed; the fuel consumption is 100%.

- Mack-cliff...- Whitehouse pushed away the firm bracket, which remained in the same position, and started to move away slowly from "Independence".

It seemed to him that he was floating on his back, pulled by gentle surf, relaxing and exposing his face, damp from ocean spray to the sun. Fast seagulls...

- Ronny, we are descending again. Have you noticed which of the shunting engines has worked? Answer! - Rattled the voice of the flight engineer in his humming eardrums.

- Mack-cliff...- The tether uncoiled, stretched and sprang back with a sharp tug around the waist, causing Whitehouse to return from his comatose surf to the height of 291 miles.

- Mack-cliff ...- Whitehouse was hanging in thirty yards from the gleaming white hull of the Shuttle. - Goodness, Mackliff! My space suit and air conditioner broke down and the cadmium cloth layer has dispersed, and...

- What the hell, where are you, I do not see you...Ronny, Ronny! - Dybal" interfered.

- Of course you don"t, I am hanging right at the opposite side - he gasped, starting to fall into oblivion, but suddenly shouted as if his nails were being pulled out.

- Idiots! Pull me, pull me faster!

The tether length was reducing with agonizing slowness; the electric motors could barely work with the discharged batteries.

When the astronaut fell into the oval of an airlock, the altimeter, which was the only undamaged device of his space suit, stated flatly: 285 miles at perigee.

***

The "Independence" sank into silence.

Usually buzzing local computers were out of order.

The ozone-plasma synthesis reactor was a towering dead pile of panels.

Usually noisy TV and rustling air conditioning were also silent. Mackliff saved the emergency batteries. He was sitting fastened by the battery.

- Mackliff! I can see a probe on the right!

- Does the recognition system "beep" something?

- The system has become junk long ago and it won"t "beep" anything.

- Damn! Does it have any identification marks?

- Aha! Would you like its home address and phone number?

- Come on...

- I don"t know the Sun is in the way. I can"t see a thing...

- Try to approach it.

- What for? This must be the worried rescue service. We have lost contact with them about six hours ago. They are looking for us. Let"s hope that this thing sees us. Or maybe...There is a lot of junk in space nowadays. Eh, I wish we could shift the bracket and two hours later we would drink coffee on our way to Canaveral, - Whitehouse nodded in the direction of the Germans, seeking for support of his words, but saw that they had already climbed inside, and now he's all alone sitting on the telescope.

A yellow strip of Equatorial desert could be seen between his feet that were hanging in the emptiness.

It was uncomfortable and cold, the air conditioning system of the suit was working properly. The chill came from the heart - 297, 6 miles at perigee. He clenched his teeth, and with one jerk reached the unfortunate bracket. He clasped the transmitter and was digging into its innards with a gleaming sting of a soldering iron.

Next to him, in a t-shirt, hovered Dybal, waving away the parts that popped up from the hands of a flight engineer:

- So what? We don"t need this, do we? Why did you throw away the sixth board?

- No, we don"t. Can you imagine, - Mackliff has been maliciously commenting on his massacre with the transmitter.

Lieutenant Whitehouse gradually came to himself, carefully fastened to the plane of the bed by his comrades.

A hard bitter K was stuck in his throat, and even the third package of orange tonic could not push it through; his chest responded with a dull ache to each breath, white spots were flashing before his eyes, and his folded hands involuntarily floated over his head, as if they were still clutching the bracket.

He finally managed to get away from the chaos of the brain, and tear off his tongue from the palate:

- Al, John, what"s up, guys?

- It sucks, - answered Dybal in Russian and turned his tired sweaty face to him. - That probe with no identification marks, Ronny, that were the Arabs...

- Nonsense, it can"t be, - Whitehouse opened the belts that were holding him, stood up from the bed and hung over the handrails of a racing simulator. - Nonsense.

- If a neighboring space object interferes with the work of one or more computers and jams several channels of communication, it may be an unfortunate coincidence, - said Mackliff tediously and shrugged his shoulders. - But if this object paralyses the work of all computer systems and moreover does this permanently, than it is...

- An invasion! - finished off Dybal.

- An invasion? You must be out of your minds. Since last year the Arabs have been lurking in their holes like mice, thanking Allah they were able to sign a rectification on fire suspension at four levels: sea, land, air and space. Mutual nuclear attacks in Asia, nuclear canopy and burning oil fields taught them well.

They are now engaged in extinguishing fire in the wells, deactivation of mosques and military coups. No, guys, there is something confusing about it. - Whitehouse barely crept to the window and stared into space; they went round the dark side of the Earth.

Dybal sighed deeply and heavily:

You are both right and wrong, Ronald. Islamists are actually sitting quietly and they are not going to start a new campaign in the near future, although it is possible. But believe me they will not miss a chance to capture two of the newest and magnificent spaceships, which are moreover very high-tech. Well, is this clear? This is a tidbit. Apparently they found out that we failed to notify the Center about our dislocation and situation. You see? They jammed our signal and surrounded us. They are going to take us like helpless blind kittens and they will find out whatever they want. Remember, how they have tortured two British pilots who were brought down over Balkhash?

- What ring? I don't see anything, - said the pilot, still staring into the darkness; he decided this was a joke; he didn't want to; he dreaded the thought of believing them. -This is a bad joke, guys.

"Well... I burned the decoder because of you! - Something shorted and burned under the soldering iron of the flight engineer. A cloud of bluish grey and caustic smoke appeared. Mackliff angrily spat at the steaming board and by several hysterical blows of the screwdriver turned the remains of a transmitter, and block orientation of external antennas into a swarm of ugly debris:

-Why do you need a transmitter here? What can it possibly do?

Dybal smiled bitterly:

- Are you getting emotional, John?

- Well, stop boasting of your composure. If you shot twice from a machine gun in the direction of Ankara, it does not make you a hero! In a couple of hours you will be wrapped in reflex spirals and fried until you answer all their questions. Then I will see if you have any - having lost his temper Mackliff shouted suddenly. His short black beard was messed up, green eyes bulging, throbbing veins stood out on his forehead.

Dybal only waved his hand and moved to navigator cabin, where Dick Aidem was moaning feebly.

- Look! There they are three Islamist stations! - Panting flight engineer got to the window, where Whitehouse was hanging in confusion, and began to rub his ragged nail on the dark glass furiously. "There they are: three humpback shapeless silhouettes. Only a blind man would not see them! Look..." - he had such a brutal face, as if he was going to strangle the pilot.

Whitehouse pulled himself together, took hold of the fire extinguisher bell for greater stability and thundered:

-Flight engineer John Harriman Mackliff, I order you to shut up. According to the Statute, after the failure of the captain, his duties are performed by the pilot. I order you to immediately stop the hysteria, and prepare to launch the empty cylinders of the diffusion reactor. Execute an order! - the pilot survived Mackliff"s suddenly vitreous stare and made his way to the navigation bridge being careful not to touch the bodies of Dunois and Fujiecka, that were wrapped in sheets and fastened along the casing of the main on-Board computer.

He tried not to look into black holes of windows and not to think that Mackliff can lose control and start a rampage.

A fight on a falling shuttle is a nightmare.

At the moment when he knelt down beside the humps of emergency batteries, he could hear a rustle of still running internal communication from the dynamics beside the navigation pane of the charthouse. A confident voice has started broadcasting in perfect English:

- Astronauts of "Independence" and "Das Rhein"! The Supreme command of the united armed forces of the Arab States Bloc gives you a promise to save your life and dignity, as well as to provide you with medical care and hot meals.

Give up.

Open gateway bays and disconnect the system of self-destruction.

Think about your families, kind and gentle women waiting for you, about your mothers. Surrender, and your life will be saved otherwise you will be destroyed.

Do not wait for help as our probes mimic your emergency call onto the orbits of a different azimuth. Astronauts of the "Independence" and "Das Rhein", the Supreme...

All of a sudden the Shuttle was filled with a powerful buzzing, as if its hull had a few APS distribution transformers pinned to it.

From the depths of the living quarters you could hear Mackliff shouting:

"Jerry, it is jerry! Idiots, they turned on the military emitter! Fanatics! I had almost thought it out, and they...

Whitehouse and Dybal rushed to the side port.

From the right solar battery of "Independence", from the spot where a combat ship was sticking out of his body; short pale-blue flashes were splitting the darkness. One after the other the probes for tracking and jamming, lit up and were destroyed between them.

The Arabs could not turn off their signal lights, necessary for safety control, and the German gunner methodically shot these electronic suitcases.

Islamist stations began to move away slowly to a safe distance closing them in a cloud of reflecting suspension.

- Come on, comrades, let"s burn the green devils! We are all done for anyway! Let"s have some fun after all...- Dybal was striking out wildly.

At the same time Whitehouse was feverishly writing on the sheets that were torn out of the logbook:

"On the 34th day of the flight we were attacked by the BIS warships.

We have lost the connection.

Fulfilling the duties of the "Independence" NIS, Ronald Scott Whitehouse. Finder must immediately pass this to representatives of the authorities. "

Having nervously filled up six sheets with the same message, he rushed to the reactor of ozone diffusion synthesis and found that Mackliff was already here, finishing the preparation of the cylinders for the launch.

Flight engineer seemed changed.

He was busy. His fingers stopped shaking there was a metallic gleam in his eyes, and the cheekbones were tightened.

It was the former Mackliff.

Cylinders were intended for many operations: from the input of ozone into the atmosphere up to the dumping of nuclear warheads, and they were designed for multiple passing through the burning atmosphere.

Now they were being prepared to launch without calculation, not above the critical points, and could fall anywhere, but there was a chance that they will be found by their people or allies. So, having torn out the filling tubes, Whitehouse stuck the notes inside and shut the lids. He looked at the flight engineer with expectation.


The other gravely saluted with the expanded palm of his hand.

"- Everything is ready, sir.

- Start without reference. Execute an order. - Whitehouse looked up at the place where on Earth would be the sky. - Let us hope that our people will find those. God bless us!

Cylinders started simultaneously and flew to the Land like an open fan.

The Islamists have not even tried to destroy them.

-It is burning!!! It is burning!!! - Shouted Dybal. - See what a beam can do!

About five miles to the starboard side, one of the enemy ships was burning like a Bengal fire. The emitter continued hitting it.

Germans did not give a chance and just leave it damaged they were finishing it off.

The confident voice that was humming about "The life and dignity, as well as medical care and hot meals", shut up in the middle of a sentence.

- It is burning, you bastard, and it is burning very nicely, - the Navigator was happy as a child, - I hope they do not run out of energy...

At this moment the Shuttle shook as if it hit the rock.

This was followed by a series of aftershocks.

Something exploded and cracked in the engine compartment, you could feel the smell of burning and heated metal. Round bulkhead door to the battery room protruded, but did not open.

The Arabs used non brisant missiles to "Independence", like those that are used to knock out satellites, when you don't want to damage the filling.


Getting out from under a pile of floppy disks and the coils of a collapsed rack of the archive, Whitehouse was anxiously listening to the established silence.

Emitter of "Das Rhein" was silent.

Mackliff was pottering about nearby, "Yes, it has been a long time I was hit in the face like that... "- he said, letting trickles of blood pour into the weightlessness, from his smashed nose.

The speaker of internal communication rustled again:

- "Das Rhein" calls up "Independence", "Das Rhein" calls up "Independence".

Raumwaffe Colonel Manfred von Conrad speaking...As a result of penetration of the cumulative rocket depressurization of all compartments has occurred. I beg permission to move into your Shuttle.

Whitehouse approached the microphone as quickly as possible:

- Yes, hurry up. We will open the lower gateway.

German astronauts appeared in ten painfully long minutes.

Covers of cadmium suits were torn apart; glass of pressure helmets was smoke-stained, identification badges looked faded.

Their eyes were empty, staring at one point. Their faces looked like the astronauts have just returned from the underworld. There were four of them, Colonel von Conrad, Navigator Eichberger and board gunner Hoffman, who was laid next to the fourth, Matthias Leiseheld, whose body was inside a funeral package with a small black-and-red-and-yellow flag pinned to the chest.

He was killed when one of the missiles hit the emitter cupola.

- Well, what do we do now? - Eichberger asked gloomily.

- Allah Akbar. That's what. - Von Conrad looked up at his Navigator with his dull eyes, reddened from the capillary bleeding, and brushed the edge of his hand across his throat.

- There, there! We will show them! - Dybal said, forcing himself to smile and made a hand movement as if he closed the breech of an antique naval gun. - "Our proud "Varyag" does not surrender and nobody asks for mercy..."

At this point from the utilization camera of sanitary block they heard blows of metal upon metal, buzzing of krypton cutter and already stifling air was filled with the smell of welding flux; Board engineer John Mackliff was in the process of making something:

- Hey, anybody! Come here quickly! - His excited voice pierced the silence.

Two German astronauts started moving, but Whitehouse stopped them and began to examine their wounds. Dybal went to see Mackliff, taking first-aid kit with him just in case.

But first-aid kit was not needed; Mackliff sent the navigator back with the task to rip off the heat sealing siding from the cooling compressor of the engine.

Bandaging Eichberger"s hand and watching Dybal flying back and forth with thermal insulation mats, dragging a trail of debris and wiping sweat from his forehead, Whitehouse asked:

- What is going on there, Al?

- He didn't say. Probably afraid of the evil eye, but he looks determined. He is messing with the garbage bins.

Von Conrad caught a receiver with a "Jean Dupois" label, which was hovering nearby and tuned in.

A familiar voice of the CNV commentator could hardly be heard due to constant noise:

-... that has forced the Countries of the Big Three to allocate additional seven billion dollars SGSA to the "TRANS-Selva" state company, formed at a Congress of the South American Union in order to carry out the works on restoring forest belts along the left bank of the Amazon and its tributaries: Rio Negro, Mara;;n and Juru;.

According to the statement of the UN Commission on controlling the spread of Equatorial deserts - CSED, the sands come with the speed of up to three miles per year. The Amazon, which has lost the Northern part of its water basin, is rapidly drying up. For the last six weeks the water level has reduced to two feet... Amazonia, the lungs of our planet, may die within a few years. The world community...- Von Conrad tuned in to another frequency.

- You are listening to the World sports radio... Hugo Stern is at the microphone. Listen to a brief news summary... The Norwegian football team, having defeated the footballers of French Canada, reached the final of the world championship ahead of time...Who will be their rivals in the finals? Is it going to be the National team of Wales or the Italians? Ring bike race in Tampa-Set is still going on.

The unsurpassed Marc van Gal from Belgium has gathered seventy-six points in the standings and is leading... - von Conrad scratched his index finger on his grey temple:

- It is strange how they keep talking about this rubbish, but they do not say a word about the war...

- True - agreed Eichberger- If the Islamists had started another commotion, then all the channels would have been already broadcasting it; caution, nuclear alarm, and so on, without a break.

The Colonel nodded, feeling the bandage on his arm and at the same time squeezing raspberry jam from a tube in his mouth.

His eyes shone with the reflection of emergency lights, over the bridge of the nose deep wrinkles were ingrained, while he was eating, his lower jaw protruded like an excavator bucket.

- Hey, commander! Ronald! - Mackliff emerged from a sanitary unit. Everything is ready.

- What is ready? - Whitehouse had to step aside, and press his wet, sweaty back into a dead power distribution cabinet in order to let Dybal in. - What a crush!

- Well yeah, it is not a stadium, - confirmed Dybal, who was dragging a couple of reserve oxygen regenerators.

Flight engineer gleefully shook the working cutter, from which yellow flames were bursting out:

- I melted thermal insulation from refrigerators on the internal surface of the garbage containers, fit a control panel in the automatic shields of aerodynamic braking and parachutes. I made the locks on the inside. Of course, I understand that sanitary rubbish container is not the most convenient means of transport in the world, but this is still a chance. So, you can put your suits on and occupy the best seats.

- You have gone nuts! What do the trashcans have to do with it? What is the remote control on the braking shields meant for? - Whitehouse could barely restrain himself, not to thrust a bunch of repair keys tucked under his arm at Mackliff. All this sounded too gibberish.

Flight engineer grinned, pulled out a crumpled paper from a pocket of his overalls, and gently tapped the pilot on his broad shoulder:

- Here is the calculation. If we release the braking shields five minutes forty-five seconds earlier, and at the same time open up the first couple of parachutes, the internal temperature in the containers can be held at the level of forty to fifty degrees Celsius. Plus our air conditioned suits which we will be wearing. The temperature will be quite permissible. The first couple of parachutes will burn up of course, but the main domes will still be there...

- All of us will not fit in there, - glumly said Whitehouse, reckoning something in his head.

- Why? Two containers are ready. One will carry the badly wounded, the doctor and supplies. All the others will fit in a second container. We will have to leave the deceased, though.

The Shuttle twitched and there was a grinding sound, all port windows were closed by the body of Islamist station; the Arabs docked to the "Independence" side-by-side.

Eichberger grabbed Whitehouse by the sleeve of his overalls:

-We can wait no more, Herr Commander. They will be inside the Shuttle in half an hour. We have to make a decision. We either give up, discrediting ourselves, or turn on the system of self-destruction and attempt to escape in the containers.

At this time, Von Conrad, looking like a samurai, who was sentenced to death, took out a screwdriver from Eicherger"s pocket, and clasping it in his hand, turned to the airlock.

From the outside you could hear the sound of scuffling, soft footsteps on the shell plating, the hum of the cutters; Islamists began to open the airlock hatch, and "Independence" was rapidly falling under the escort of enemy ships.

Whitehouse was trifling a piece of paper with Mackliff"s calculations in his hands, unseeing eyes looked at the lines of differential equations of eighth order while he listened to his inner voice, that always helped him out. When he was a kid, on his way back from Grandma Theresa he had turned to a totally strange yard and in a minute a war between clans of Stone and Ho Chi broke out in the Great Park. Afterwards the police up nine corpses of random passersby that had been pierced with holes from quick squirts from the pavement.

And later, in Foot Strasse, at the training base of 51st wing of the U.S. air forces, where he did not make to after dismissal, because he got drunk in a pub just opposite the CPT base, at the same time, when his perfect all-weather interceptor with a pilot substituting for him was broken to pieces. And then, on the frontline in the center of besieged Ankara, when he and two rangers entered the rear of the command post of the 115th shock division of the Islamists, found themselves in the lair of the enemy, under the mass of concrete just a few minutes before a local nuclear attack...

Now, floating in zero gravity among the rubbish and garbage, under a luminous board showing 251 miles at perigee, he did not hear that inner voice, and therefore lingered.

- Hurry up, Ronny, don"t fall asleep, - Dybal startled him out of his apathy.

He and Eicberger were already fully clothed in suits and gently shoved Aydem into the suit.

The light blue emergency lights were slowly fading, giving deathly shade to faces of feverishly working people, the altimeter was signaling monotonously, changing the decreasing numbers, heat sealing that was cooling off in the containers had a disgusting smell.

It was getting unbearably stuffy with every minute; without getting enough voltage, the respiratory mixture regenerators had stopped functioning.

The Arabs had already passed through the outer hatch of the airlock, and there was a sound of grinding diamond drills, that were exposing the first inner membrane.

Someone was rummaging in the engine compartment, having got in through the hole in the empty fuel tanks.

- Why the hell did you take "Coke", throw it out immediately. And what's this? Goose liver? Will do. Dried rice? All right. Strawberry jam? Leave it to the Arabs. Chocolate? Suitable...- Whitehouse and Dybal loaded the second container with product packs and most valuable instruments.

Unconscious Hoffman was already inside with Eichberger, who was taking the load and arranging it in a form of small pyramids.

Mackliff and von Conrad dragged Aydem:

- Step aside we are going to ship the commander.

- The most interesting fact is that he will not fit in there. He will have to fly in our container. See how many things we have got? And we cannot put Hoffman in a different position. You do not want to tie his knees to the chest while he is unconscious. - Whitehouse froze with a box of rice in his hands and a blank face.

- Meanwhile Dybal leaned over the hatch to Eichberger"s container, turning his shoulder timer to him:

- Hey, man, if you do not want us to be blown apart by a couple hundred miles, then listen carefully and memorize. Let"s check the time first. It is fifteen forty - forty one- forty two- forty three on my timer ...

- Have you managed to set the time? Good for you.

So, you must reset the timer at start, and when it comes up to twenty-seven minutes fifteen seconds, you press that button there below the elbow. Shield braking will open and the parachutes will shoot off.

It will shake, but not much. Then you can relax.

All the rest will be done automatically. If we do it synchronously, we will land within half a mile from each other. If not, then much further. Yes, there is one more thing. If at landing a "010" symbol appears this will mean you have landed on water. Do not unlock the hatch in any case, and turn on the beacon immediately. Got it?

- All right. God bless us! We are 99% dead already. Therefore farewell. - Eichberger crossed himself and closed the glass of his pressure helmet.

Von Conrad helped him lower the heavy round hatch:

- Goodbye. But still you should sit back. Just in case we get lucky.

When there was a click of internal bolt, still warm from Mackliff"s design tweaks, flight engineer sighed with relief:

- Seems that it worked. Let us hope that design of our capsule will not fail us either, - he was looking for something wooden to knock three times against the evil eye by the Russian tradition, which he remembered all of a sudden.

He did not find anything wooden, of course, so he spit three times over his left shoulder, and climbed in the container.

- Yo, damn mechanic, what is that hissing sound? - Whitehouse asked warily; he could hardly settle between Dybal and the colonel.

-Oh... I opened a goodbye helium tank, - said Dybal and listened to the whistling sound, as if overheated steam burst out from a kettle. He added with a wry grin:

-That will be a nice big blow when self-destruction is triggered. The "Green ones" will definitely enjoy it.

The Arabs were creaking with their diamond drills in the airlock, exposing the inner flap; liquid helium was hissing, flowing like a mist; self-destruct timer was buzzing; an alarm sound was roaring at regular intervals and dispassionate voice in the headsets repeated:

-The station is ready to explode. Three minutes left...

- The station is ready to explode. Two minutes forty-five seconds left.

- Batten down the window, Al. Automatic start will set off in a minute, - snapped Whitehouse and rolled down the glass of his pressure helmet.

Dybal quickly pulled the cover and spun the bolt wheel:

- Farewell, father "Independence" and mother life!

Pressurized helmet lights illuminated the inner parts of the container; astronauts were cramped like canned sprats.

They could not even stir; there was no question about it.

All they could was to move their hands a little that have been prudently placed in front of the dashboards of their spacesuits.

Von Conrad was either whispering something quickly, or praying, or piling up one of his creepy complex abuse.

Dybal was trying to blow away a chewing gum wrapper from his nose; which had somehow gotten under the glass of his pressure helmet.

Nervously biting his lip, Mackliff was holding his index finger on the timer reset button, looking steadily at his shoulder altimeter which was showing 213 miles at perigee:

- Oh, come on, respond, you damn automatics!

- Station is ready to explode in two minutes fifteen seconds...

- Well, there it goes!

- One minute forty-five seconds.

- What is it, Mackliff! Have you forgotten to turn on the sluice valve?

- Station is ready to explode in forty-five seconds.

- It is not possible! We have already passed the estimated 205-mile mark. It just can"t be true! I'm sorry, guys ... - Mackliff suddenly felt like his flesh was being separated from the bone, and the brain was being smeared over his cranial vault.

He was so pressed into the titanium boarding that his guts seemed glued to the spine. Before he sank into the blackness, through his headset he could hear Whitehouse gnashing his teeth and roaring throatily:

- It has worked, damn it, that fucking piece of iron!

Thirty seconds after the ejection of containers, "Das Rein" and "Independence" along with two docked Islamist ships became a swollen fiery yellow ball and then turned into a firework of molten metal.


***


Exchange 2.


Digital Coded telegram VHN 11

confidential level: A.

To the commander of the 156th squadron of 1U Fleet,

Yagd Colonel Kokum Yohoud.

Yagd Colonel!

I have to inform you, that by the end of 4725, Marr 24th from the beginning of Natotevaal, parts of the entrusted squadron have completely blocked the ball-sector A16N45 according to the scheme "The Net."


Patrols were placed at a distance of 5 Tohs.

All available lock scanners are thoroughly searching the sector and the adjacent space to detect the remains of yagdishvalder-42 and possible raiders of the Swertz empire.

The operation excludes:

- Yaggishvalder-15; convoy to Fort KK22 "Ihteneld-56-R" fortified zone of Stigmarkont.

- The repair ships brigade 446 of the separate remount battalion.

- 4 minesweepers: type "Ohayra" from units YAG-17 and YAG-32 that are undergoing preventive maintenance.

- Strategic reserve fuel tanker of squadron 156 SMI 443: propulsion engines overheating due to excess boost of mergasine.

Total engagement of forces of the 156th squadron is 89%


Natote!

00-30. 25 Marr A.C.

Executive Captain of the "Capture" operation,

Yagd Audun Eydlah.


***


Digital coded telegram OOE

Confidential level: A.

Fleet base Stygmarkont

Marr 25

Year 4725

From the beginning of Natotevaal.


Special Department Coordinator

Of the Foreign Intelligence Board

And Security Service of the 3rd Galactic directory.

An Inquiry regarding the destruction of YAG-42

To: The Security Service Coordinator,

Marshal and Commander of Natotevaal,

Yagd TOTE YASCHEMGART

By the time of losing contact with yaggdishvalder-42 of the 156th squadron 1U Fleet of the 3rd Galactic Directory on Marr 15 a.c., it consisted of the following vessels:

- 1st class battleship "Marshal Tote" /flagship/

- 2nd class battleships "Kekvut", "Maykopar", "Rys".

- Heavy cruisers "Jezera", "Kahn Sorre", "Krodis", "Moztok"

- Minesweepers type "Ogayra" / total number of 13 /

- Patrols type "Zhevur" and "Yunus-5"/ total number of 15 /.

- Amphibious assault ships of the 1U Fleet tactical reserve which had a fully equipped "Blue Lightning" commando division with heavy weapons on board.

/ A total number of D-Sh bots - 7 /.

- The total number of support vessels: 34.

77 combat and transport vessels altogether.

Natote!


Coordinator of 00 FIB SS-3

Captain Commander

Yagd Don Aykorr.


***


Digital coded telegram VHN 13

Confidential level: A

To the commander of the 156th squadron,

Yagd Kokum Yohoud.

Yagd Colonel!


I bring to your notice that on May 26 a.c., having performed a thorough scan and trawling in sphere-sector A16N45; 69 flagship parts of YAG-42 and a large amount of debris and parts of sheathing, frames and engine-power plants have been detected.

The obtained black box of the 2nd class battleship "Kekvut" had been demagnetized, apparently as a result of the strong influence of residual annihilation radiation. BB"s of other vessels as well as log books, nautical books and computer terminals were not found.


Natote!


23-45. 26 Marr 4725

From the beginning of Natotevaal.


Information Department

Under Special Section of FIB SS-3


***

To: Coordinator of 00 FIB SS-3

Captain Commander

Yagd Don Aykorr.


Reference

The commander of Yaggdishvalder-42, Captain GRAFOR Tertisote,

Born on Janu 14th year 4694 from the beginnings of Natotevaal.

From the Three Greyhounds System, Planet Gammun, Klenvule.

/ Code 556749 /.

Mother: Daza Tantane, occupation 5564.

Home address: Klenvule, Captain Dema Highway, Building 99, compartment 588.

Father: Shtarp Tertisote, profession 69870.

He resides at the same address.

In 4707 Tertisote graduated from comprehensive school / Code 48769 / and entered the Yagd Kokum Yohoud Metropili Biological Technical College of 1U Fleet, specialty 487659. In 4712 he was called to active duty into the 44th military transport flotilla of the U Fleet, 1st Galactic directory.

Card record of Corporal G. is attached.

Having accomplished the VGF course in 4715, he was directed to the existing Fleet as assistant of the minesweeper Commander DTO-91. Qualification card of Corporal G. Tertisote is in the attachment.

Cadet student"s book of the Galactic Fleet Military Academy and a record card of Lieutenant G. Tertisote are attached.

In 4720 he was promoted for military service and appointed commander of the heavy cruiser "Jezera" YAG-42 of the 156th Squadron of the 3rd Galactic directory.

He took part in the operation on lifting the siege of Stigmarkont, by storming forts "Ihteneld-21-M" and "Ihteneld-40-R."

For valor shown in the battle on the 11th Feran year 3722 in sphere-sector V44N01 / Blue Flex System / he had been honored with governmental awards - the platinum star of the 6th rate and the title of VGF captain.

On the 1st of Junna year 4724 he became commander of the YAG-42.

Being in command of a unit he proved to be a demanding leader, cautious and prudent navigator, good organizer and executed the combat missions accurately.

He is single and without children.

Interests: 67859, 17678, 58698 etc.

Trustworthiness: 7986

He was verified by the Office of SS Counterintelligence and has never been noticed in any suspicious activity.

Efficiency report is attached.

The central archive operator

Sergeant Mara Shtatlidt.


***

Mackliff was laying face skyward and observing a bug that resembled a scarab; it was crawling onto the bridge of his nose and busily exploring dust adhering to the skin:

"Am I dead or alive?"

He deeply inhaled the dry, hot air.

The beetle in a panic fell to his shoulder, ran to a parched leafless branch of long withered bush and hid.

Only now the flight engineer felt like he was floating in a bathtub filled with something sticky and viscous:

- Good Lord, I am floating in my own sweat!

Feelings returned to him gradually.

The facial skin suddenly wailed with all its nerve endings: "Hide me! Cover me!"

Right overhead like a white globe hung the sun, and it looked like it was gathering all its vigour to wither the astronaut.

He raised his disobeying hand to the face and cried out in pain: the skin was stinging and covered with scabs.

Overcoming the pain in his spine, Mackliff rolled onto the stomach, squelching salty moisture in the fabric of his tight suit, and realized that he was not wearing a heavy spacesuit, it was lying a few feet to the left, charred and pitiful, as if it was cut up with a knife.

- Well, I got really sunburned here, - he covered his head, with a scrap of some synthetic fabric, the first thing that came to hand.

He felt much better.

The astronaut slowly raised his head and froze in shock: in front of him, right behind the withered thorns of a lone bush stretched out the lifeless desert.

Flat as a table, without a hillock, without the slightest hint of dunes or ripples -and dazzling, as if it was glowing from within. Light drifting sand sometimes violated its complete stillness, and at the horizon, a lonely whitish cloud got lost in the sky, and was slowly washed away by a hot breath of scorching sand.

- Oh God! Where am I? I-aaah... - a yearning cry involuntarily escaped from his dry throat...

- Hey, why are you yelling? Do you think you are the only one who feels shitty? Ha ... Man, Dammit. Strike me dead... I still see you alive ... Stap my vitals... - a hoarse voice came from behind the pilot and a huge shadow loomed over Mackliff. Mackliff turned slowly, and behind Whitehouse, who also had no suit on; at a little distance, he saw the tilted container, halfway gone into the sand.

Dybal has been crawling around it on his knees, searching for something with his outspread fingers.

Two motionless bodies lay in a meager shade of the container: the former commander of the space shuttle "Independence" Aydem and the former commander of the "armored car" "Das Rein" - Colonel Von Conrad.

- Well, I'm glad. I"m very happy ... You know, John, you have had a very restless sleep, actually. I covered you with a piece of the parachute, and you started jerking your little hands and feet and threw it off. That"s no good. So, old man, can you get up? - Whitehouse added seriously.

Mackliff struggled to his feet and tried to hobble towards the container.

His feet would not move.

If the dune did not have a slope, he would not even budge.

While he was moving towards the container, dismissing the help of Whitehouse, Dybal finally found what he was looking for - a binocular; and rapidly, for a man who has just darted down to the ground, got on top of the container nastily grinding the metal shield of his shoes on the black wall, which was still warm from the atmospheric heat. Scales of titanium ceramics burnt in the atmosphere flew from the hull of the container:


- It is curious to know where we have ended up ... Ooh, my arms and legs do not bend at all ... It hurts like hell...

- Yes, Al, it is curious indeed... - Mackliff made it to the container and carefully folded his body in the shade.

- Ronnie says we are not far from the former eastern coast of Venezuela, in Caracas area, which had been covered with sands. Though his eyes tell that he hardly believes in what he says. And so to speak, where is the sea breeze? At the border of the sand and the ocean air currents are mixed constantly, and it must be blowing like in the wind tunnel. But here? Ah, what to say ... - Dybal put the binoculars to his eyes and stared at the horizon. Standing on the capsule, he resembled a monument to some Ancient Mariner, who looked through binoculars at the squadron of enemy fleet...

-Well, the main thing is that we are on Earth. It is strange but we're still alive...

- Everything is relative, John. It seems to me that before the accident at "Independence", when there was light, a cold "Pepsi" and different kinds of sausage, we were a little more alive than here, where at best we can catch a weedy lizard and nothing at worst.

- Where is the second container? Where is Eichberger, Hoffman and all the supplies?

- Makliff leaned against the hull of the container, and suddenly pulled back, it was still hot from aerodynamic heating, and moreover warmed up by the sun. It was hot like hell.

- It's not clear yet. Either they landed too far from us, or did not land at all - said Whitehouse. He handed a flat jar of reactive water to Mackliff.

Flight engineer turned the release cover and gray powder filled the cap. In contact with air the powder turned into what looked like icy water in contrast to the red hot air.

Mackliff gently sipped this iron flavored liquid:

- What do we do next?

- We should at least find out our location to answer this question.

- Ronald, you said that we were in the Caracas area.

Whitehouse shrugged his shoulders.

Having had a good look at the surroundings, Dybal spent some time inside the capsule, and then climbed out red as a tomato, as if he has spent an hour in a Finnish sauna. But at the same time happy. He gently cradled a small box of a shortwave transmitter in his hands:

- Here you go. It seems to work. Now we can connect with the satellite-based positioning. We will send an emergency call and-and-and-and......

- Well-well... And who is going to show up for your call sign? - Sand cracked on the teeth of Whitehouse. He spat aside.

- What do you mean?

- Well then, no outgoing signals. First let's try to listen to the incoming signal. - Forestalling the hesitant navigator, Whitehouse clicked the tumbler and pressed the 100.00 Hertz button.

The transmitter responded with a bang and a howl of automatic tuning. An alarmed voice could be heard through the ethereal sound; it was mumbling so fast that you could hardly parse a word.

After a while, a few more voices joined in. Sometimes the signal was muffled by the trills of triggered aircraft "friend or foe" identification systems.

- I think they speak Spanish - Said Dybal lifting the transmitter right to his ear:

-Please give permission for military approach...

Go ahead...

Iglesias, cover me...

-Yeah right. They attack our second container with Eichberger and Hoffman... Coal-colored cylinder, about three feet in diameter, open aero braking shield, two parachutes...

They do not respond to inquiries; do not shoot off the signal flares.

- In Spanish? So we are still in the SAU.

These are their patrol fighters. The SAU is neutral.

-Perhaps we could try to enable the emergency calls. - Perked up Mackliff.

Whitehouse shook his head:

- No need to hurry up, John. Yes, the SAU"s are neutral, but now we only have the information that we had before the collision with "Das Rein." But then we were attacked by the Arabs. And who knows, maybe another war broke out.

And when the war starts, you can never vouch for the neutrals" position.

- Oh, shit! They brought it down them bastards, they brought down the container! - Dybal suddenly shouted, clutching his head.

- Damn it... What could a helpless container, an iron box hanging on the parachutes possibly do to them? Nasty freaks... Ah... - Whitehouse clenched his fists.

At this point, a little moan escaped from Von Conrad"s mouth. Dybal bent over him:

- What is it, Manfred? Do you need something? Water, a painkiller...

Von Conrad was in a very bad state. Despite the fact that his body had no serious injuries, the general condition worsened with each hour.

When the capsule with him Whitehouse, Mackliff and Dybal, released the aero braking shield at the estimated height it started buffing and the heat reached its maximum.

After thirty seconds of falling in the atmosphere at a speed of 1750 miles per hour the titanium seal around the hatch had depressurized, and the temperature inside the container went off scale.

The fireproof fabric of the suits got wrinkled and softened, like cellophane by the fire, and air conditioning systems continued to work by a miracle.

That was the end.

Mackliff gritted his teeth and said that his life was not lived in vain, that he has developed quite a few first-class control systems of various levels, invented a probe accumulation of solar energy reflected from the moon"s surface and had it affirmed by the NASA commission; made a spectrum estimation analyzer of orbital dust; said that he always liked the guys like Whitehouse and Dybal, and if he sometimes was grumbling and angry, it was only for the good cause.

He has also said that he had always loved only two women - his mother, Ann Stone Mackliff and his wife Dorothy, and all the rest were an accident, a passing moment though he could not say anything bad about them, they all believed him.

He shook his head in the misted pressure helmet, slapped Whitehouse on the shoulder, clinging to the cadmium fabric overalls with his glove, and said that he always wanted to have such children like he had: naughty boys Arnie and George; and sympathized with the pilot that it would be hard for them to stay out of bad company, drugs and juvenile prisons without a father.

Whitehouse did not get the rest of the flight engineer"s shouts, but he just subtly abused the designers of emergency suits for the fabric"s lack of heat resistance.

When the silicone zipper clasps began to smolder and tear at the seams, von Conrad pulled the tube of service module cooling, and liquid helium poured onto his chest.

Everything was shrouded in icy fog, the temperature dropped to normal, but through the vibration rumble and burning boarding you could hear the cracking sound of the colonel"s suit.

Forty seconds later the braking shield opened and the first pair of parachutes opened up.

Then the second pair unfolded.

They have been saved, but the colonel received a severe thermal burn; up on one elbow, he made hoarse sounds, either trying to address his companions or God.

Mackliff could hardly suppress the urge to hide from this terrible, swollen, bluish face.

Whitehouse was standing nearby waving a piece of parachute fabric over the colonel. Meanwhile Dybal continued listening to conversations of the SAU pilots with their base:

- Damn it, they know that there was another container.

They're looking for us.

They have just passed the information on the search sector and probable coordinates 15-2 and 15-3 to the pilot...

- Too bad. Sooner or later they will find us here. And I'm afraid they are not going to offer us coffee. We have to leave. According to the numeration of squares, used in the SAU Air Forces we are near the foothills of the Andes, somewhere in Medell;n, unless memory deceives me... Maybe we are standing on one of its former avenues...

Our plan is to put the wounded on the sledges and head to the mountains. There we can hide, find food and water. Even the Great Desert is still powerless compared to the mountains, - having stopped talking, Whitehouse began to chop off the straps of a flattened parachute and tore a white cloth, which Mackliff had notched previously.

Dybal started selecting things needed for the trip from time to time looking at the horizon and the sky through binoculars.

***

Infernal heat slowly subsided.

The merciless sun rolled down further to the west, gradually turning from dazzling white to crimson. The sky like an endless ceiling, painted in smooth, pale blue paint was faintly covered with smoky clouds.

A faint breeze appeared.

It was still hot like the sand, but it was the Ocean breeze that had rolled over the mountain ranges, and dissolved in the desert. The Dunes that were hardly noticeable at first became higher, wider.

Like sickles they bent towards the mountains, whose rocky tops were covered with snow caps, clearly outlined by the horizon.

The astronauts were on the fringe. They have already thrown out most of their equipment; individual first aid kits, a box of dried bacon, transmitter battery, signal lights and rockets, blades, bags of dry fuel, with regret they buried the cadmium absorber in the sand, a unique device they have saved from "Independence", Dybal even threw out his watch that became as heavy as chains.

They were carrying their wounded on sleds, sinking ankle-deep in the fine sand, no longer having the strength to speak, to think, to raise their heads in ridiculous turbans made of scraps of snow-white parachute fabric; watery eyes just looked down to the surface of glittering sand, at the dusty toes of their boots, watching their step - the fallen could have no strength to rise.

An hour ago, before they had thrown away the transmitter Dybal intercepted a message of one of the SAU pilots that two of his supporting aircrafts did not come out of a curve in the 15-2 square and hit the ground, and he saw strange air vibrations near his aircraft.

The base has ordered to stop the search of the second capsule until morning and return to the base.

A distant rumble which daydreaming astronauts assumed was the sound of thunder, turned out to be a roar of the patrol engine "Phantom-11-E-34A", which was returning to the base in Cerro de Pasco. Blades of the assault helicopters feathered the airfield, ready to deliver observer snipers to the foothills of the search sector.

The saving rocks were close, just a dozen miles away.

An average healthy person without luggage would cross this distance in two and a half hours, but this way was an insurmountable obstacle for exhausted people whose souls have almost left their bodies. On top of that their progress was slowed down by the mountain-like dunes and terrains of basalt boulders, beaten by sands and wind.

When the sun touched the mountain tops, Dybal who along with Mackliff has been hauling an unbearably heavy von Conrad, stumbled and fell on his face.

Having lost his balance from the jerk, Mackliff also fell down. They tried to get up by scooping the flowing sand, wishing to move forward for an inch.

All in vain.

From the top of a dune, slowly, like in a dream, a landslide came down on their heads and a helpless colonel has almost been buried underneath.

But they fought, spending all strength they had; they were climbing up, further. Not seeing that his friends have stopped, Whitehouse has been going on for a while, head on his chest, stubbornly dragging Aydem, wrapped in a parachute as if it were a shroud.

Having climbed onto the next dune, he suddenly realized he did not hear the hoarse breathing of Dybal and Mackliff behind him.

He turned his stiff neck with great effort:

- Hey, guys... - a soundless whisper came out of his cracked lips.

He lost his balance and tumbled down.

Aydem was left on the other side of the ridge in a white bundle.

It took Whitehouse forty minutes to be back on the three-meter height of a continuously crumbling slope.

The sun had set.

The outskirts of the Great Desert slowly came to life; writhing lizards minced on the still-hot sand, large beetles scurried about their business, arrogant fat flies busily began exploring the wet sweaty faces of the astronauts which were covered with dust.

A desert jerboa galloped somewhere, wagging a fluffy brush tail and twisting its eared head. Right after it a viper flowed next to the face of Whitehouse. It was uninterested in people it wanted something that could be swallowed.

The wind became stronger and assertive.

Now it was blowing from the depths of the desert.

It was getting cold.

Myriads of grains moved along the crests of dunes, getting into the nostrils, eyes and ears; streamed into the collars, penetrated the tightly laced hiking boots, pockets, seams, hatchet sheath.

But Whitehouse was not paying any attention to it, he was falling asleep.

The desert drank all the strength of his powerful inexhaustible body, coupled by a handful of tonic pills.

The effect of anabolic steroids and acclimatization drugs taken after landing; was also over, and the invisible pressure of the Earth's gravity came over every cell of his body, which after three months of flight has become unaccustomed to gravity.

All at once the body was in agony, bruises and abrasions received in orbital collisions burned like fire, the sun burnt skin was stinging, and his head was aching.

Woozy from nonhuman overloads his brain filled with blurred colored pictures of the past: he is going to see "Star Boy" with his first girlfriend at 24th Avenue, then he is taking a test at the Academy and does not know how to calculate the RC characteristics, then he is playing tennis with Mackliff, ten dollars a game...

The wind force increased.

Heavy flies crawling on the face of a man as if he was already dead have been carried away by its blow; large grains of sand rattled like rain on the cloth of the overalls and the dunes started their invisible movement.

Whitehouse did not feel any heat or pain, or sandy rain on his skin, only the whistling and howling of a storm still penetrated his consciousness.

But something has subtly changed in a voice of the Great Desert, a faint vibrating sound, approaching and then moving away, mingled with the roar of the wind.

No, the desert could not make such sounds.

There, in a snowstorm, something was moving, and this something was mechanical.

Could that be people?

The SAU commandos might have finally tracked them down.

Whitehouse slowly pulled up a worn "Viking Combat" Colt to his chest, the only thing he had not thrown out on the road.

The sound was nearing.

An engine.

It was a sound of a car engine, strenuously wailing on the rise.

So be it - two clips of exploding 38 caliber bullets - it is all that was left for a dying crew of "Independence."

So be it, let them come...

An antique "Jeep" with faded canvas top came out of the dusty mist. It was gnashing, jarring and dangling.

Battered hood jumped at every road-bump. A broken wiper was hanging at the windshield, clearing the view for a driver, the right wing was aloof, the left wing was missing; the shabby sides were painted with intricate ornament.

Whitehouse thought that this monster was a plot of his imagination; and that it was actually a patrol vehicle of the SAU commandos.

He pulled the gun from the sand installed the handle by the cheek and then realized that he could not even push the fuse.

His fingers did not move.

Meanwhile the jeep stopped not turning off the engine, but it did not hold on the crest of the dunes and slid down.

Two stocky men fell out of it: both wore wide-brimmed straw hats, shapeless shirts and pants of indefinite color and sandals without socks.

- There are just the two of them - the astronaut tried to get the fuse with his teeth.

His turban fell from his head and rolled, unfolding in the wind.

The teeth clenched the icy metal of barrel housing.

It was useless.

The strange people stopped holding their hats, which immediately flew over and hung on the back straps, and began loading the still astronauts in the car.

When it came to Whitehouse, they effortlessly tried to take the gun from his hand, but they did not succeed.

The astronaut was holding it tightly.

Muttering some curses they took out the clip, and dragged Whitehouse to the car...

He tried to oppose them, but it was a pathetic attempt. Astronaut found himself on a pile of smelly, oily rags, lying near von Conrad and Dybal.

A minute later Mackliff and Aydem were laid over them.

They covered the astronauts with pieces of parachute fabric, slammed the flimsy doors and the "Jeep" disappeared in the dark.

Digital coded telegram VHN 43

Confidential level: A

Yagd colonel!


I bring to your notice that on 28th Marr a.c., in the sector A17N44 a patrol boat discovered an enemy raider type "Tsvohgum" at high speed leaving the place of a crash of YAG-42.

Cruisers "Kang" and "Medel" caught up with it in the sector 033N09 and, after a brief fire contact, disabled it. The crew of the raider, however, managed to evacuate on the rescue bots, went through mine fields and hid in the Sixth belt of asteroids.

Before the raider collapsed in the process of self-destruction, an external examination has been done by the automated intelligence.

Here is an excerpt from the experts" conclusion:

- This battle ship was made in 4700, at the Dyulta dockyards;

- The quantity and quality of weapons: corresponds with the "Tsvohgum" class;

- The number and power of propulsion: matches

- Quality of armor plating and the structure of the protective field: matches;

- The amount of external communication energy, sustainability of a central computer: matches;

- The configuration of the body: does not match; 4 powerful claws located along the aft, which were open at the time of inspection.

Presumably, the raider was used as a scanner cover for a ship of unknown functions and configuration. Based on the claws location, an unknown ship can be the size of 4.5 - 5 Ker, and have a shape of a flat, saucer-like aircraft.

- Residual megrazine fields: match;

- Other fields: anomalous perturbation of the gravitational field, laminar nature of disturbances.

Type of perturbations is linear in the direction of the "Terhoma" Swerts base.

The track of disturbances lies in two Tohs -back course of the captured raider.


All things mentioned above suggest that "Tsvohgum" came from the place of the YAG-42 crash, in which he was involved in some way, covering a new ship of the Swerts.

Being discovered by our ships, the raider tried to escape but failed. However, the craft it had been covering effortlessly teleported to the area of its bases.

We continue scanning the areas adjacent to A16N44.

Natote!


22-00. 28 Marr 4725.


From the beginnings of Natotevaal.

Executive Captain of the "Capture" operation,

Yagd Audun Eydlah.


***


Digital coded telegram AHO 101

Confidential level: A

To all military vessels of the 156 squadron of 1U Fleet.


I order:

- stop carrying out the "Capture" operation.

-set the minefields in the area limited by the navigational buoys VA333 and VA105.

-all ships must immediately return to the Stigmarkont Base.

-set analyzers of gravitational perturbations GA-22 at the escape route with compilers tuned to CP fleet.

- degree of alertness: 1A.


23-15. 28 Marr 4725.

From the beginnings of Natotevaal.


Commander of the 156th squadron,

Colonel Yagd Kokum Yohoud.


***


Digital coded telegram 00A

Confidential level: A

The Metropolis.


29 Marr 4725 f.b.N

The SS Coordinator of Natotevaal.


To: the Special Department Coordinator

Foreign Intelligence Board

Of Natotevaal Security Service.

An order:

- cancel the arrest of Colonel yagd Kahum Yohoud.

- stop the internal investigation regarding the third scan watch of Stigmarkont FB, return personal weapons and military awards to the personnel and restore their posts.

-create a special group for the collection and analysis of all the information regarding the YAG-42, endow the commander of the crew with the authorities of the second Commander of the 1U Fleet.


The Natotevaal SS Coordinator

Marshall commander

Yagd Tote Yashemgart


***


Digital Coded telegram VHV50

Confidential level: 3


To: Commander of the 156th squadron, 1U Fleet


Colonel Yagd Kokum Yohoud.


Yagd Colonel!


I bring to your notice that at 16-13 A-time the 211 patrol boat of patrol division, in sphere- sector V13N40, has detected a rescue boat from the transport ship "Loerda-44", with part of the crew on board.


Those who were alive have been sent to the "Tetvut Noor" raider hospital, the dead were buried according to the Fleet Charter.


The place of destruction of "Loerda-44" vehicle has significant gravitational perturbations of laminar character.


Natote!


33 Marr 4725.

From the beginnings of Natotevaal.


Commander of the patrol boat "Ropin-33"


211 PSD,

Lieutenant Okt Arber.


8.


Whitehouse did not know how much time he spent lying on a hard straw mat, he could not remember.


He lay there, staring at the intersection of crooked roof rafters: cracked, of dark wood, with constantly steaming smoke near the fire.


But he remembered well those horrible moments when his mouth was filled with mixtures of some bitter herbs, powdered muck, with a smell of rotten eggs, pieces of bark, plant stems, and even objects in a form of buttons. And he could not even move his arm.

He just lay there and cursed that ceiling of guava leaves, the acrid smoke, thin dry hands that smelled of the sun and treated him with nauseous drugs, took out pots of his plentiful shit, where the potions went right after he took them...


But one day he got up.


At once.


One morning he just jumped to his feet, like in ancient times, in the Boy Scout camp at the sound of a wake-up.


He was healthy.


He was ready to run a marathon, climb without hooks and anchors on the steep cliff, bent nails, dive without a scuba in underground lakes.


He stood there, smiling from ear to ear, looking around.


In a mud hut with narrow unglazed windows and low entrance, curtained with a motley cloth, he noticed the presence of another person - an old woman: gray-haired, wrinkled, but agile and quick in her movements with a weathered bony face.


For a while she studied the smiling giant, whose head reached the roof beams, with quiet, intelligent eyes, and then took from the shabby shelves, the only furniture in the room - a light gray suit with traces of coarse darning, hiking boots of the twenty-ninth size and threw it at the feet of Whitehouse.


- Who are you? Where am I? - The astronaut hesitantly stepped forward, but the old woman shook her head and pointed to the exit. Whitehouse picked up his things and climbed out, covering up the loins with his hand.


The first thing he saw was the navigator Alexander Dybal all covered with exotic trinkets, in short shorts made of overalls and a stunning straw hat. A thick cigar in his mouth, he was squinting from the smoke and lively chatting in Spanish with a boy of seven years, who like Whitehouse had totally no clothes on.


A cliff with several shades of rock caves hang over to their right; dense swaying jungle tangled with vines stretched ahead to the left, and behind a dozen huts, was a steep slope, that turned into a rocky plateau, which abruptly ended behind the stone pillars.


These basalt stelae resembled petrified giants, deformed by time.


The desert stretched behind them.


Dybal turned and the cigar nearly fell out from his mouth:


-Ronald damn it are you crawling about on your own?


They clapped their hands, and having walked around a rusty skeleton of a Ford truck, sat on a crumpled barrel of gasoline.


Dybal joyfully patted Whitehouse on the strong shoulder:


- Ronny, I'm so glad to see you safe and sound.


-So am I, Al.


-Can you imagine how lucky we are! So damn lucky! May all of us be that fortunate in the future - The navigator hit three times with his knuckle on the crown of his sombrero, spat over his left shoulder and grinned at the Indian boy, who was puzzled by these gestures:


-This is Magdalena, a village of Kichai Indians. There are two clans. Seven miles away is the Thierry village. Three small tribes live there. This is all that is left of the Kichai tribe: harsh climate change, the war with the Matilones tribe because of living space; the jungle that spreads from the Sintar Pass to the Canyon of Aborning Rocks.


There is one old man - Aguilar, a sort of an elder. We had a long conversation with him while you were resting. You know, many strange things are happening here. Some ghosts are flying in the sky, transparent and silent. Alien tracks in the jungle. They do not belong to Indians or Buenaventura soldiers. On the whole, they have their ears pricked up. Hunter Saurno had noticed our capsule before the disclosure of parachutes. What good eyesight, can you imagine? Hawk eyesight doubled by an eightfold magnification of Zeiss binoculars.


This shaggy boy, by the way, is one of the sons of Saurno. He also has three daughters. And what beauties! Oh, I almost forgot. Ponce! Ponce, bring me that thing, which you were boasting about yesterday.


The boy hesitated for a while, first glancing at his calloused fingers, then at the huge Whitehouse, and getting up, ran to the last hut.


Looking at the construction on the roof of the hut, Whitehouse was surprised to see a saucer of a home satellite dish.


Melodious female voices competing in a kindly squabble could be heard nearby. Two young girls carrying water in toxic-orange buckets came from behind the granite block plastered with moss. Having suddenly remembered that he was completely naked, Whitehouse started to dress frantically. Subtle gurgling of a spring somewhere behind the block, coolness of stones, twitter and trills of hooting birds in the jungle, short slender girls, merrily grinning Al - all this in addition to burning sighs of the Great Desert seemed surreal, almost fairy-tale. Girls, continuing to descend quickly, crossing over the scattered stones sonorously laughed, seeing Whitehouse get entangled in his pants and blush in embarrassment. The echo responded to them. Dybal waved to them, and making a conspiratorial face, whispered:


-Field notes: the higher girl is Saurno's second daughter, that hunter that drove us in the storm, and whose mother nursed us. Unfortunately, I do not know the Guajiro dialect, but they somehow connect you to her in their conversations. So...


Tying the shoelaces, Whitehouse with interest stared at the elastic hips of the girl, covered by embroidered with bright beads blue jeans:


-She is cute...


-Jesus, Ronald! Did you forget how you whined in the capsule: the wife, the children are the dearest for me, will I ever see them and all that stuff. What a Casanova. - Acidly said someone right above his ear. Only Mackliff could speak like that!


John Makliff, hands on his hips, stood there as if nothing had happened, dressed in overalls with metallic shimmer as if he had just got them from the McClellan indent depot. A rapid M16A1 fire rifle and a grenade launcher, stuffed with forest litter hung on his neck; two colored jays and a small animal, looking like a rabbit were fastened to his belt. He wore a uniform NASA cap, and scratched sunglasses on his nose.


Whitehouse tightly hugged the flight engineer. He showed displeasure but then laughed happily:


- Well, well, be careful, old chap, or you will break my bones again. I should have told Unsule not to finish your treatment totally, because you're too dangerous for other people - he nodded to the two Indians that folowed him out of the jungle, and they silently marched to the huts, carrying away a shot mountain goat on the pole.


We will have meat for dinner, with cassava juice and pepper topping; Dybal licked his lips. Everything is good. I am sorry for the guys though. Nice fellows they were. Dick, Colonel Eichberger... Salvation was so close and real: - sighed Whitehouse, suddenly stern.


All were silent for a while. The navigator was intently smoking a cigar, puffing sweet tobacco and scattering a few mosquitoes in the sun; Makliff was rummaging with a sprig in the rifle sight slot, which was plugged with brown clay. Somewhere the fire was kindled and a blue-gray wisp of smoke drifted above them. A dog barked. The other one responded. On the roof of the hut decorated with satellite, climbed an old Indian and began tying fresh guava leaves to the rafters instead of those that were torn by the wind.


Finally Makliff cleared the sight slot and said quietly:


- Yeah, I feel sorry for the guys, Ronni. But as for Aydem and Colonel, you were mistaken.


- Strike me dead! Are they alive? Where are they, I want to hug them!


- They are not here at the moment. The irony is, they got better before us and rushed into action.


A week ago the colonel left with the hunters to the Santar Pass to banish matilones soldiers who seized the pass. By their mercy the Kichak have been sitting in isolation for three months already. No mail, no whiskey, no fuel, no batteries for radios. And the generator, which powers their TV's does not work without fuel. We still have no idea whether a new war with the Islamists broke out or not.


As for Aydem, he has been rushing about in the sands with Saurno Santo for three days now. He wants to collect those belongings that we have thrown away on our way to the mountains: first of all, the logbook, the transmitter and cadmium absorber. But there has been a snowstorm twice since then.


It is unlikely that they will find anything. All has been long covered with sand. - Sighed Mackliff. Whitehouse just shook his head in shock:


- Gee.


Dybal, throwing away his cigar and making a gulp of orange juice from a pumpkin jar continued Mackliff's story:


- Now it is very important for us to find out whether the war had started. And whose side took the SAU and if we could go to Buenoventura. Kichak know nothing. There is no contact with the outer world. We cannot find out anything from indirect observations as this area is completely cut off, isolated.


It lies at the center of a vast area that remains uncontrolled after the approach of the Desert and the destruction of Ecuador and Colombia. They have no government here. Those who did not want to evacuate, are now on their own: hunting, fishing in Braziliera that flows over this ridge, some kind of craft - figurines of black wood, woven tapestries, beads of rock crystal - all of this is changed for cartridges, alcohol and gasoline in Buenoventura, the SAU Naval Base which lies in two hundred miles from here.


The matiliones warriors boss the show here along with something that kills the Kichak hunters who come too close to the Canyon of Aborning Rocks. And it is killing them in a weird way, as if pouring napalm over them. As for the SAU fighters who shot down Eichberger"s container, they mainly patrol the coastline from Barranquilla to Cayenne, without delving into this wilderness for more than twenty miles.

Ponce returned, holding something heavy under his arm.


He nodded to Mackliff with the importance of an adult and handed to Dybal his burden, wrapped in a piece of advertising poster "Panasonic" - the real world in your home".


- Rodriguez brought this thing and gave it to Santo for adjusting the sound head. Rodriguez says that he took that stone from the Canyon of Aborning Rocks. But no one believes him. - Navigator held in his palm a strange oblong stone: smooth, shiny, as if polished, studded with many thin streaks, forming a dense network:


- So, what do you think about this?


Whitehouse cautiously took the stone, turned it over in his hands, scratched it with his fingernail and even smelled it:


-It"s confusing...


-Okay, let's go to Aguilar, drink a sip of maize and have a bite, I have had nothing more than Malaga in my mouth since morning. There we will talk. We won"t be able to make it out without booze - said Mackliff, rising.


They went past the corral, where in piles of half-baked eggplants pigs were languid with the heat; past wicker baskets with fading in the sun tobacco leaves, which two children were hanging out to dry; passed the canopy under which three very old men knocked the dominoes, bypassed the adobe building that resembled a miniature fort with loopholes facing the jungle, where sat a thin bored young man in a mangy sombrero, with an aged Brazilian IMBEL rifle in his hands.


Astronauts walked round a pile of empty boxes from sardines, instant coffee, cigarettes, and stew, and plunged into the narrow entrance of one of the huts, screened by a mosquito net.


The host was not home.


Without much ado Mackliff opened the doors of a coarse buffet and pulled out a bowl of guava, a bottle with a worn label "Amoretti" and sat down on the floor:


- I think old Aguilar will not mind if I leave him a fat rabbit instead of this sour stuff.

Dybal and Whitehouse also sat on the mud floor, legs folded, and Ponce settled near a small window and started snapping the rifle trigger, out of which Mackliff has prudently taken the magazine.


Having made a sip from a bottle of corn vodka, Dybal perched on a hammock, causing it to sag almost to the floor and said dreamily:


-It"s nice here. Maybe I should stay... Marry some fawn with brown eyes and a passionate spirit. I would shoot parrots in the forest and write memoirs.


-Look at him. Do not relax. You will come with us.


-Where to, John?


-We"ll find a way. - Mackliff, wincing had half a cup of vodka with sweet guava and took the stone from Whitehouse:


Let us return to our muttons. I would say it's a piece of basalt, exposed to extremely high temperatures, combined with some chemical catalyst. Look, it is porous like a sponge, as if it boiled.


- Maybe it is a result of volcano activity. - The navigator asked uncertainly.


- Well, if we consider that the nearest Rouse volcano is a hundred miles to the south. No. It is too far. And the magma does not have such texture. Hey, Al, do you have more of these stones?


-As much as you like. The canyon is full of them.


- I think that this is the work of a man. I'm sure of it. It is some kind of experiment. This must be a proving ground for testing new weapons. It"s either that or the SAU"s or Islamists, or all of them together. The place is suitable. Whitehouse moved the jaw muscles and shook his fist at blank space:


- So, it is the base. Now I understand why they kill hunters at the canyon. Once I had to deal with an Islamist base in the Turkish Eskshihone. We must do away with them. I'm going. What about you? John, Al?


Mackliff frowned:


- If the war is on, then it is logical. And what if there"s no war? Imagine what hell the BIG"s will raise: a terrorist group of Americans, a German and a Russian attacked their military object. What if they're producing a fertilizer instead of guns? So do not get excited. We should wait for Aydem and the Colonel to talk things over. I think we should gather more information about the Canyon, try to communicate with Central Office get the instructions and find out the situation in the world.


Whitehouse angrily waved:


- When did you become such a formalist? -


Flight engineer scowled and with one gulp drank a second helping of maize.


Swaying in a hammock and driving away the flies from perspiring face, Dybal quietly talked to Ponce about something.


When Whitehouse finished squabbling with Mackliff, Dybal said: - All we know about the Canyon at this point is what the hunters who managed to get back out of there alive told us. The Canyon is fifteen miles from the village, in the south-west it winds from the Buendia Mountain to Braziliera River. It is deep. In some places, stone flies to the bottom in fifteen seconds, but there are shallow areas with gentle slopes. At the bottom there is a stream - El Coyote.


Almost nothing grows there. But on the slopes there is a lot of Malaga and yams, that wild pigs like so much.


The name: Canyon of Aborning Rocks emerged long before the Kichak came here from the coast of Lake Maracaibo. This is the name they have adopted from Chiapas, now extinct. They say that at night an underground buzz can be heard in the valley, someone is tinkering there and rattling with stones.


And every morning new heaps of porous rocks appear. Chiapas had a legend that an evil spirit of mountains Uamiyasos lives there, devouring stones and sending terrible storms, from which the rocks collapse. Before the beginning of the dry season all Kichak collect blood-red iris flowers, and the elder of the tribe goes to the Canyon and drops down a basket with flowers, tobacco, biscuits.


He also throws chickens, best fighting roosters, pigs. And then he jumps there himself.


Otherwise Uamioyasos will get angry, and the land will not bear fruit, the game will leave this place, springs will dry up, women will not be able to conceive and only boys-warriors will be born in the matilones' tribe. That's your proving ground.


-The fact that Kichak still do sacrifice, does not exclude the presence of a base, - Mackliff said grimly.


Dybal shrugged and pulled out another cigar from his shorts.


Mackliff pinched his nose:


- Would you please stop smoking this stuff? That smell is killing me.


Navigator just grinned, lighting a cigarette. An elderly Indian with a face carved with deep wrinkles; long, flowing hair, captured with a colored ribbon, faded army-type shirt, splashed with fresh blood and a sharpened Navajo in his mighty hand quietly entered the room.


Whitehouse instinctively reached for the bottleneck and hauled off.


But the Indian exchanged a few words with Dybal and left.


Ponce gave up playing with a rifle and followed him, not forgetting, however, to grab his stone.


-Drop the bottle, Ronnie. This is Aguilar. He had just killed a pig. He returned from the desert with Saurno and Aydem and the Colonel sent some good news. They were finally able to banish the matilones from the pass. We are going to have a celebration tonight.

Commander of the destroyed "Independence" Shuttle - Dick Aydem - stood leaning against the door of a "Jeep" and watched Saurno Santo cleaning battery terminals with a shabby piece of sandpaper.

The battery has been hopelessly dead long ago, but with a strange persistence the Indian tried to squeeze at least a couple amps out of it, apparently not believing that a loosened engine could be started with a handle.

-All right, Saurno, this is a bad job. Look - Aydem gently pushed the Indian away from the dusty motor, slammed the hood, sat behind the wheel and pressed the brake.

Saurno stood in a ridiculous pose with eyes widening with terror, watching the car rush down a narrow, winding road at high speed.

When the "Jeep" was out of sight, he crossed himself and clenched an amulet with an image blurred from sweat in his fist:

-This is not the most decent way to die.

As if in an answer, he heard a roar of the started engine from the bottom and the car began to slowly but confidently climb the hill.

People had already fled from the side of the village as the patrol reported that Saurno and Aydem got stuck in two hundred meters from the village.

Once the car had drifted smartly onto a small patch between the houses, with a bunch of kids shaking in it and the dust dispersed; Aydem saw three figures standing in poses of the Wild West pioneers.

These were Mackliff, Whitehouse and Dybal.

They were smiling.

Aydem shook their hands for a long time as if he had not seen them for many years, although four days ago he drank maisbrand with Mackliff and Dybal for the return.

He touchingly kissed the giant Whitehouse, asking whether it was hard to pull his hulk in the desert, to what the pilot replied that he had never hauled semi-corpses in 50-degree heat.

Then they all moved to Aguilar.

On the way back Aydem showed the transformations of reactive water from the recovered flask to kids squealing with delight; and Whitehouse received his "Viking combat" from shy Saurno. The reason of his embarrassment soon became clear: the Indian, trying the gun, had spent almost all the bullets.

Except for the half-emptied flask Aydem and Saurno could not find anything else.

No logbook tapes or transmitter or cadmium absorber.

They were even unable to find the container itself. All they discovered was just a strangely broad dune in place of its fall, and a few cellophane wrappers, in which the SAU commandos got their packed meal biscuits.

Aguilar put maisbrand to use, a few shots of which made Saurno show his missing front tooth and claim that it was done by the hands or rather feet of Whitehouse, who at the time of his salvation being unconscious, started waving his limbs, nearly causing the car to turn over; which would have been fatal in the sandstorm, and thus knocked out his tooth.

The Indian then drank some more and sat down near Whitehouse. With the help of Dybal he started asking questions about his well-being, mood, future plans.

The hunter finally became more specific, although he spoke in a roundabout way.

- We the Kichak are proud people. But there are very few of us left. We do not enrage the spirits of the mountains and the desert. We do not forget about Christ. We do not kill more game than we can eat; we never bring down more trees than we need for building houses, cooking and making palm soap. We honor the graves of our ancestors, and keep to our traditions. But tell me, Big Alien, what happens when a sister marries a brother?

Children are born with tails and eight fingers on the hand. They are thrown from the rock of grief into the abyss. We cannot feed them. All that takes life power from our women puts wrinkles on their faces and makes their hair gray. At the same time matilones multiply like rabbits in hot summer and wait. They know how to do away with us without using the assault rifles. Listen, Big Alien, I find you amid the cries of the Great Desert, my brothers killed two commandos snipers on the spurs of the mountains, who were hunting on you and your friends, my mother Unsuna nursed you.

Tell me, would you refuse to help a small endangered clan? You're so big and strong, but are you going to leave tomorrow and carry away your power, which we crave for?

When Saurno ended his impassioned speech, Dybal could not refrain from laughing, when he saw Whitehouse blink helplessly not knowing what he should say in response and what to do: whether to escape from the grip of the Kichak, or kiss him like a father.

Meanwhile they heard that cock fight has begun at Rodriguez", and most of the guests went there. Mackliff also reached for the door, but Aydem held him, and they began to wail "I am Yankee diddle dandy". Aguilar banged on a tambourine, and Saurno"s daughters swirled in a strange, mysterious dance.

Saurno, still hanging on Whitehouse, continued: - Here they are: my daughters, my pride. Manuela, Chabela and Huayaakava. Look what tight breasts, agile hips and gentle hands they have. Any of them would agree to marry you, happy to share your bed. She would hover around your body, like a flock of orioles at your brow...

- But I have a wife and two sons waiting for me at home, in Boston... - Whitehouse said dejectedly, - I am very much obliged to you, Saurno, I owe you my life, but I cannot stay here. I have to go with my friends. We are one crew. The crew of "Independence," and while we are together, the shuttle cannot be considered lost. Do you understand me?

The Kichak suddenly saddened, sat for a while in silence, rubbing an amulet on his chest, and then said:

- No one can keep you in Magdalena, Big Alien. It is a pity. But you do not have to stay here; at least we'll all be praying Baurahirta for this. We like you. But a couple of sleepless nights in my humble home, alternately in hammocks of Manuela, Chabela and Huanakava does not seem much of a fee for the rescue, shelter and food.

-For God's sake, Saurno I have comrades. Why are not they suitable for this?

-The Kichak are proud, they do not let their women spread for any man. They need fresh blood, but depravity is not allowed by the gods - Saurno raised his chin and tottered out.

At his last words Dybal coughed, choked and whispered to Whitehouse:

- The first thing I"m going to do when I return to Mac Clellan is call Deborah and tell her what her husband was doing in his working hours in Magdalena village.

- Screw you ... - suddenly angrily said Whitehouse and concentrated on roasting the pig under a spicy sauce of eggplant and garlic.

Totally drunk Aydem walked in a circle of dancers, looking somewhat like a heron or a chicken, keeping balance with difficulty so as not to fall down.

Mackliff was asleep: his face buried in Aguilar"s shoulder, muttering something and driving away unseen flies.

***

- No one can keep you in Magdalena, Big Alien. It is a pity. But you do not have to stay here; at least we'll all be praying Baurahirta for this. We like you. But a couple of sleepless nights in my humble home, alternately in hammocks of Manuela, Chabela and Huanakava does not seem much of a fee for the rescue, shelter and food.

-For God's sake, Saurno I have comrades. Why are not they suitable for this?

-The Kichak are proud, they do not let their women spread for any man. They need fresh blood, but depravity is not allowed by the gods - Saurno raised his chin and tottered out.

At his last words Dybal coughed, choked and whispered to Whitehouse:

- The first thing I"m going to do when I return to Mac Clellan is call Deborah and tell her what her husband was doing in his working hours in Magdalena village.

- Screw you ... - suddenly angrily said Whitehouse and concentrated on roasting the pig under a spicy sauce of eggplant and garlic.

Totally drunk Aydem walked in a circle of dancers, looking somewhat like a heron or a chicken, keeping balance with difficulty so as not to fall down.

Mackliff was asleep: his face buried in Aguilar"s shoulder, muttering something and driving away unseen flies.


11.


- That"s right. But if you're all so smart, then tell me - the old martinet - how is this BIG base being supplied and where are its emissions, why had not anyone seen its outside patrols, as well as its air intake ventilation systems - Colonel of the German Raumvaffe, Manfred von Conrad, treading on Mackliff"s hills, went on with his well-structured logical attack - and I cannot understand why the base has not yet been detected by the PPI system? (*PPI - plan-position indicator system)

Mackliff kept silent, he was angry, knowing that Colonel"s tedious arguments were clear and logical: "Oh God, what if it really is not the SAU or the BIG base? But who kills the Kichak and Matelones then? Is it some evil spirit, some kind of Uamioyasos? '.

Flight engineer tried to drive away these thoughts quickly and concentrated on walking.

They walked in a chain through the raw jungle, stepping over fallen trees, pushing, and sometimes cutting through the brush.

Ahead was Saurno Santo, the only Kichak, who offered them to show the way to the Aborning Rocks Canyon. In the morning, before they hit the road, accompanied by the lamentations of his wife and daughters, he brushed the gun and painted his face in white and red stripes and zigzags with ocher mixed in egg white.

All of a sudden the Indian stopped, froze with a machete poised over the head, with which he was about to strike a ball of rotten vines blocking the way.

He turned his tense face covered in war paint to Mackliff and poked with a wide blade somewhere in front of him:

- There's something there.

Mackliff raised his hand, and they all stood still, bristling all around with rifles of different caliber.

- I must have been mistaken - the Indian squatted wearily, slowly looking around; his eyes on the foliage of subtropical thicket as if trying to penetrate deep into it with his gaze.

The others caught up with them, in the same order as they have left: Aydem with tow coils on his shoulders and a bag of climbing casing; Dybal carrying a bulky backpack with food and Whitehouse with hanging head to toe pouches of ammunition, signal pistols, trotyl blocks and smoke boxes - all that he managed to gather in Magdalena, including a pound of the most powerful explosive gelatin RO-1000.

Dybal bent forward to their guide, leaning against the trunk of an automatic rifle:

-Are we keeping to the road, which Rodriguez and Miaurso were talking about?

- No. We can"t use the same route twice. Especially if Uamioyasos has taken the last traveler who went that way. - Saurno closed his eyes, - Now we go to the right. I remembered. Ahead lies the place where five matilones have been killed a year ago. Their skeletons are still there.

We will go to the ridge, where the El Coyote becomes a waterfall.

-Saurno, Aguilar told me that down the waterfall only mountain goats would be able to descend. There is a steep slope - Dybal signaled the others not to settle for rest, - Moreover, we do not have much time left before the sunset.

You can do as you wish, alien, but Saurno wants you to be left alive. Yes, there is a cliff at the Transparent Spit, and the stone flies down fifteen moments, but none of the hunters have died there.

- Well, Saurno. Lead us to the Transparent Spit. The party followed their guide.

Boots sank into the yielding soil, moist and soft, like volcanic ash.

Above their heads, in the branches of orange trees, in the thicket of unbearably - spiky acacia, parrots were crying, drowning trills of canaries and orioles, bee-eaters were scampering about, curious but cautious monkeys uselessly fussed.

Sometimes they came across strange swampy areas and the walking churned stinky plant film with their soles, or a road was blocked by chestnuts standing trunk to trunk with ivy twined over them and they had to tediously cut through them for a long time, scattering spiders and snakes.

Once they came upon a simple cross made of ayama twigs, bound with a bit of string.

Indian lingered over the cross:

- Here three years ago, a lost boy saw a transparent man. Perhaps it was one of the souls of Uamioyasos.

It was getting dark.

The meager light coming under the tree arches became so weak that Whitehouse, trailing the group, could no longer distinguish Mackliff"s back against the black foliage. Buzzing of mosquitoes became louder, more insistent, and through the luscious scent of gardenias and begonias, in the hubbub of the asleep forest they could hear sharp crying of night birds.

Several times Saurno stopped them with a wave of his hand:

"Jaguar is on the loose. We will not disturb him. "

The loud, steady sound of water could be heard nearby.

Mold and white pancakes of fungi emerged in abundance on the trunks.

Moss beneath the feet became softer, larger.

The waterfall was not more than half a mile away, when a flock of frightened wild pigeons flushed to their right in the night sky.

Saurno crossed himself quickly and unlocked the rifle:

-Birds. Uamioyasos came after us. Dybal laughed nervously:

-If this is the spirit of rocks, then why is the shutter cocked on your rifle, in this case it won"t help anyway, - he moved his compact "Sturmgewehr-543" back to his chest - but it seems to me that your Uamioyasos would not have scared the birds. He's not breaking through the thicket like a pig. He's a spirit.

- It's true - the hunter agreed with relief and then crossed again.

All except hesitating Whitehouse were already on their hunkers, leaning against the wet tree trunks, and staring into darkness, trying to catch something, anything, other than the suspicious silence of the jungle.

Groaning, cursing all South America, from Panama to Cape Horn under his breath and rattling something metallic in his bag, Whitehouse settled under a high bush of orchids plucking out the revolver from his pocket.

After a long night spent with Saurno"s daughters, he moved and thought a bit slowly. Moreover, the weight of ammunition made him very noisy.

Suddenly, something squealed, leaves fell, and the pilot"s cap was swept to a bush of saggital fern. Sprawled on the ground Whitehouse, reached out to it, and giving a quiet whistle, stuck his finger in a little hole, right in the middle of the "NASA" title:

- Damn it! I have almost got killed!

They sat in tension for about half an hour, waiting for new shots, and looking at the vague shapes of the surrounding trees through the upper ribs.

Sweat rolled down their cheeks, bent legs got heavy from rushing blood and their hearts pounded so loudly that it seemed that they could be heard a mile away.

Saurno Santo was visibly nervous: he kept pulling the slider of a thermal sight:

- Cowardly matilones. All they can is to shoot on the sly, with a silencer and a night sight. If only my eye would work...

New screeching of invisible bullet ended with a blunt blow to the willow trunk, under which sat the colonel. It flew, scattering the core all around. Nearby, a branch snapped. There was a vague rustling. He slowly moved along the chain of a lurking squad.

- I see! I can see you! - Suddenly yelled the Indian and predatorily pressed his face against the rubber eyepiece of the sight, and began firing into the darkness.

Tense silence exploded with a roar of variegated weapons. In the direction in which the guide was shooting, they were sending clip after clip; from the stomach, without aiming, because there was nowhere to aim.

The green as if cut into pieces with giant secateurs perplexedly fell down in a prancing glow of automatic fire. A stifling cloud of gunpowder smoke has formed in the area...

After a few minutes of crazed shooting, they suddenly realized that no one shot back. Ahead in the moonlight they saw a space of split, gnawed stems, finely crumbled barks and broken branches over which slowly circled and fell, bits of flower petals and small leaves.

Whitehouse launched two consecutive flares.

They flashed into dazzling white dots, and, dropping sparks, hung over the forest.

Saurno began moving slowly, very slowly, amidst this devastation.

- I have a feeling that we have missed, quietly said Von Conrad, wonderingly touching the hot barrel of his automatic rifle.

-And where were we supposed to aim? - Dybal spat angrily and started searching for a hunting knife he had dropped in the grass. - I doubt that superstitious Indians would go to the Canyon at night. Not counting Saurno, of course. He is almost Ronald"s relative now...

The wind carried away the missile parachutes to the tops of high chestnuts, where they died out. Whitehouse wanted to launch the second pair, but saw that the Indian has returned:

- There were three of them. They came from the north-west. We have wounded one. I saw a lot of blood. This is strange...

- What is strange? - Wondered Dybal- That we have wounded one? Poor fellow, that matilones.

- It is strange that they attacked us. There were six of us, and only the three of them. It is not in the nature of matilones. I think they weren"t shooting at us. They were shooting at someone else. But I did not find other people's tracks - the Indian paused, clenching the amulet in his fist. - I found a severed finger. When matilones want to drive away the spirit of death, they cut off the little finger and hang it on the bush.

-What do you mean "didn"t shoot at us"! Ronald"s head has almost been blown up. What if the SAU soldiers are here somewhere?

-Exactly. That means there is still a base in the valley - the approaching Mackliff shook the rifle. - All right, we'll show them.

Von Conrad smiled ironically:

-If this had been the security of the base we would not have been left alive.

-I do not know about the security, but we must vanish away from here. And soon, - concluded Mackliff looking expectantly at the Indian. Now they were going in a tight group, stopping frequently, allowing Saurno to listen to the breath of the forest, and look around with the all-seeing eye of an infrared sight.

The small troop scattered in a chain in front of a suspicious bush, and hunkered; trying to examine every branch, every snag, in case it would swing, or a strange shadow would creep along.

-The waterfall. Rather, what the Kichak called the Transparent Spit Fall.

A modest but noisy stream, falling in some places from hollows carved in giant boulders. Echo multiplied and repeated its sound that wandered between the sheer basalt cliffs, turning into a threatening, monotonous roar.

The moon, free from the clouds cast sharp, short shadows on the terrain of a distanced bottom of the Aborning Rocks Canyon and on the faces of people looking into it.

-That"s it. I can"t go any further. Uamioyasos will not forgive my family and all the Kichak for that - Saurno said softly, standing over the abyss. - I'm leaving.

-Hell, Saurno, how are we going to come back without you? - said the navigator, irritated.

-Will come back? - The guide turned his puzzled face to him. - You are alive because someone is standing up for you. Downstairs no angel will help you. The spirit of the mountains rules there. You should not, you cannot go back.

-Saurno, wait for us tomorrow noon at the glade of three intergrown chestnuts. - Dybal said, trying to avoid the mournful stare of the guide.

- Good. I'll be there at noon. May God Januarius and the spirit of St. Siedomenis protect you.

- Damned kamikaze, Shiite bombers - Whitehouse grumbled, sliding down, barely holding onto the rope knots tied every two feet.

Narrow straps of the backpack which was stuffed with ammunition, cut into his shoulders, and a bag with explosive gelatin rubbed the neck. - Imagine what noise I"m going to make, if I fall down with this thing.

Aydem, the first who came down, was holding the lower end of the rope so that Whitehouse would not swing in the wind, but he still rocked like a heavy pendulum, knocking either the knee, or the elbow against the protruding rocks.

Splashes from the waterfall were in the air.

Sweaty palms slipped on the soaked rope.

The descent seemed endless.

-What"s taking you so long, Ronnie - said Aydem, pulling the dancing rope again, Mackliff has started to come down. - Apparently you liked hanging out in pitch darkness above the exotic places.

- Jokes aside, Dick. I"m in low spirits. Instead of the post-flight rest in Mc Clellan we have to climb the mountains and expose our heads to the bullets of crazy Indians. Or maybe not the Indians - there is no making head or tail of it - Astronaut nestled by a mossy boulder, dropped the hated backpack and took a sip of pumpkin juice with some powder which Saurno had mixed in Magdalena, claiming that it was the vigor root. - Ugh, hell! Damn Kichak spoiled the juice. There"s only pepper... Dick, tell me if you want to change.

-Relax, Ronnie.

Whitehouse sat helplessly rubbing his watery eyes, swallowing the bitter saliva with difficulty. But a minute later his condition improved, his head cleared, he felt lightness in his body.

Saurno"s drink was not so bad, after all.

He engaged in sorting the remaining ammunition.

Something was bothering him, and he kept turning his head, peering into scattered rocks, into flecks of El Coyote - he could feel a subtle presence.

- Here take a sip: it's a rare pick-me-up. - Whitehouse gave the jar to descended Mackliff.

-Why are you so overwrought, as if you have been cheated on one hundred dollars? - Mackliff drank the juice and made a face. - Ugh, how disgusting.

You know, John, there is something strange going on.

-What a surprise. It was clear from the start. There is some strange vibration. I can feel in my legs. Here, put your ear to any stone - said Mackliff.

Whitehouse clung to a boulder on which he was sitting:

-Jeez, you are right! When I visited my brother"s mines in Pennsylvania, there was the same noise when a tunneling shield was on.

- Why are you yelling, it is not a baseball game. - Manfred von Conrad came down.

- This vibration, as if a 40-tonne "Caterpillar" works underground. - Is That it? And what about the distant roar? It's not a waterfall - Colonel paused, turning his grey head from side to side.

- My gut tells me, it's the Arabs - Mackliff loaded his rifle grenade launcher and nestled it between his knees.

- What a bore you are, John. You keep talking about the Arabs - interfered Dybal. He jumped onto the rocks near Aydem, hung on a rope with all his weight and jerked it.

The rope untied from the hook on top, and fell down on the heads of the astronauts, writhing like a snake.

Whitehouse, taking its coils off his neck, grunted unhappily:

-When I was a Boy Scout, they used to deprive of all the badges for such things.

For a while the astronauts sat in silence.


***


Sheer cliffs towered over them, dimly lit by the moonlight; watery dust from the falls was in the air, wind howled as if in a wind tunnel of the Mountain View proving ground. They were cut off from their world, a world where the lights of MCC Canaveral remote control were flashing, technicians fussed by the launch ducts at Mc Clellen landfill; and in a smoky, cozy cellar of 79th Avenue in New York, lame Campbell carried the mugs of dark beer and snow-white froth flew down in flakes on the shoes of dancing couples.

Right now they were silently chewing spicy millet flour crackers and trembled every time they heard sharp wing-claps of bats that nested in numerous caves.

They still had a chance to go back, put steel grapnels on their feet and climb to the top. They could still find Saurno and promise him a mountain of gold and a forester mortar thus talking him into a walking tour from Panama, through Honduras and Guatemala to Mexico, hiding in the jungle from the SAU commandos. But no one even thought of doing it.

-Well, then, guys. Either we are standing above a volcanic activity zone or this is some kind of an object. But a strange object. There are no barbed wires, no mined areas, no roadway. No protection and outdoor surveillance systems.

No air conditioning vents. The object is somewhere close, but we didn't get into trouble yet. Except for Matilones - the Colonel was thoughtful for a while and was just about to light a cigar, but came to his senses and put it back in his sleeve pocket - Either we are still far from their vital centers, entrances, air shafts, antennas, etc., or we have jumped to conclusions. In any case, now we have only one way to go: along the creek. I consider it appropriate to assign an implicit commander. We have to be well organized to fight against whatever it is that lays ahead. Otherwise we will die for nothing.

-Aydem should be our commander - said Whitehouse.

-To be honest, guys, I know little about the land tactics - smiled Aydem. - I am more of a pilot, an astronaut.

-And I'm good at any tactics: underground, on-land, on-water, - Mackliff said with excitement. I have a medal for Istanbul.

-So what, John? Whitehouse also has a medal for Istanbul. He even took the commandos courses. True, Ronnie? - Dybal intervened.

-Stop bragging, guys, you are not at a show. John you can only box at the ring with a temper of yours. You are the first to go ahead and do something stupid. - Aydem suddenly became serious. - We will be commanded by Manfred. He is the most experienced among us.

- I agree- mumbled Mackliff. Dybal pulled his hand up as if ready to answer:

-May I be the chief of staff?

-Don't be a fool, Al. That's not the time to scoff; - Whitehouse put his finger to the temple and started filling the spare magazines for his rifle.

-Hey, what's that? - Mackliff said in a choking voice, pointing at a dark lofty grotto a few hundred yards away from the Falls.

Astronauts jumped up from their seats and scattered, dissolving among the boulders.

All that was left on the sand of El Coyote stream is a ribbed footprint of the twenty-ninth size, which was slowly being washed away.

A cloud of dust rose from the grotto.

They could clearly see as it swirled, spread and fell down on the background of illuminated rocks. The hum and the vibration increased.


Whitehouse has even opened his mouth, so as not to crush his teeth:

-The last thing we need is to be covered with a landslide.

-I will get closer - Mackliff rose from behind a rock, but von Conrad managed to hold him by the belt of his jumpsuit:

- Do not move. Or you will destroy us.

A deafening screeching sound could be heard above the Canyon: as if an aircraft carrier scraped the coastal reefs with its bottom. Something squealed hysterically and then burst, and a pile of stones showed in the grotto, pushed out by something extremely powerful.

Astronauts thought they were dreaming, because the stones were transparent as a soap film.

No doubt these were pieces of rock.

They roared, rolled, scattered and with hot hissing flopped into the creek.

They had a shape, and casted shadows, but, it seemed they had no substance; they were there, and at the same time they were not.

A turn of the Canyon could be seen clearly through this strange placer as well as low niches in the weathered basalt, and bats rushing about in panic.

Finally, against the background of the illuminated rock showed the thing which set this mountain of rubble in motion: impalpable as a ghost.

Strings of blue lights as if short-circuited sometimes ran along the bent outline, which had covered the hiding people with a huge shadow.

Whitehouse finished the contents of Saurno"s flask in one gulp and carefully crawled to Aydem:

-Can you see him, Dick?

-Whom should I be seeing?

- Uamioyasos.

- You have lost your mind. That is a machine; a superbly camouflaged mechanism. And the formation is treated with something. You can put me on electric chair if it is not an excavator; - softly said Aydem and waved to the colonel who was giving them some signs. - Ok, let's go slowly along the cliff.

-What if it is a tank? - Asked Whitehouse afterwards and was somehow ashamed of his own words. Ah, damn Islamists, see what they have invented. Found themselves a soft spot. Well, now we will have to disturb them.

Meandering like a giant lizard Whitehouse crawled right after Aydem. A little to the right, behind the basalt boulders gleamed with dull light a barrel of a grenade launcher.

That was Mackliff walking there.

On the other side of the stream two shadows were moving gently: the Colonel and Dybal.

Meanwhile the machine has finished pushing the stones to the opposite wall of the Canyon, and having reversed, hid in the cave.

- I think we're going to be late for the party, - Whitehouse muttered under his breath, and in short dashes began to cross the space in front of the grotto.

Blood hammered in his temples, throat burned from the Indian beverage, a stone, which God knows how has gotten in his shoe made the ankle unbearably sore, but the mind was clearly focused on the only important thing: the entrance to the grotto. Astronauts were now openly running, knowing that if the Canyon was under security, they have been already noticed.

They knew perfectly well what might follow: quietly humming with electric motors the small hatches painted in basalt color would slide aside; and the computer sights would seize the figures of attackers in a death grip; they would be in the loop of heavy machine guns and napalm bazookas, and people would first turn into flying chunks of flesh and bones, blood splashing fountains, and then into burning lumps.

They were ready for it; and they hastened, trying to pass this dangerous place as fast as possible.

Mackliff rushed forward like a madman.

It seemed to him that he was tearing to the machine-gun spots of the BIT paratroopers having just fallen out of a burning armored troop-carrier that had been disabled by the Arab artillery from the left bank of Kaрэthane; the Beyoрlu area is on fire, his lieutenant's suit is emitting smoke...

He was the first to dash into the echoing arches of the cave, turned a somersault over the elbow just in case and rolled to a smooth wall, putting his finger on a trigger of the grenade launcher.

Ahead he expected to see anything: barrels of automatic guns, streams of napalm rushing in the face, a cloud of poison, but there was nothing but buzzing void in front of him.

Whitehouse stumbled over his foot and fell down:

-Strike me dead, if I see something in this darkness. Well, what have you got here?

- Silence.

- Go on, forward, it"s not the time to sprawl! - Von Conrad rushed past them with a roar. - Hurry!

Aydem quickly moved behind the colonel, ignoring the fact that his foot which stepped on the invisible stones, was a foot away from the visible foothold.

Dybal moved in small dashes, crouching and taking short steps like a ninja.

Mackliff and Whitehouse rushed after them.

They have been running blindly for a long time, turning into the side tunnels, at times narrow or wide, but with equally smooth walls, that looked as if they were polished.

Bundles of wires and cables were stretched along the walls, orange lamps glowed darkly.

Sometimes they came across tablets that resembled signs with cryptic symbols, small boxes, winking with colored lights, little devices, looking like optical sensors.

Mackliff crushed the panels and optics with a butt and his feet, leaving showers of sparks and stink of burning insulation behind him.

After a few minutes of a crazy race, astronauts have burst into a huge hall, the high vault of which was supported by basalt columns that were left after the excavation of rocks. Huge machines with protruding bucket type units resembling the mouths of insects stood between the columns.

Steel-gray streamlined bodies had no hint of seams, rivets, levers or control panels. No lugs.

They were smooth, as if casted.

- Whoa! Look at these toys! - Dybal was just going to open his mouth but Aydem tugged at his sleeve:

- Shut up.

Distinct steps could be heard somewhere above their heads; not even steps, rather some average sound between a rolling over empty gasoline barrel, and a howl of two-handled saw, when it is scraped with a nail.

A small metal cylinder slid down a flat ramp to the illuminated area between the machines; effortlessly took a vertical position, and barely touching the floor, drifted towards one of the large objects.

The machine met it with an opening in its armor, where the cylinder inserted a device similar to a computer joint.

The lights of the cylinder were flashing for some time, apparently demanding something from the machine, but it did not respond. The cylinder repeated its attempts for a while and then drove to the closet, in which the bundles of cables and wires were gathered.

- Something is not working there - Aydem said quietly, breathing in the back of Whitehouse. - Probably because of the fact that we have broken something on our way here.

Meanwhile the cylinder inserted a plug into a socket of the closet and the cave was instantly filled with a roar of sirens, searchlights flashed blindingly below the vault, and all arches leading to the hall were closed with panels of dull metal.

- He raised the alarm! A bastard! - Yelled Mackliff.

He broke away from Dybal and fired the grenade right into the lights of the cylinder. Without waiting for the explosion echo to stop, he started shooting explosive bullets at the crashed mechanism.

Small scraps of metal, tangles of wires and parts got scattered to the winds.

Finally, jet black smoke rose from the mechanical mess and everything blazed crimson. Mackliff continued shooting for some time, showing his ivories, until von Conrad shouted right in his ear: -Joe! Get out! Joe!

To the howl of the sirens they rushed back, but it was too late.

All the exits have already been closed. There was only one way, up the ramp, from where the robot-cylinder came down. At the end of the rise, they collided with two more cylinders. Robots tried to hide in the side aisle, but were shot pointblank and tumbled down to the floor.

-Aaaaaaa! - The five astronauts without thinking or counting on anything, burst into a large room, packed with sophisticated equipment, sensors and display screens. In front of the display with rapidly changing symbols were two operators' chairs on wheels.

A still steaming cup with some flavored drink was on the table.

Within seconds it was all ruined, torn, broken, shot, plastered with explosive gelatin and turned into dust.

The thunder of explosion has not yet ceased, but the attackers had already fled further: among the tinted glass doors, chirping devices and nervously blinking lights of emergency warning.

This devastating advance lasted for a long, endlessly long time, with shooting at flickering, frightened shadows in the side aisles, chopping cables with sharpened machetes, throwing incendiary rockets into computer niches and soft fleecy tracks and shouting. They were intoxicated by the success of their onslaught, they were strong and sure of themselves and they forced their way further down, until at one of the rooms, a fiery zigzag flew at them.

A heavy metal frame of a ridiculous unit behind which they were able to hide, melted and cracked from the blow of the discharge.

Those who blocked the path appeared from behind the acrid smoke.

Slowly, as if reluctantly, the seven-foot monsters were approaching, thrusting thick hands covered in thin tubes, which blasted with short flashes.

Explosive bullets bounced like peas off their sloping helmets with small slits of optical devices, the last grenade ricocheted from the chest of one of the counter-attackers with a wild howl.

- Shoot! Conrad! Ronnie! - Shouted Mackliff, shaking the empty rifle.

-Come on, shoot them! - Shouted Whitehouse, turning a flare into the remains of explosive gelatin.

Dybal shot out the last cartridge and was looking for something heavy. Suddenly, the advancing silhouettes became invisible, like that machine in the grotto. Only vague shapes were slightly distorting space. They were already in some ten paces when Whitehouse cried:

- Get down! - And threw his improvised mine over a pile of smoldering furniture and broken devices. The blasts made the suspended metal ceiling crash down and throw off like a feather two potbellied tanks along with granite curbstones.

The containers cracked, and caustic fuming liquid poured out.

"The most devastating is an explosion in confined space, with momentary excessive pressure of two hundred pounds per square inch, Mr. Chairman of the Examination Committee ..." - a thought flashed in the head of Whitehouse.

Blood gushing from his throat, he fell onto the sprawled body of Aydem.

Nearby lay Mackliff and von Conrad who showed no vital signs, pressed against a collapsed wall.

Dybal was still struggling, crawling somewhere blindly and swallowing the thick dust and fumes. He was clutching softened insulation and the warm metal of collapsed beams with his broken nails; not feeling any pain, he grabbed the broken glass and was brandishing it as if it were a gun. All he could do when strong hands picked him up was to kick someone's invisible body with his boot.

***

- I am yagd Audun Tskugol. My military rank is captain-commander. I am the commander of the Strategic Intelligence Office - a tall man in a gray suit, walked in front of a steel chair, in which dejectedly sat Alexander Dybal.

Navigator"s cheek was diagonally sealed up with yellow tape; a splint was applied to his right leg just above the knee.

His head was pounding as if a cracked bell was inside it; the throat was dry from an unusual flavoring scale of a recent breakfast.

- Ah ... And I thought you were Admiral Nakhimov.

- Admiral? What Admiral? - Captain-Commander raised his eyebrow in surprise. He had thick blond hair, a long face and a tenacious steel look.

A slim, long-haired girl, almost a mulatto from her bronze tan, with straight, regular features entered the room. She laid a pack of thin paper, as if lit from within on the table of Captain-Commander:

- Yagd Tskugol, the internal communication has not yet been repaired after yesterday's attack, and yagd Teague wants to know your opinion on a number of issues, - the girl stared at Dybal with curiosity. - Is it one of those?

- Yes, Shiela. Go. Tell yagd Teague, I'll be ready to three o"clock. Natote!

- Natote - she went out.

Yagd Tskugol quickly looked through the brought papers and sat down in the chair opposite Dybal:

-So, a few questions. I know most of the answers, but it is interesting what you are going to say. Genotype?

-What? - Dybal narrowed the puffy eye.

- Your genotype.

- Chukchi - the navigator made an independent face and started looking at a panel with a ticker bar, which occupied almost the entire wall to the left of the desk.

Some long message kept sliding along the screen, "... is in the lounge, playing billiards ...

Candidate ... number 3. Is in the dining room; mushroom noodles, sour cream, steak with blood, apricots, brandy, cigarettes "Ktorvik."

Candidate ... number 4. Technical Department, viewing programs on wind tunnel management, trying to dismantle a computer-25, in the absence of attendant..."

-Okay, I see you are set to skeptical mood. You just do not understand; do not realize where you are. You have broken into Natootvaal base "Ziem-002", put out two of the three aero-energy tunnels, destroyed almost all robotic repairmen, have completely ruined the operating computers, smashed the post of orbital tracking, and a lot of other stuff. You caused great damage - Captain-Commander spoke so calmly, as if they were discussing the menu for dinner. - The station is completely defenseless against any possible attacks of the Swertz forces for a few days. If not for some circumstances, you would have long been mortified. -he made a pause and continued:

- Well, Alexander, let's go the other way. Take a look at the screen ..., - yagd Tskugol pressed something on the remote to the right of the table, and a fuzzy picture appeared on a flat floor to ceiling screen.

Dybal was surprised to see the "Udarnik" cinema, behind the bridge, a turn to the Alexander Garden, the Kremlin, himself, leaning over the old "Lada", a bottle of champagne in his hand. His mother standing by his side, some smiling people...

- It's you with your mother and several classmates after graduation from MIREA. Your cousin is shooting -, said yagd Tskugol enclosing the image and propped his square chin with his fist - look further: images began to change at a moderate rate. The computer having adjusted to the old photos was surely perfecting them to absolutely clear, colored, holographic images.

Dybal became younger, more serious, and big-headed.

In the last photo, a thoughtful toddler with a lace collar looked from the screen, clutching a huge phone handle in his plump hand.

- Not bad. Quite a detailed dossier - Dybal grinned leaning back in his chair - Do you have a museum named after me? What is it all for?

-We need you.

-As for the meat stew? You have everything. So much high-tech shit here. Why do you need ordinary astronauts? The world is full of those... Bundles and bundles of them... I do not understand... This is nonsense... Well, all right... I"m intrigued... Go ahead, ask your cop-questions... - the navigator gingerly touched his face covered with a plaster.

Tskugol didn"t move a muscle:

-Genotype?

-Russian.

-What would like to do after the contract with NASA?

-Recruit to the new term, if they take me. I love space. You can sit back and mess about for months...For instance I love making poems...

...And only women misses sailor in his tour...

...His dear life he is supposed to cherish,

Love it and rescue as he knows for sure

Those true to her, she wouldn"t leave, they wouldn"t perish...

-What else do you like except the space and poems? - Suddenly perked up the commander.

-My Mother, Father, even though he left us, automatic weapons, my jalopy car, women, smartly illustrated historical anthologies. Nice booze with good friends. That"s all.

-Like that spree at Aguilar"s? - smiled yagd Tskugol inappreciably.

Dybal stared at him perplexedly:

-Are you following me from my birth until now?

-No, just after the collision of "Independence" and "Das Rhein." We are interested in your behavior in extreme situations: the orbital battle with Islamists, the ingenious escape in the dumpsters, your trip through the desert. Our observation probe was constantly following you.

Dybal was thoughtful for a while:

-What about those SAU pilots who crashed into the ground during our search? There was some strange object?

-They have almost found your container. We had to knock down two Coast Guard fighters to give you the opportunity to demonstrate your endurance and perseverance.

-And what if we were to die there in the desert, would not you help us? - the navigator frowned.

-We are not a rescue service. We have other aims. Forget it. Let"s go further. How do you find long trips, lengthy isolation?

-How long are the trips, and how lengthy is the isolation? - Dybal asked, lost in his thoughts.

-Well, for example, if you were to ride without stops in a solo coupe of the "World Express" round-the-world highway for five years?

-When I was on probation period at NASA's training center in Mac Clellen, they treacherously parachuted me to the Alaska taiga for three months. A survival test. I have almost gone nuts there. I came across that grizzly bear there...

-All right, let's continue without wasting words - Captain-Commander smiled again, - What is the amount of cash or other forms of material interest that you rate your professional abilities, provided that you would not be able to spend it on Earth for a long time?

- What do you mean?

-What do you want for the hard work away from home?

-What do you have? - Quickly asked Dybal.

-Everything - yagd Tskugol turned to the running line, which stopped and blinked anxiously at a phrase "candidate-4 Technical Department". Obeying to the button yagd Tskugol pressed, the screen displayed an image, cut in half by some kind of a barrier. On the right, two tall, giant men in overalls with "VH" hash marks, and lightning in their buttonholes, tried to force a door marked "Sector V. Technical Department of energy systems.15367."

On the left side of the barrier, staring at a flexible door, groaning under the pressure was Whitehouse. Bent over gutted insides of a large computer system He quickly wielded a fork:

-Hey, you, out there in the hallway! What do you need? Go away until you got a kick in the face!

The door finally fell down with a crash and several huge creatures in black overalls leaned their weight upon Whitehouse and pushed him by his arms into the hall.

Whitehouse was smiling broadly, having put a pair of torn out informational chips under the cheek in order to destroy them later.

-Your Ronnie is a bully - suddenly said captain commander with satisfaction and leaned to the selector: - Zenklak, take the fourth to me in ten minutes. One of the escort of Whitehouse, nodded to the invisible camera.

-Well, everything is well organized here - said Dybal after a moment's pause. - I just do not understand why did you allow such a rout in the henhouse? You've been watching our group.

-A coincidence. When you were on the way to the Canyon, you were attacked by matilones. They were not attacking you, actually. Somehow they saw one of our patrols, and opened the fire. You have decided that they were shooting at you and returned fire. In the shootout our observation probe was destroyed. Having lost sight of you, we were waiting for you in a totally different place, but your squad came down by the waterfall, near the drift of soil emissions. The drift is almost unprotected as the entrance is always blocked by the bulldozer, which is stronger than any rock. I still do not understand how you managed to slip into the service yard - yagd Tskugol shrugged. - But it only increases our interest in you: this strange ability to make it out alive from absolutely dead situations. Let"s go on. We dwelt on the reward.

-First tell me what kind of work. Excuse my formalism... - said Dybal and rigidly added - if it is associated with treason of Motherland, my village or my alley...then don"t even start. And, first, tell me who you really are, damn it!

-Do not be rude, shithead - said yagd Tskugol without emotion - you behave like a gook...

Dybal looked at the Captain-Commander with some respect, and gently asked:

-Are you Russian?

-Why do you think so? Is it because of the language? You only think that you hear Moscow speech. I speak in kovakt, a common language of Natotevaal. Except kovakt there are two technical dialects; kumit and krozzekh. One is purely military; the other is official, used in government. You are fluent in all three languages, and talk to me in kovakt.

-I didn"t get it... - Dybal"s eyes widened.

-Your subconscious mind, trained in a dream, translates everything to a language convenient for you - which is Russian, and vice versa.

-What about Whitehouse, for instance?

-Tainted-English. Colonel von Conrad, a Lower Saxon dialect. And so on - yagd Tskugol rose from his chair and walked around the office. - Listen to me very carefully. No one is going to talk about it twice.

Yagd Tskugol started telling to the astonished Dybal about the Great War of Natotevaal with the three-galactic empire of Swertz.

About the war, going on for 4725 years by the chronology of the Earth, about the war for dominance in this part of the universe in which they either win or be destroyed and disappear, because the universe is two-track - and it does not have a place to retreat or hide. In a bossy tone Captain-Commander talked about the huge and merciless forces of the Swertz, about the previous war, in which the Swertz have conquered the Shvags and civilization 0015 +, and that only Natotevaal was left alone.

The Swertz have more space, more resources, and their technology is a little more sophisticated. Now the Swertz exceeds Natotevaal in all components; the flight connections VGF, FP0, VPF, planetary armored units and heavy infantry. The only thing, in which Natotevaal is stronger, is its Security Service: the clear, bold, thoughtful operations in the most vulnerable and important space areas that affect the entire course of the war.

The Commandos of Security Council are first-class, elitist units, consisting mainly of mercenaries and the Swertz call these commandos "cold stellar plasma" and "kamikaze." They hate them and at the same time are afraid of them.

Alexander Dybal nodded meaningfully, but everything got mixed up in his mind, the Captain-Commander"s story was too overwhelming.

He finally finished pacing around the table and sat down in his chair:

-You and four of your friends are totally compliant with the initial requirements of the SS HR Office. You are offered to become the "cold stellar plasma."

-And what if I decline this offer? - After a long pause said Dybal.

-You won"t. The super activists do not refuse such proposals. Moreover, protecting Natotevaal, you protect the Earth. In case of our defeat it will also be destroyed, because it is part of the Sol fortified area. Database tracking, uranium mines, patrol rheobases and patrol boats are situated here. Finally, here is the source of our "stellar plasma." People of the Earth are the best commandos.

-Of course, I am quite the adventurous type of person, but that... What about you: are you men or not? - Dybal was slightly confused.

-Not in the conventional sense. Different protein structure, and different structure of - yagd Tskugol smiled, noticing that Dybal stretched in disappointment, taking a slant at the documents brought by long-legged Shiela, who had just entered, floated with dignity, like a center of the universe, - but otherwise, we are exactly like humans. This also applies to women. This aspect probably interests you most...

-Well, that makes a change, yagd Commander, or whatever...But, I want to mention that I have a mother, father, and brother. And Ronnie has two layabout sons, a bunch of mistresses that are crazy about him. Ronald will just wither away without their attention.

-Commandos can go on leave.

-Who... Oh, I see. And where will we live here? At the base?

-Depends on the situation: warships, naval bases, training centers, the enemy planets, and health centers in the Metropolis.

-Good. You almost convinced me. And how about the other guys? Did they have a similar conversation?

-All of them gave their consent. They will start their training in a day. You will be in a special unit. You are so into each other - yagd Tskugol smiled. - Think about it, you have a whole day ahead.

-Can I ask you a question?

-Yes, please.

-Is it possible to send a message to my mother that I am alive?

-Not yet. Due to the recent events in the directories, we conduct mass recruitment of soldiers on the Earth. Agents of the Swertz are closely monitoring our activities here. They rightly associate the recruitment of commandos with a burst of activity on all our battle grounds. Your mother, as well as your friends" relatives will receive official information from NASA that the crew of "Independence" and "Das Rhein" are reported missing.

-Ah, I see how you do it! Not bad. Disappeared, they say, and that's it - Dybal took a glass with something resembling lemonade from the table in front of him and made a sip. - So, if a person dies at war, and they do not find him on the battlefield, does it mean that you have recruited him?

-It is possible. We often take candidates from the battlefields of World Wars, from car and plane crashes, fires, earthquakes, floods. Anticipating a vexing question, I would say that we never provoked these disasters or wars. All that is of your own doings, and of the Swertz agents, who sometimes even try to remove the obvious commandos candidates right on the Earth. Your second container was knocked down by the Swertz submarine. Blast it. We just cannot estimate its dislocation. The Swertz brought it here and packaged in pieces.

-I see. I'll think it over. And if I do not accept the offer...I understand... I cannot decline... Then you will just replace my brains... or something like that...

- Go, Alexander, and try not to do anything stupid, like your pilot Ronnie. He still thinks we are Arabs. Dodger. Gave a false consensus and decided to run away, gathering as much information as possible about the base. But you cannot fool the brain scanners. We know his intentions.

- Dybal got up from his soft chair, which has taken the form of his body for the time of the conversation; reached the door of thick frosted glass in two steps, and turned around:

-You have almost talked me in, Commander. But if you have lied about something, then blame yourself. We are really tough guys.

-I know, I know ... - suddenly laughed yagd Tskugol.

In the hall, the navigator face to face met with Whitehouse and his convoy. Whitehouse conspiratorially winked to Dybal, and, seizing the moment, put two tiny squares of data chips in his palm:

-Do not worry, Al, we"ll break through.

- Ronnie, you are always imagining things. They are not Arabs. Do you understand? Not Arabs. Stop this farce.

Whitehouse reacted strongly:

-And you gave in to them like a cheap whore. Traitor! - Whitehouse lunged forward trying to reach Dybal with his fist, but the convoy quickly banded him tightly and dragged away. - Traitor! Whore!

-Damn it. You can lose your mind like that - growled Dybal not realizing what he actually meant.

He sighed and went to look for Mackliff, Aydem and von Conrad.

***


When Whitehouse was brought in to see yagd Tskugol, captain commander was thoughtfully drawing a silhouette of an assault ship, which was setting for a battle turn on the cover of one of the office folders.

Whitehouse"s squabble with security took him out of his reverie and having erased the paste with a colorless sponge, he took the sheets brought by Shiela:


Digital Coded Telegram VH 35


Confidential level: B


To the Commander of the VH unit

Captain-Commander

Yagd Audun Tskugol


Yagd Captain-Commander!

I bring to your notice that, when the candidates of unit 15R: Dick Aydem, John Mackliff, Ronald Whitehouse, Alexander Dybal, Manfred von Conrad, left the orbit and landed in the area of the desert, in 1105 Kers from the base "Ziem-00", the Swertz agents have taken relatives, friends, co-workers of the candidates under supervision with the intention to capture them during a possible vacation before their leave to the battle ground of Natotevaal.

In this respect, I propose that the candidates of unit 15R should not be granted leave.


16-00.01 Junna, year 4725

from the beginnings of Natotevaal.


Natote!

Yagd Tskugol wrote in a corner of the agent"s telegram "Agreed", and looked at the sullen face of Whitehouse:

-Why did you break the computer in the wind tunnel?

-It has been already broken. I wanted to fix it - lied Whitehouse reluctantly - And then your guys broke in. They behave like idiots... Strong, though...

-If it is the fault of the security, then I apologize to you. And now I have to look through some documents. Do you mind, Ronald?

-I am in no hurry. It"s warm and dry here... - said Whitehouse and pretended to be sleeping.

Yagd Tskugol took the next piece:

Digital Coded Telegram EH 607

Confidential level: B

To the Commander of the VH unit

Captain-Commander

Yagd Audun Tskugol

Yagd Captain-Commander!

I bring to your notice that the Swertz submarine is currently in Hogfors fjord on the coast of Norway, in thirty-five Kers from Hammerfest.

Because of the training of the Norwegian Air Forces and the Navy in the area, lock scanning of the fjord is hardly possible, but all exits are safely controlled by tracking buoys.

After the end of the maneuvers, please provide a backup attack plane type "Kerents" for the destruction of the submarine."

We intend to act from the Franz Josef runway. The success of the operation is guaranteed.

Natote!

22-30.02 Junna, year 4725

from the b. of Natotevaal.

Commander of the tracking unit VH45

Lieutenant Mer Berntern


Yagd Tskugol, having signed the message with his agreement, said quietly:

-Ronald, would you like to work on Earth as a secret agent?

-I am a soldier, not a spy. I'm used to real war, - replied the pilot, lifting up his chin. -Moreover, I do not believe you.

-Here, take a look at this, - Captain Commander handed one of the messages to Whitehouse:

Digital Coded Telegram VH 708

Confidential level: B

to the Commander of the VH unit

Captain-Commander

Yagd Audun Tskugol

Yagd Captain-Commander!


I bring to your notice that today in New York we captured the Swertz agent (salesman Francis John Steinberg), who tried to inquire about the location of the candidate from the 15R unit, Ronald Whitehouse. In this case, there was a real threat to the life of relatives of the candidate.

Currently the brainwashed agent Steinberg has been decoded, but had completely lost his deep and operative memory and is now of no interest to the Department of Counterintelligence.

I propose that in case of capturing the other Swertz agents, we shall apply the method of layered brain scanning in combination with strong tranquilizers.

Natote!

Agent "Cop"


23-00.02 Junna, year 4 725.

from the b. Of Natotevaal.


-Maybe it's a fake. You could have made it yourselves... But, damn it, thanks to you my wife and sons are in mortal danger, and you want me to work for you - roared frenzied Whitehouse,-What the hell! Who are you people thinking you can be hosts on another planet!

-I would like to state that our civilization has been on Earth much longer than you, including your... apelike ancestors - yagd Tskugol said coldly. -So the question should be put this way: what are you doing on this planet? Enough of that. Okay. Stop the tantrum. We will be able to defend your relatives.

Manfred von Conrad slowly followed the instructor.

Aydem and Mackliff walked behind them.

Whitehouse and Dybal closed the rear of the student group and Dybal constantly made fun of the pilot"s obstinate desire to collect information about the base along their way, such as: pieces of wall sheathing, computer parts, lists of personnel, shift schedule, space planning.

-Listen, Ronnie, are you a robot? I have a feeling that something fused in your head - with a smile whispered Dybal to the pilot. -What proof do you need to believe that they are not Arabs?

-My intuition - snapped Whitehouse - I will destroy all of them...

Mackliff and Aydem were busy with another conversation:

-They can"t be human, Dick! Look at their skin. Normally people have either birthmarks or swollen veins here and there, or a slight reddening - a mark from a pimple left from childhood. Sticking out hair after sleep...What about wrinkles? Where are the wrinkles? No wrinkles. Even Tskugol has none on his face. And he looks no less than fifty.

-I agree. They look like mannequins or well edited photos. Have you noticed that when they walk, the silicone floor shakes slightly? Compared to us when they sit on a couch or in a chair it almost reaches the carpet. I have a feeling, John, that they are two times heavier than us.

-It is interesting to learn how it works with women here...- Dybal interfered the conversation.

Von Conrad gave him a withering look over his shoulder.

They walked through a low passage, lit with blue cold lamps.

Ergonomical control panels stretched along the walls, oval doors, with well fitted gaps, numerous large and small lifts, and metallic step ladders, which winded into hollow vertical shafts.

After another passage to the next level, von Conrad, adjusting the collar of his wide crimson shirt with zippers sewn-in the buttonholes, cleared his throat and turned to the instructor:

-Yagd Herr-when will we see the ship?

-We have been walking along its central trunk for a few minutes now, cadet.

Have patience - the instructor said, climbing the metal stairs to the open massive doors. - This is the entrance to the navigation room. The door is equipped with automatic lock-and-block system in case of depressurization or penetration of outsiders. This applies to other doors that lead to especially important rooms.

The instructor bent his head and ducked into the doorway.

Among the horns of a sickle panel, dotted with beads of various keys and buttons, toggle switches, sensors, displays stood several capacious armchairs on high pedestals.

A bored tanned blond guy sat in one of them.

With the indifference of a stone statue he looked at the blinking lights of control devices and smoked a cigarette.

On the screen In front of him glowed a picture of immensely large and long hangar, which was carved in a rock, and service robots swarmed in the glare of floodlights under its vault.

-So, Einar, then she came up and said, "I only share my bed with Commanders. And you're just a paratrooper from the fire support company. So go to the toilet and help yourself with a vibrator "- casually shouted the speaker of internal ship communications.

- Pilot Berserk, - stop discussing private topics immediately. And would you please quit smoking - exclaimed yagd Zherr indignantly, and turned to the cadets. - So, this is the navigator room of the "Tetvuthurts" raider. Power plant engines, course and viewing space scan, all the vital activity of a combat vessel is being directed from here...

Meanwhile Berserk quietly departed behind the cabinets of computers and continued smoking casually, although holding a cigarette behind his back and blowing smoke at the floor.

Having noticed the scrutinizing stare of Whitehouse, he winked and conspiratorially smiled. Whitehouse winked back and felt a warm sensation in his heart; this pilot was not a bad guy, he was a soul mate. Stripes on his sleeve were exactly like the ones he had.

Berserk was also from the Earth.

Manfred von Conrad did not approve of such behavior: he did not say anything but contented himself with a sniff.

He listened to yagd Zherr, the instructor without inquiring.

Since morning he felt that he'd already heard about the intensity of the force field, the range of annihilation weapons; that once he had already seen these flying beads on the screens of surveillance radars, had already with his fingertips touched the switches and keys of cumulative thermonuclear devices.

Everything seemed to be coming back from the past: the intercom circuit, urgent station bill, capacity of fodder troop compartments, berthing arrangement, flights of the forward hangars for receiving transport capsules, power of the reactors, overlapping systems of the conning tower.

Fascinated, overwhelmed with a strange, frightening feeling, he walked through cabin suites, service facilities, compartments of "Tetvuthurts" raider poking into the backs of his comrades, and trying to keep out of yagd Zherr"s sight.

Everything reminded him of the German Raumwaffe Academy.

The crew and technicians had the same leisurely routine, but it was a different schedule. He could feel the smell of food from the galley, but it was a different aroma.

The alarming ring of training alert, the sound of hurried footsteps of those running to the battle stations, jerky commands to the gun-layers and the buzzer of the main computer with a training object caught in the cross of its aiming rays: everything was different, but the Colonel was up to his neck in his memories.

There were dreary lieutenant sprees in the officers' dormitory at New Year"s Eve, after a canceled leave, crazy antics in the bars of Bremen at the time of developing urban warfare tactics, sleepless watches in anticipation of a new war with the Islamists.

Von Conrad thought about his feelings, and he didn"t feel any depressing nostalgia.

He had been a soldier and he was still a soldier who had no connections with his past, he didn"t even have a family.

He accepted everything that happened to him as a sequel of his military career: "Now I am fifty. Maybe in a year I would have been appointed a Raumwaffe brigadier general. But this is nothing compared to the post of Natotevaal lieutenant. "

Yagd Zherr brought him back to reality. - Cadets von Conrad, on the firing line!

The training shooting gallery was lit with bright bluish lights. Whitehouse and Dybal were busy with choosing the weapons from the shelves. Mackliff was quickly counting up his results by the targets.

-On the firing line, 'repeated the instructor and handed a heavy "shtralier" to the Colonel.

Von Conrad raised his weapon and almost without aiming, released a cluster of blinding antimatter into the dancing target right over the head of petrified Mackliff.

-Target destroyed, stated the computer that controlled the motions of the targets.

-Bravo, Colonel. You have almost shot my head off! - yelled Mackliff pinching his nose as he has not yet got used to the smell of melted from the shots silicone shapes.

-Attention, students. Von Conrad made a mistake when firing - said yagd Zherr after the students formed up, the shtralier was set to long-range combat mode. If the target were a Swer in reserve armor, that would have produced zero effect. For this cause the weapons must be set to close combat-core mode. - May I ask a question, yagd instructor? - Aydem exited the line. - Why is the shtralier"s range less than a mile?

-To answer this question I would have to tell you about the weapon"s concept of operation, and this is security information. The range is limited, and that's all you need to know. Join it up! - Yagd Zherr went to the armory shelf and took out something very similar to the regular army rifle with telescopic sight.

To kill the targets at a distance of more than one Ker automatic rifles with gunpowder cartridges, equipped with explosive bullets with A-acid capsules are used. When it spreads through the body tissues, A-acid causes instant death. The efficacy of fire from this rifle reaches seven and a half Kers. It all depends on the experience of the shooter and the condition of the beam sight.

-And where should we aim at the Swer in order to break through the armor? - Asked Whitehouse, quietly putting rifle cartridges in his pocket, hoping that they would suit to his "Viking Combat".

- We don"t know for sure, shrugged the instructor. - During the war, we were not able to capture any live or dead Swer. But the experts, who examined the wreckage of their ships and planetary techniques, believe they are humanoid.

And one more thing, students: the war, which you have gotten yourselves into, is not something that you have on Earth, with hand-to-hand fights, reconnaissance missions for "tongues", and all other nonsense. Here you shoot at the enemy raider for a distance of hundred Tokhs and that"s it. And either you or he get scattered to pieces. Planetary operations are no better. Either we or they are in powerful fortifications. And again nuclear annihilation duels, powerful machines, grinding everything on their way. All that is left at the end of the battle is just scorched desert. This is not about the captured or the corpses.

- Yagd Zherr, watch your language. What are these "rubbish" and "shooting things"? - yagd Tskugol entered the shooting gallery with a tired and concerned expression on his face. - How's it going? The instructor took the position of attention, palms on his lower back, chin upwards:

-Very capable students, yagd commander. Do their best.

-When are they going to study "Planetary operations and Assault landing" according to their program? - asked the Captain-Commander and Shiela"s blossoming face appeared from behind him. Today she was wearing a slinky turquoise catsuit with the orange Secretary-on-duty armband.

-My Marilyn is a hundred times better - looking at her, sniffed Whitehouse, but still straightened the hair on his forehead.

Dybal and Mackliff stared at her, open-mouthed:

-What a chick -Dybal raised an eyebrow, realizing that Shiela looked him over in a split second, in one movement. As if she scanned his figure from head to toe.

-I had already seen her once. She brought documents to the commander.

-Stop talking in the ranks - abruptly snapped von Conrad, discharging functions of a training platoon sergeant.

Meanwhile, the instructor was stubbornly arguing with yagd Tskugol:

- They are not yet acquainted with the work of the field emitters and compensatory protection, yagd commander. How can I tell them about the capture technique of the caponier type weapon? They will not understand!

-It"s all right, they will make it out. Yagd Zherr, I understand your desire to provide training of the highest level, but yagd Tote Yaschemgart requires a new battle group. It should be ready by tomorrow night. We have a serious task in prospect.

-We do not have time, yagd commander.

-Exclude medical care and maintenance of machinery. Only military disciplines. That's an order - yagd Tskugol firmly shook his head. - Natote!

Natote! - Replied the instructor, and, noticing that Dybal was talking with Shiela using intricate gestures, said: Shiela Renenna there is evening time for exchanging winks with the students. Go and perform your duties.

Mackliff pushed the navigator with his elbow:

- See, Al, evening time. It's not as hopeless as it seems.

- Got it, got it. Well, it would be even better if she brought a pretty girlfriend for the company, and have normal physiology. - Dybal grinned pointedly and added, - Hush or the Colonel will overhear. Look, how he stares at us. Some campaigner. He is so into it, damn first sergeant.

Yagd Zherr was thoughtfully pacing down the line for some time, and finally said:

- Now you can have a break until six o"clock. Then you will have two lectures on VSN structure and planetary operations. And you will pass the qualifying exams afterwards. I advise you to study the topics of providing medical care, maintenance and operations with the pump yourselves. You may find these questions in your tests. Next, do not loiter about the base and do not break into sealed rooms, - Instructor pointedly looked at Whitehouse, -First of all, this concerns you, cadet. That"s all. Dismissed.

Yagd-instructor, is there a restaurant or a cafй here? - Mackliff asked carefully. - I would like to get distracted, relax, before the military campaign so to speak.

-You students are not supposed to visit the restaurant before graduation.

- What do we need the checks for, then?

-To acquire the necessary personal items and products of hygiene: toothpaste, soap, razor blades, cigarettes, for those who smoke, - yagd Zherr looked at meticulous Mackliff with displeasure and left the shooting gallery.

-Come on, Al, - Mackliff tugged Dybal by his sleeve. -Let"s take a stroll around the local sights.

Dybal and Mackliff slipped out of the small room unnoticed by the colonel, passed the gateway and turned to the peripheral passage.

There, in the dim crossroad, in the heart of the base "Ziem-002", they came across the curfew patrol:

-Show your ID cards and recognition badges.

-Tell me, Lieutenant, where can we have a snack? We are going into battle tomorrow - said Dybal, while the patrol chief was checking their documents with a tester.

- There is a canteen for the rank and file. Cadet - replied the lieutenant, glancing at his stripes. - Your documents are in order. Natote!

Patrols that stood behind the lieutenant, with short shtraliers atilt, grinned proudly.

- What morons - sighed Mackliff when the patrol had turned around the corner, and spat through clenched teeth. - I"m itching to kick their ass. They"ve got the lieutenant zigzags, what a big deal.

He did not finish his sentence, because they had almost bumped into Whitehouse:

-Hey, guys! Where were you hanging about? I've hooked up - as Dybal says -with some cute girls - he wore his field captain overalls, glued seams of which cracked on his mighty shoulders. The pilot smelled cognac, cigarettes and nice cologne.

-Hell, Ronnie, where did you get that awful hoody? You will get caught by the patrol - said Mackliff, horrified. - Come on, let"s go, quickly.

-Have you managed to break into the restaurant for officers? - asked Dybal while running. Whitehouse nodded cheerfully.

In the residential sector Whitehouse stopped before one of the doors and leaned against the wall with his shoulder:

-Listen to me, guys. That redhead is mine. Got it? We don"t need a scandal.

-Colonel is coming- Dybal exclaimed anxiously, having noticed a familiar silhouette through the transparent doors of the descending elevator. - He's going to chaise us to our technical class.

-Hurry up, guys, or von Conrad will not leave us alone. - Whitehouse pushed them into the room with such force that they slowed down just before the opposite wall, knocking down a couple of chairs on the way, and nearly taking down a girl who was sitting at the table. She got frightened and almost screamed, but Whitehouse was able to cover her mouth with his hand:

-Hush, Octa.

Colonel von Conrad walked out of the elevator and when he was passing the slammed door, suspiciously sniffed in the air:

-Smells like "Ktorvik". Only Ronald can smoke this shit - and he moved on, looking around. - Strike me dead, but where are they?!

-He left - Ronald sighed with relief, leaning against the door with his ear. - Let's get acquainted. These are my friends.

Mackliff has already filled the glasses:

-To the get-together.

The "Red-haired" girl, whom the pilot ominously warned about, turned out to be Shiela Renna, who has changed after duty.

Dybal was immediately beside her with his usual trick of rubbing a coin into his palm. Another girl, as tall as Shiela, in captain's uniform unbuttoned to the waist and a chevron of the Scan service, was called yagda Kamista Raga.

She was whispering something in the ear of the third, a very young-looking girl who with every word of her friend blushed up to her ears adorned with earrings made of clear greenish stone.

-Whitehouse, are your friends also commandos? - Asked the girl in captain's uniform.

-Yes. This is Alexander Dybal, former navigator of the "Independence" shuttle - Whitehouse glanced at Dybal, who was pouring something that looked like dried-fruits compote to Shiela"s glass, with displeasure, - And this is our flight engineer, John Mackliff.

- We are the "cold stellar plasma" - Mackliff stuck out his chest and raised the glass. - Nice to meet you.

-That"s great - said the younger one. - I am Octa Tantala, a physician. I've never met a commando who was alive.

Whitehouse even choked.

- Oh, no, that"s not what I meant - Octa corrected herself. - I'm just so happy - she blushed and took the glass from Mackliff"s hands.

- Well, - Mackliff clinked the glasses and knocked back a hefty portion of cognac. - And how old are you, baby?

- Sixty. - Said Octa and blushed again. - But I have already graduated.

- Don"t you worry, pal. That is like sixteen for them - Whitehouse patted the stunned flight engineer on the shoulder. - So, she is quite of age.

Kamista Raga sipped the cognac, grimaced and lit a scented cigarette:

-Do you like dancing?

- Bare assed on the frying pan of Arab napalm batteries, - grinned Dybal, neatly pushed aside from Shiela by Whitehouse.

-A frying pan? - wondered Kamista, pulling Dybal closer to her.

-Ah, never mind. El is the big joker. He dances like a flea in a bath.

- A flee in a bath?

-And Danny is a great singer, - slyly smiled Mackliff. - Sing Ronnie, do not be shy.

-Get lost, John. - Dismissed the pilot and carefully like a sapper on demining, kissed Shiela in the ear. He felt no indignation or a punch in the face from her and Whitehouse went on kissing her long neck.

-Please sing, Ronnie - Shiela imploringly clasped her hands, slightly pulling away from her high-handed admirer.

Whitehouse faltered. He swallowed the brandy and cleared his throat:

-Do you have a guitar?

-A guitar, with the strings, clink-clank. - He imitated running over the chords.

-Some musical instrument - the navigator made a running over gesture, pretending to play the piano.

-Ah, the sequencer - Octa extracted a flat plastic rectangle dotted with wide keys from the shelf. - Here you go.

- What kind of an instrument is that? - said Whitehouse, horrified. He touched the keys and turned on the switch. The female restroom of lock scanner shifts filled with rustling of leaves and chirping of birds.

-Nice background - stated Dybal, looking at Kamista. - Do you have another little room here?

-The REM sleep room, - she nodded and stood up. - Shall I show it to you?

-This will do. Lead on, oh, Amazon! - the navigator took a sip from the bottle and went after yagda Kamista. - REM sleep, this is exactly what we need.

The two of them, somewhat smoothly and smartly disappeared behind an oval door.

Meanwhile Whitehouse tinkered with sequencer buttons, filling the space of the room either with howling of monsters or with the screeching sound of iron on the glass:

-I can"t do it.

-There"s no going back! - Taunted Mackliff, who has already loaded himself up with cognac. The lighter was shaking in his hand, and he was not able to light a long cigarette.

-Take this, it won"t do - Whitehouse gave the sequencer back to Shiela and having cleared his throat one more time, straightened up. - I will sing acapella.

-That's right, Ronnie, sing a ballad! Go for the ballad! - shuddered Mackliff, looking like a sports fan. Girls noisily cheered him up with screams and claps.

Whitehouse started slowly; warming up, as if from a distance, gradually adding:

The dawn"s turning gray over the lea,

And thin fog floats over it.

A banner flutters above the main reg,

A trap for the Teutons was set.

In the silence of dawn in the village Grunewald,

A rooster will sing its song

The foot will go on, crushing the grass,

Causing dandelion fluff to fall.

Whitehouse closed his eyes, stretched out his hand, like a real medieval minstrel, spreading his powerful fingers over the scraps.

At this point, there was no "Ziem-002"base, or hollow footsteps of the patrols in the hall, no mountain peaks of the Andes above his head, where the sun was setting; there were no qualifying exams, no Tskugol or Swertz, no Natotevaal -as if all that didn"t exist...

The spears will break pulling out the moss from the ground

Scatter the shields into pieces.

And someone will fall, unable to breath,

Take with his chest the speed of an arrow.

And in the evening the purple sunset

Will cover a piece of land...


His voice became more menacing and powerful.

An ancient battle thundered around him.

Heavy knights collided chest to chest, fighting with long two-handed swords. Huge war horses neighed wildly, falling upon the infantry, bristling with spears and trampling it down with their spiked horseshoes. Horsemen fell under the blows of axes, hung in the stirrups, stitched through with short crossbow arrows.

Fluttered the pennants of new troops of the attacking crusader army, recruitingly hummed the pipes and roared the drums, commanders clamored, stopping the retreating warriors with bayonets and stabbing daggers at their hearts...

Mackliff echoed the pilot in chorus, tapping the fork on the upturned saucer in small intervals; Shiela moaned with delight, and Octa, gradually catching the tone and tempo, dug into the sequencer with her fingers, extracting rattling, jingling, groaning and roaring sounds of deep reverb from it.

In the silence of dawn in the village of Grunwald,

A rooster as usual will sing...

The door burst open, with a crunching sound of a ricocheted latch, and on the treshold of the smoky and finally quiet room appeared yagd Audun Tskugol accompanied by von Conrad and two patrols:

- All rise! Attention!

When Whitehouse unsteadily got up, looking totally detached; Shiela whispered to him:

- Come back here after three. Alone. If you can.

They stood in front of the Commander like naughty schoolboys before their teacher, staring at the floor in embarrassment.

They were not afraid of him, did not tremble like human flesh under the surgeon's scalpel. They have seen and suffered a lot, including fragile Octa Tantan, who survived several assault operations.

But the cold look of the Commander, his truly sad voice, three black stripes on the sleeve, which meant that its owner had three times returned alive from the ship destroyed in a battle...

For a while they stood in silence, looking each other up and down.

At this moment Dybal and yagda Kamista Raga came out of the REM room.

Their clothes, buttons and zippers, along with tousled hair and blushed faces produced the impression either of passion, or of a fight. But their pleased faces showed that it was the first.

- And you, yagda Kamista Raga, a woman of the higher caste! How could you join this outrage?! This den. - Yagd Tskugol ruthlessly scolded the revelers for a while, and in the end he added - In four hours, we leave the Earth on the raider 'Tetvuthurts VH'. You will pass the exams in combat. That's all. Dismissed.

All but the room hosts noisily went to the corridor.

Kamista gave Dybal a dazzling goodbye-smile.

When they were already in their cadet platoon premises, von Conrad apologetically said:

-I am sorry, guys, for giving you in with these girls. That was a serious matter. Something happened. And yagd Tskugol got a DCT from Marshal Commander...

- Come on, Manfred, don't worry - flopping on his bed, said Dybal. - It's not the last time we dated girls. But it certainly was quite brutish of you...

-What if it was the last time for me? - Whitehouse stated grimly and began to empty the cognac bottle, which he quietly stealed from the table before the departure. - Here, Manfred, take one for the road. They won't let us drink on the raider.

Mackliff staggered to the bed, and, falling on the fleecy blanket, put his feet up on the back:

- Colonel, you should better tell us more about this sudden haste - he wiped his cheek from Okta's lipstick and checked his lip, swollen from an overly passionate farewell kiss.

- Well, I actually do not know anything, - shrugged von Conrad. - I only know that yagd Tskugol was appointed commander of our group. They named this group "Independence VH-0". Zero means this task is very important.

-Well, it's clear as day. Once the commander over five newrie privates is commando commander of the whole Ziem sector -said Whitehouse in a deep voice. - This Tskugol is great. I respect him. Surely this was his idea to ask Yaschemgarth give the crew the name of our shuttle.

For a while they were all silent.

Conditioner hummed quietly, Mackliff thoughtfully stroke the lighter sharply, Dick Aydem was cozily snoring in the corner.

-Oh, Shiela will be waiting for me at three, but we are leaving at two- Whitehouse sighed and shouted in a drunken swagger:

- I wish they all died, these damn Swers! Plague take them!

-Why are you yelling like at a baseball game? You do not let me sleep - Aydem turned his sleepy face, stretched, yawned, from ear to ear, and looked at the clock. -Oh, a basement at 79 Avenue has just opened and lame Campbell is frying pork sausages. Have you ever been to New York, Manfred?

The Colonel shook his head. Aydem mumbled something unintelligible, and then turned to the wall, putting a pillow over his ear. Silence finally fell over the barracks.

Manfred von Conrad slowly followed the instructor.

Aydem and Mackliff walked behind them.

Whitehouse and Dybal closed the rear of the student group and Dybal constantly made fun of the pilot"s obstinate desire to collect information about the base along their way, such as: pieces of wall sheathing, computer parts, lists of personnel, shift schedule, space planning.

-Listen, Ronnie, are you a robot? I have a feeling that something fused in your head - with a smile whispered Dybal to the pilot. -What proof do you need to believe that they are not Arabs?

-My intuition - snapped Whitehouse - I will destroy all of them...

Mackliff and Aydem were busy with another conversation:

-They can"t be human, Dick! Look at their skin. Normally people have either birthmarks or swollen veins here and there, or a slight reddening - a mark from a pimple left from childhood. Sticking out hair after sleep...What about wrinkles? Where are the wrinkles? No wrinkles. Even Tskugol has none on his face. And he looks no less than fifty.

-I agree. They look like mannequins or well edited photos. Have you noticed that when they walk, the silicone floor shakes slightly? Compared to us when they sit on a couch or in a chair it almost reaches the carpet. I have a feeling, John, that they are two times heavier than us.

-It is interesting to learn how it works with women here...- Dybal interfered the conversation.

Von Conrad gave him a withering look over his shoulder.

They walked through a low passage, lit with blue cold lamps.

Ergonomical control panels stretched along the walls, oval doors, with well fitted gaps, numerous large and small lifts, and metallic step ladders, which winded into hollow vertical shafts.

After another passage to the next level, von Conrad, adjusting the collar of his wide crimson shirt with zippers sewn-in the buttonholes, cleared his throat and turned to the instructor:

-Yagd Herr-when will we see the ship?

-We have been walking along its central trunk for a few minutes now, cadet.

Have patience - the instructor said, climbing the metal stairs to the open massive doors. - This is the entrance to the navigation room. The door is equipped with automatic lock-and-block system in case of depressurization or penetration of outsiders. This applies to other doors that lead to especially important rooms.

The instructor bent his head and ducked into the doorway.

Among the horns of a sickle panel, dotted with beads of various keys and buttons, toggle switches, sensors, displays stood several capacious armchairs on high pedestals.

A bored tanned blond guy sat in one of them.

With the indifference of a stone statue he looked at the blinking lights of control devices and smoked a cigarette.

On the screen In front of him glowed a picture of immensely large and long hangar, which was carved in a rock, and service robots swarmed in the glare of floodlights under its vault.

-So, Einar, then she came up and said, "I only share my bed with Commanders. And you're just a paratrooper from the fire support company. So go to the toilet and help yourself with a vibrator "- casually shouted the speaker of internal ship communications.

- Pilot Berserk, - stop discussing private topics immediately. And would you please quit smoking - exclaimed yagd Zherr indignantly, and turned to the cadets. - So, this is the navigator room of the "Tetvuthurts" raider. Power plant engines, course and viewing space scan, all the vital activity of a combat vessel is being directed from here...

Meanwhile Berserk quietly departed behind the cabinets of computers and continued smoking casually, although holding a cigarette behind his back and blowing smoke at the floor.

Having noticed the scrutinizing stare of Whitehouse, he winked and conspiratorially smiled. Whitehouse winked back and felt a warm sensation in his heart; this pilot was not a bad guy, he was a soul mate. Stripes on his sleeve were exactly like the ones he had.

Berserk was also from the Earth.

Manfred von Conrad did not approve of such behavior: he did not say anything but contented himself with a sniff.

He listened to yagd Zherr, the instructor without inquiring.

Since morning he felt that he'd already heard about the intensity of the force field, the range of annihilation weapons; that once he had already seen these flying beads on the screens of surveillance radars, had already with his fingertips touched the switches and keys of cumulative thermonuclear devices.

Everything seemed to be coming back from the past: the intercom circuit, urgent station bill, capacity of fodder troop compartments, berthing arrangement, flights of the forward hangars for receiving transport capsules, power of the reactors, overlapping systems of the conning tower.

Fascinated, overwhelmed with a strange, frightening feeling, he walked through cabin suites, service facilities, compartments of "Tetvuthurts" raider poking into the backs of his comrades, and trying to keep out of yagd Zherr"s sight.

Everything reminded him of the German Raumwaffe Academy.

The crew and technicians had the same leisurely routine, but it was a different schedule. He could feel the smell of food from the galley, but it was a different aroma.

The alarming ring of training alert, the sound of hurried footsteps of those running to the battle stations, jerky commands to the gun-layers and the buzzer of the main computer with a training object caught in the cross of its aiming rays: everything was different, but the Colonel was up to his neck in his memories.

There were dreary lieutenant sprees in the officers' dormitory at New Year"s Eve, after a canceled leave, crazy antics in the bars of Bremen at the time of developing urban warfare tactics, sleepless watches in anticipation of a new war with the Islamists.

Von Conrad thought about his feelings, and he didn"t feel any depressing nostalgia.

He had been a soldier and he was still a soldier who had no connections with his past, he didn"t even have a family.

He accepted everything that happened to him as a sequel of his military career: "Now I am fifty. Maybe in a year I would have been appointed a Raumwaffe brigadier general. But this is nothing compared to the post of Natotevaal lieutenant. "

Yagd Zherr brought him back to reality. - Cadets von Conrad, on the firing line!

The training shooting gallery was lit with bright bluish lights. Whitehouse and Dybal were busy with choosing the weapons from the shelves. Mackliff was quickly counting up his results by the targets.

-On the firing line, 'repeated the instructor and handed a heavy "shtralier" to the Colonel.

Von Conrad raised his weapon and almost without aiming, released a cluster of blinding antimatter into the dancing target right over the head of petrified Mackliff.

-Target destroyed, stated the computer that controlled the motions of the targets.

-Bravo, Colonel. You have almost shot my head off! - yelled Mackliff pinching his nose as he has not yet got used to the smell of melted from the shots silicone shapes.

-Attention, students. Von Conrad made a mistake when firing - said yagd Zherr after the students formed up, the shtralier was set to long-range combat mode. If the target were a Swer in reserve armor, that would have produced zero effect. For this cause the weapons must be set to close combat-core mode. - May I ask a question, yagd instructor? - Aydem exited the line. - Why is the shtralier"s range less than a mile?

-To answer this question I would have to tell you about the weapon"s concept of operation, and this is security information. The range is limited, and that's all you need to know. Join it up! - Yagd Zherr went to the armory shelf and took out something very similar to the regular army rifle with telescopic sight.

To kill the targets at a distance of more than one Ker automatic rifles with gunpowder cartridges, equipped with explosive bullets with A-acid capsules are used. When it spreads through the body tissues, A-acid causes instant death. The efficacy of fire from this rifle reaches seven and a half Kers. It all depends on the experience of the shooter and the condition of the beam sight.

-And where should we aim at the Swer in order to break through the armor? - Asked Whitehouse, quietly putting rifle cartridges in his pocket, hoping that they would suit to his "Viking Combat".

- We don"t know for sure, shrugged the instructor. - During the war, we were not able to capture any live or dead Swer. But the experts, who examined the wreckage of their ships and planetary techniques, believe they are humanoid.

And one more thing, students: the war, which you have gotten yourselves into, is not something that you have on Earth, with hand-to-hand fights, reconnaissance missions for "tongues", and all other nonsense. Here you shoot at the enemy raider for a distance of hundred Tokhs and that"s it. And either you or he get scattered to pieces. Planetary operations are no better. Either we or they are in powerful fortifications. And again nuclear annihilation duels, powerful machines, grinding everything on their way. All that is left at the end of the battle is just scorched desert. This is not about the captured or the corpses.

- Yagd Zherr, watch your language. What are these "rubbish" and "shooting things"? - yagd Tskugol entered the shooting gallery with a tired and concerned expression on his face. - How's it going? The instructor took the position of attention, palms on his lower back, chin upwards:

-Very capable students, yagd commander. Do their best.

-When are they going to study "Planetary operations and Assault landing" according to their program? - asked the Captain-Commander and Shiela"s blossoming face appeared from behind him. Today she was wearing a slinky turquoise catsuit with the orange Secretary-on-duty armband.

-My Marilyn is a hundred times better - looking at her, sniffed Whitehouse, but still straightened the hair on his forehead.

Dybal and Mackliff stared at her, open-mouthed:

-What a chick -Dybal raised an eyebrow, realizing that Shiela looked him over in a split second, in one movement. As if she scanned his figure from head to toe.

-I had already seen her once. She brought documents to the commander.

-Stop talking in the ranks - abruptly snapped von Conrad, discharging functions of a training platoon sergeant.

Meanwhile, the instructor was stubbornly arguing with yagd Tskugol:

- They are not yet acquainted with the work of the field emitters and compensatory protection, yagd commander. How can I tell them about the capture technique of the caponier type weapon? They will not understand!

-It"s all right, they will make it out. Yagd Zherr, I understand your desire to provide training of the highest level, but yagd Tote Yaschemgart requires a new battle group. It should be ready by tomorrow night. We have a serious task in prospect.

-We do not have time, yagd commander.

-Exclude medical care and maintenance of machinery. Only military disciplines. That's an order - yagd Tskugol firmly shook his head. - Natote!

Natote! - Replied the instructor, and, noticing that Dybal was talking with Shiela using intricate gestures, said: Shiela Renenna there is evening time for exchanging winks with the students. Go and perform your duties.

Mackliff pushed the navigator with his elbow:

- See, Al, evening time. It's not as hopeless as it seems.

- Got it, got it. Well, it would be even better if she brought a pretty girlfriend for the company, and have normal physiology. - Dybal grinned pointedly and added, - Hush or the Colonel will overhear. Look, how he stares at us. Some campaigner. He is so into it, damn first sergeant.

Yagd Zherr was thoughtfully pacing down the line for some time, and finally said:

- Now you can have a break until six o"clock. Then you will have two lectures on VSN structure and planetary operations. And you will pass the qualifying exams afterwards. I advise you to study the topics of providing medical care, maintenance and operations with the pump yourselves. You may find these questions in your tests. Next, do not loiter about the base and do not break into sealed rooms, - Instructor pointedly looked at Whitehouse, -First of all, this concerns you, cadet. That"s all. Dismissed.

Yagd-instructor, is there a restaurant or a cafй here? - Mackliff asked carefully. - I would like to get distracted, relax, before the military campaign so to speak.

-You students are not supposed to visit the restaurant before graduation.

- What do we need the checks for, then?

-To acquire the necessary personal items and products of hygiene: toothpaste, soap, razor blades, cigarettes, for those who smoke, - yagd Zherr looked at meticulous Mackliff with displeasure and left the shooting gallery.

-Come on, Al, - Mackliff tugged Dybal by his sleeve. -Let"s take a stroll around the local sights.

Dybal and Mackliff slipped out of the small room unnoticed by the colonel, passed the gateway and turned to the peripheral passage.

There, in the dim crossroad, in the heart of the base "Ziem-002", they came across the curfew patrol:

-Show your ID cards and recognition badges.

-Tell me, Lieutenant, where can we have a snack? We are going into battle tomorrow - said Dybal, while the patrol chief was checking their documents with a tester.

- There is a canteen for the rank and file. Cadet - replied the lieutenant, glancing at his stripes. - Your documents are in order. Natote!

Patrols that stood behind the lieutenant, with short shtraliers atilt, grinned proudly.

- What morons - sighed Mackliff when the patrol had turned around the corner, and spat through clenched teeth. - I"m itching to kick their ass. They"ve got the lieutenant zigzags, what a big deal.

He did not finish his sentence, because they had almost bumped into Whitehouse:

-Hey, guys! Where were you hanging about? I've hooked up - as Dybal says -with some cute girls - he wore his field captain overalls, glued seams of which cracked on his mighty shoulders. The pilot smelled cognac, cigarettes and nice cologne.

-Hell, Ronnie, where did you get that awful hoody? You will get caught by the patrol - said Mackliff, horrified. - Come on, let"s go, quickly.

-Have you managed to break into the restaurant for officers? - asked Dybal while running. Whitehouse nodded cheerfully.

In the residential sector Whitehouse stopped before one of the doors and leaned against the wall with his shoulder:

-Listen to me, guys. That redhead is mine. Got it? We don"t need a scandal.

-Colonel is coming- Dybal exclaimed anxiously, having noticed a familiar silhouette through the transparent doors of the descending elevator. - He's going to chaise us to our technical class.

-Hurry up, guys, or von Conrad will not leave us alone. - Whitehouse pushed them into the room with such force that they slowed down just before the opposite wall, knocking down a couple of chairs on the way, and nearly taking down a girl who was sitting at the table. She got frightened and almost screamed, but Whitehouse was able to cover her mouth with his hand:

-Hush, Octa.

Colonel von Conrad walked out of the elevator and when he was passing the slammed door, suspiciously sniffed in the air:

-Smells like "Ktorvik". Only Ronald can smoke this shit - and he moved on, looking around. - Strike me dead, but where are they?!

-He left - Ronald sighed with relief, leaning against the door with his ear. - Let's get acquainted. These are my friends.

Mackliff has already filled the glasses:

-To the get-together.

The "Red-haired" girl, whom the pilot ominously warned about, turned out to be Shiela Renna, who has changed after duty.

Dybal was immediately beside her with his usual trick of rubbing a coin into his palm. Another girl, as tall as Shiela, in captain's uniform unbuttoned to the waist and a chevron of the Scan service, was called yagda Kamista Raga.

She was whispering something in the ear of the third, a very young-looking girl who with every word of her friend blushed up to her ears adorned with earrings made of clear greenish stone.

-Whitehouse, are your friends also commandos? - Asked the girl in captain's uniform.

-Yes. This is Alexander Dybal, former navigator of the "Independence" shuttle - Whitehouse glanced at Dybal, who was pouring something that looked like dried-fruits compote to Shiela"s glass, with displeasure, - And this is our flight engineer, John Mackliff.

- We are the "cold stellar plasma" - Mackliff stuck out his chest and raised the glass. - Nice to meet you.

-That"s great - said the younger one. - I am Octa Tantala, a physician. I've never met a commando who was alive.

Whitehouse even choked.

- Oh, no, that"s not what I meant - Octa corrected herself. - I'm just so happy - she blushed and took the glass from Mackliff"s hands.

- Well, - Mackliff clinked the glasses and knocked back a hefty portion of cognac. - And how old are you, baby?

- Sixty. - Said Octa and blushed again. - But I have already graduated.

- Don"t you worry, pal. That is like sixteen for them - Whitehouse patted the stunned flight engineer on the shoulder. - So, she is quite of age.

Kamista Raga sipped the cognac, grimaced and lit a scented cigarette:

-Do you like dancing?

- Bare assed on the frying pan of Arab napalm batteries, - grinned Dybal, neatly pushed aside from Shiela by Whitehouse.

-A frying pan? - wondered Kamista, pulling Dybal closer to her.

-Ah, never mind. El is the big joker. He dances like a flea in a bath.

- A flee in a bath?

-And Danny is a great singer, - slyly smiled Mackliff. - Sing Ronnie, do not be shy.

-Get lost, John. - Dismissed the pilot and carefully like a sapper on demining, kissed Shiela in the ear. He felt no indignation or a punch in the face from her and Whitehouse went on kissing her long neck.

-Please sing, Ronnie - Shiela imploringly clasped her hands, slightly pulling away from her high-handed admirer.

Whitehouse faltered. He swallowed the brandy and cleared his throat:

-Do you have a guitar?

-A guitar, with the strings, clink-clank. - He imitated running over the chords.

-Some musical instrument - the navigator made a running over gesture, pretending to play the piano.

-Ah, the sequencer - Octa extracted a flat plastic rectangle dotted with wide keys from the shelf. - Here you go.

- What kind of an instrument is that? - said Whitehouse, horrified. He touched the keys and turned on the switch. The female restroom of lock scanner shifts filled with rustling of leaves and chirping of birds.

-Nice background - stated Dybal, looking at Kamista. - Do you have another little room here?

-The REM sleep room, - she nodded and stood up. - Shall I show it to you?

-This will do. Lead on, oh, Amazon! - the navigator took a sip from the bottle and went after yagda Kamista. - REM sleep, this is exactly what we need.

The two of them, somewhat smoothly and smartly disappeared behind an oval door.

Meanwhile Whitehouse tinkered with sequencer buttons, filling the space of the room either with howling of monsters or with the screeching sound of iron on the glass:

-I can"t do it.

-There"s no going back! - Taunted Mackliff, who has already loaded himself up with cognac. The lighter was shaking in his hand, and he was not able to light a long cigarette.

-Take this, it won"t do - Whitehouse gave the sequencer back to Shiela and having cleared his throat one more time, straightened up. - I will sing acapella.

-That's right, Ronnie, sing a ballad! Go for the ballad! - shuddered Mackliff, looking like a sports fan. Girls noisily cheered him up with screams and claps.

Whitehouse started slowly; warming up, as if from a distance, gradually adding:

The dawn"s turning gray over the lea,

And thin fog floats over it.

A banner flutters above the main reg,

A trap for the Teutons was set.

In the silence of dawn in the village Grunewald,

A rooster will sing its song

The foot will go on, crushing the grass,

Causing dandelion fluff to fall.

Whitehouse closed his eyes, stretched out his hand, like a real medieval minstrel, spreading his powerful fingers over the scraps.

At this point, there was no "Ziem-002"base, or hollow footsteps of the patrols in the hall, no mountain peaks of the Andes above his head, where the sun was setting; there were no qualifying exams, no Tskugol or Swertz, no Natotevaal -as if all that didn"t exist...

The spears will break pulling out the moss from the ground

Scatter the shields into pieces.

And someone will fall, unable to breath,

Take with his chest the speed of an arrow.

And in the evening the purple sunset

Will cover a piece of land...


His voice became more menacing and powerful.

An ancient battle thundered around him.

Heavy knights collided chest to chest, fighting with long two-handed swords. Huge war horses neighed wildly, falling upon the infantry, bristling with spears and trampling it down with their spiked horseshoes. Horsemen fell under the blows of axes, hung in the stirrups, stitched through with short crossbow arrows.

Fluttered the pennants of new troops of the attacking crusader army, recruitingly hummed the pipes and roared the drums, commanders clamored, stopping the retreating warriors with bayonets and stabbing daggers at their hearts...

Mackliff echoed the pilot in chorus, tapping the fork on the upturned saucer in small intervals; Shiela moaned with delight, and Octa, gradually catching the tone and tempo, dug into the sequencer with her fingers, extracting rattling, jingling, groaning and roaring sounds of deep reverb from it.

In the silence of dawn in the village of Grunwald,

A rooster as usual will sing...

The door burst open, with a crunching sound of a ricocheted latch, and on the treshold of the smoky and finally quiet room appeared yagd Audun Tskugol accompanied by von Conrad and two patrols:

- All rise! Attention!

When Whitehouse unsteadily got up, looking totally detached; Shiela whispered to him:

- Come back here after three. Alone. If you can.

They stood in front of the Commander like naughty schoolboys before their teacher, staring at the floor in embarrassment.

They were not afraid of him, did not tremble like human flesh under the surgeon's scalpel. They have seen and suffered a lot, including fragile Octa Tantan, who survived several assault operations.

But the cold look of the Commander, his truly sad voice, three black stripes on the sleeve, which meant that its owner had three times returned alive from the ship destroyed in a battle...

For a while they stood in silence, looking each other up and down.

At this moment Dybal and yagda Kamista Raga came out of the REM room.

Their clothes, buttons and zippers, along with tousled hair and blushed faces produced the impression either of passion, or of a fight. But their pleased faces showed that it was the first.

- And you, yagda Kamista Raga, a woman of the higher caste! How could you join this outrage?! This den. - Yagd Tskugol ruthlessly scolded the revelers for a while, and in the end he added - In four hours, we leave the Earth on the raider 'Tetvuthurts VH'. You will pass the exams in combat. That's all. Dismissed.

All but the room hosts noisily went to the corridor.

Kamista gave Dybal a dazzling goodbye-smile.

When they were already in their cadet platoon premises, von Conrad apologetically said:

-I am sorry, guys, for giving you in with these girls. That was a serious matter. Something happened. And yagd Tskugol got a DCT from Marshal Commander...

- Come on, Manfred, don't worry - flopping on his bed, said Dybal. - It's not the last time we dated girls. But it certainly was quite brutish of you...

-What if it was the last time for me? - Whitehouse stated grimly and began to empty the cognac bottle, which he quietly stealed from the table before the departure. - Here, Manfred, take one for the road. They won't let us drink on the raider.

Mackliff staggered to the bed, and, falling on the fleecy blanket, put his feet up on the back:

- Colonel, you should better tell us more about this sudden haste - he wiped his cheek from Okta's lipstick and checked his lip, swollen from an overly passionate farewell kiss.

- Well, I actually do not know anything, - shrugged von Conrad. - I only know that yagd Tskugol was appointed commander of our group. They named this group "Independence VH-0". Zero means this task is very important.

-Well, it's clear as day. Once the commander over five newrie privates is commando commander of the whole Ziem sector -said Whitehouse in a deep voice. - This Tskugol is great. I respect him. Surely this was his idea to ask Yaschemgarth give the crew the name of our shuttle.

For a while they were all silent.

Conditioner hummed quietly, Mackliff thoughtfully stroke the lighter sharply, Dick Aydem was cozily snoring in the corner.

-Oh, Shiela will be waiting for me at three, but we are leaving at two- Whitehouse sighed and shouted in a drunken swagger:

- I wish they all died, these damn Swers! Plague take them!

-Why are you yelling like at a baseball game? You do not let me sleep - Aydem turned his sleepy face, stretched, yawned, from ear to ear, and looked at the clock. -Oh, a basement at 79 Avenue has just opened and lame Campbell is frying pork sausages. Have you ever been to New York, Manfred?

The Colonel shook his head. Aydem mumbled something unintelligible, and then turned to the wall, putting a pillow over his ear. Silence finally fell over the barracks.

Manfred von Conrad slowly followed the instructor.

Aydem and Mackliff walked behind them.

Whitehouse and Dybal closed the rear of the student group and Dybal constantly made fun of the pilot"s obstinate desire to collect information about the base along their way, such as: pieces of wall sheathing, computer parts, lists of personnel, shift schedule, space planning.

-Listen, Ronnie, are you a robot? I have a feeling that something fused in your head - with a smile whispered Dybal to the pilot. -What proof do you need to believe that they are not Arabs?

-My intuition - snapped Whitehouse - I will destroy all of them...

Mackliff and Aydem were busy with another conversation:

-They can"t be human, Dick! Look at their skin. Normally people have either birthmarks or swollen veins here and there, or a slight reddening - a mark from a pimple left from childhood. Sticking out hair after sleep...What about wrinkles? Where are the wrinkles? No wrinkles. Even Tskugol has none on his face. And he looks no less than fifty.

-I agree. They look like mannequins or well edited photos. Have you noticed that when they walk, the silicone floor shakes slightly? Compared to us when they sit on a couch or in a chair it almost reaches the carpet. I have a feeling, John, that they are two times heavier than us.

-It is interesting to learn how it works with women here...- Dybal interfered the conversation.

Von Conrad gave him a withering look over his shoulder.

They walked through a low passage, lit with blue cold lamps.

Ergonomical control panels stretched along the walls, oval doors, with well fitted gaps, numerous large and small lifts, and metallic step ladders, which winded into hollow vertical shafts.

After another passage to the next level, von Conrad, adjusting the collar of his wide crimson shirt with zippers sewn-in the buttonholes, cleared his throat and turned to the instructor:

-Yagd Herr-when will we see the ship?

-We have been walking along its central trunk for a few minutes now, cadet.

Have patience - the instructor said, climbing the metal stairs to the open massive doors. - This is the entrance to the navigation room. The door is equipped with automatic lock-and-block system in case of depressurization or penetration of outsiders. This applies to other doors that lead to especially important rooms.

The instructor bent his head and ducked into the doorway.

Among the horns of a sickle panel, dotted with beads of various keys and buttons, toggle switches, sensors, displays stood several capacious armchairs on high pedestals.

A bored tanned blond guy sat in one of them.

With the indifference of a stone statue he looked at the blinking lights of control devices and smoked a cigarette.

On the screen In front of him glowed a picture of immensely large and long hangar, which was carved in a rock, and service robots swarmed in the glare of floodlights under its vault.

-So, Einar, then she came up and said, "I only share my bed with Commanders. And you're just a paratrooper from the fire support company. So go to the toilet and help yourself with a vibrator "- casually shouted the speaker of internal ship communications.

- Pilot Berserk, - stop discussing private topics immediately. And would you please quit smoking - exclaimed yagd Zherr indignantly, and turned to the cadets. - So, this is the navigator room of the "Tetvuthurts" raider. Power plant engines, course and viewing space scan, all the vital activity of a combat vessel is being directed from here...

Meanwhile Berserk quietly departed behind the cabinets of computers and continued smoking casually, although holding a cigarette behind his back and blowing smoke at the floor.

Having noticed the scrutinizing stare of Whitehouse, he winked and conspiratorially smiled. Whitehouse winked back and felt a warm sensation in his heart; this pilot was not a bad guy, he was a soul mate. Stripes on his sleeve were exactly like the ones he had.

Berserk was also from the Earth.

Manfred von Conrad did not approve of such behavior: he did not say anything but contented himself with a sniff.

He listened to yagd Zherr, the instructor without inquiring.

Since morning he felt that he'd already heard about the intensity of the force field, the range of annihilation weapons; that once he had already seen these flying beads on the screens of surveillance radars, had already with his fingertips touched the switches and keys of cumulative thermonuclear devices.

Everything seemed to be coming back from the past: the intercom circuit, urgent station bill, capacity of fodder troop compartments, berthing arrangement, flights of the forward hangars for receiving transport capsules, power of the reactors, overlapping systems of the conning tower.

Fascinated, overwhelmed with a strange, frightening feeling, he walked through cabin suites, service facilities, compartments of "Tetvuthurts" raider poking into the backs of his comrades, and trying to keep out of yagd Zherr"s sight.

Everything reminded him of the German Raumwaffe Academy.

The crew and technicians had the same leisurely routine, but it was a different schedule. He could feel the smell of food from the galley, but it was a different aroma.

The alarming ring of training alert, the sound of hurried footsteps of those running to the battle stations, jerky commands to the gun-layers and the buzzer of the main computer with a training object caught in the cross of its aiming rays: everything was different, but the Colonel was up to his neck in his memories.

There were dreary lieutenant sprees in the officers' dormitory at New Year"s Eve, after a canceled leave, crazy antics in the bars of Bremen at the time of developing urban warfare tactics, sleepless watches in anticipation of a new war with the Islamists.

Von Conrad thought about his feelings, and he didn"t feel any depressing nostalgia.

He had been a soldier and he was still a soldier who had no connections with his past, he didn"t even have a family.

He accepted everything that happened to him as a sequel of his military career: "Now I am fifty. Maybe in a year I would have been appointed a Raumwaffe brigadier general. But this is nothing compared to the post of Natotevaal lieutenant. "

Yagd Zherr brought him back to reality. - Cadets von Conrad, on the firing line!

The training shooting gallery was lit with bright bluish lights. Whitehouse and Dybal were busy with choosing the weapons from the shelves. Mackliff was quickly counting up his results by the targets.

-On the firing line, 'repeated the instructor and handed a heavy "shtralier" to the Colonel.

Von Conrad raised his weapon and almost without aiming, released a cluster of blinding antimatter into the dancing target right over the head of petrified Mackliff.

-Target destroyed, stated the computer that controlled the motions of the targets.

-Bravo, Colonel. You have almost shot my head off! - yelled Mackliff pinching his nose as he has not yet got used to the smell of melted from the shots silicone shapes.

-Attention, students. Von Conrad made a mistake when firing - said yagd Zherr after the students formed up, the shtralier was set to long-range combat mode. If the target were a Swer in reserve armor, that would have produced zero effect. For this cause the weapons must be set to close combat-core mode. - May I ask a question, yagd instructor? - Aydem exited the line. - Why is the shtralier"s range less than a mile?

-To answer this question I would have to tell you about the weapon"s concept of operation, and this is security information. The range is limited, and that's all you need to know. Join it up! - Yagd Zherr went to the armory shelf and took out something very similar to the regular army rifle with telescopic sight.

To kill the targets at a distance of more than one Ker automatic rifles with gunpowder cartridges, equipped with explosive bullets with A-acid capsules are used. When it spreads through the body tissues, A-acid causes instant death. The efficacy of fire from this rifle reaches seven and a half Kers. It all depends on the experience of the shooter and the condition of the beam sight.

-And where should we aim at the Swer in order to break through the armor? - Asked Whitehouse, quietly putting rifle cartridges in his pocket, hoping that they would suit to his "Viking Combat".

- We don"t know for sure, shrugged the instructor. - During the war, we were not able to capture any live or dead Swer. But the experts, who examined the wreckage of their ships and planetary techniques, believe they are humanoid.

And one more thing, students: the war, which you have gotten yourselves into, is not something that you have on Earth, with hand-to-hand fights, reconnaissance missions for "tongues", and all other nonsense. Here you shoot at the enemy raider for a distance of hundred Tokhs and that"s it. And either you or he get scattered to pieces. Planetary operations are no better. Either we or they are in powerful fortifications. And again nuclear annihilation duels, powerful machines, grinding everything on their way. All that is left at the end of the battle is just scorched desert. This is not about the captured or the corpses.

- Yagd Zherr, watch your language. What are these "rubbish" and "shooting things"? - yagd Tskugol entered the shooting gallery with a tired and concerned expression on his face. - How's it going? The instructor took the position of attention, palms on his lower back, chin upwards:

-Very capable students, yagd commander. Do their best.

-When are they going to study "Planetary operations and Assault landing" according to their program? - asked the Captain-Commander and Shiela"s blossoming face appeared from behind him. Today she was wearing a slinky turquoise catsuit with the orange Secretary-on-duty armband.

-My Marilyn is a hundred times better - looking at her, sniffed Whitehouse, but still straightened the hair on his forehead.

Dybal and Mackliff stared at her, open-mouthed:

-What a chick -Dybal raised an eyebrow, realizing that Shiela looked him over in a split second, in one movement. As if she scanned his figure from head to toe.

-I had already seen her once. She brought documents to the commander.

-Stop talking in the ranks - abruptly snapped von Conrad, discharging functions of a training platoon sergeant.

Meanwhile, the instructor was stubbornly arguing with yagd Tskugol:

- They are not yet acquainted with the work of the field emitters and compensatory protection, yagd commander. How can I tell them about the capture technique of the caponier type weapon? They will not understand!

-It"s all right, they will make it out. Yagd Zherr, I understand your desire to provide training of the highest level, but yagd Tote Yaschemgart requires a new battle group. It should be ready by tomorrow night. We have a serious task in prospect.

-We do not have time, yagd commander.

-Exclude medical care and maintenance of machinery. Only military disciplines. That's an order - yagd Tskugol firmly shook his head. - Natote!

Natote! - Replied the instructor, and, noticing that Dybal was talking with Shiela using intricate gestures, said: Shiela Renenna there is evening time for exchanging winks with the students. Go and perform your duties.

Mackliff pushed the navigator with his elbow:

- See, Al, evening time. It's not as hopeless as it seems.

- Got it, got it. Well, it would be even better if she brought a pretty girlfriend for the company, and have normal physiology. - Dybal grinned pointedly and added, - Hush or the Colonel will overhear. Look, how he stares at us. Some campaigner. He is so into it, damn first sergeant.

Yagd Zherr was thoughtfully pacing down the line for some time, and finally said:

- Now you can have a break until six o"clock. Then you will have two lectures on VSN structure and planetary operations. And you will pass the qualifying exams afterwards. I advise you to study the topics of providing medical care, maintenance and operations with the pump yourselves. You may find these questions in your tests. Next, do not loiter about the base and do not break into sealed rooms, - Instructor pointedly looked at Whitehouse, -First of all, this concerns you, cadet. That"s all. Dismissed.

Yagd-instructor, is there a restaurant or a cafй here? - Mackliff asked carefully. - I would like to get distracted, relax, before the military campaign so to speak.

-You students are not supposed to visit the restaurant before graduation.

- What do we need the checks for, then?

-To acquire the necessary personal items and products of hygiene: toothpaste, soap, razor blades, cigarettes, for those who smoke, - yagd Zherr looked at meticulous Mackliff with displeasure and left the shooting gallery.

-Come on, Al, - Mackliff tugged Dybal by his sleeve. -Let"s take a stroll around the local sights.

Dybal and Mackliff slipped out of the small room unnoticed by the colonel, passed the gateway and turned to the peripheral passage.

There, in the dim crossroad, in the heart of the base "Ziem-002", they came across the curfew patrol:

-Show your ID cards and recognition badges.

-Tell me, Lieutenant, where can we have a snack? We are going into battle tomorrow - said Dybal, while the patrol chief was checking their documents with a tester.

- There is a canteen for the rank and file. Cadet - replied the lieutenant, glancing at his stripes. - Your documents are in order. Natote!

Patrols that stood behind the lieutenant, with short shtraliers atilt, grinned proudly.

- What morons - sighed Mackliff when the patrol had turned around the corner, and spat through clenched teeth. - I"m itching to kick their ass. They"ve got the lieutenant zigzags, what a big deal.

He did not finish his sentence, because they had almost bumped into Whitehouse:

-Hey, guys! Where were you hanging about? I've hooked up - as Dybal says -with some cute girls - he wore his field captain overalls, glued seams of which cracked on his mighty shoulders. The pilot smelled cognac, cigarettes and nice cologne.

-Hell, Ronnie, where did you get that awful hoody? You will get caught by the patrol - said Mackliff, horrified. - Come on, let"s go, quickly.

-Have you managed to break into the restaurant for officers? - asked Dybal while running. Whitehouse nodded cheerfully.

In the residential sector Whitehouse stopped before one of the doors and leaned against the wall with his shoulder:

-Listen to me, guys. That redhead is mine. Got it? We don"t need a scandal.

-Colonel is coming- Dybal exclaimed anxiously, having noticed a familiar silhouette through the transparent doors of the descending elevator. - He's going to chaise us to our technical class.

-Hurry up, guys, or von Conrad will not leave us alone. - Whitehouse pushed them into the room with such force that they slowed down just before the opposite wall, knocking down a couple of chairs on the way, and nearly taking down a girl who was sitting at the table. She got frightened and almost screamed, but Whitehouse was able to cover her mouth with his hand:

-Hush, Octa.

Colonel von Conrad walked out of the elevator and when he was passing the slammed door, suspiciously sniffed in the air:

-Smells like "Ktorvik". Only Ronald can smoke this shit - and he moved on, looking around. - Strike me dead, but where are they?!

-He left - Ronald sighed with relief, leaning against the door with his ear. - Let's get acquainted. These are my friends.

Mackliff has already filled the glasses:

-To the get-together.

The "Red-haired" girl, whom the pilot ominously warned about, turned out to be Shiela Renna, who has changed after duty.

Dybal was immediately beside her with his usual trick of rubbing a coin into his palm. Another girl, as tall as Shiela, in captain's uniform unbuttoned to the waist and a chevron of the Scan service, was called yagda Kamista Raga.

She was whispering something in the ear of the third, a very young-looking girl who with every word of her friend blushed up to her ears adorned with earrings made of clear greenish stone.

-Whitehouse, are your friends also commandos? - Asked the girl in captain's uniform.

-Yes. This is Alexander Dybal, former navigator of the "Independence" shuttle - Whitehouse glanced at Dybal, who was pouring something that looked like dried-fruits compote to Shiela"s glass, with displeasure, - And this is our flight engineer, John Mackliff.

- We are the "cold stellar plasma" - Mackliff stuck out his chest and raised the glass. - Nice to meet you.

-That"s great - said the younger one. - I am Octa Tantala, a physician. I've never met a commando who was alive.

Whitehouse even choked.

- Oh, no, that"s not what I meant - Octa corrected herself. - I'm just so happy - she blushed and took the glass from Mackliff"s hands.

- Well, - Mackliff clinked the glasses and knocked back a hefty portion of cognac. - And how old are you, baby?

- Sixty. - Said Octa and blushed again. - But I have already graduated.

- Don"t you worry, pal. That is like sixteen for them - Whitehouse patted the stunned flight engineer on the shoulder. - So, she is quite of age.

Kamista Raga sipped the cognac, grimaced and lit a scented cigarette:

-Do you like dancing?

- Bare assed on the frying pan of Arab napalm batteries, - grinned Dybal, neatly pushed aside from Shiela by Whitehouse.

-A frying pan? - wondered Kamista, pulling Dybal closer to her.

-Ah, never mind. El is the big joker. He dances like a flea in a bath.

- A flee in a bath?

-And Danny is a great singer, - slyly smiled Mackliff. - Sing Ronnie, do not be shy.

-Get lost, John. - Dismissed the pilot and carefully like a sapper on demining, kissed Shiela in the ear. He felt no indignation or a punch in the face from her and Whitehouse went on kissing her long neck.

-Please sing, Ronnie - Shiela imploringly clasped her hands, slightly pulling away from her high-handed admirer.

Whitehouse faltered. He swallowed the brandy and cleared his throat:

-Do you have a guitar?

-A guitar, with the strings, clink-clank. - He imitated running over the chords.

-Some musical instrument - the navigator made a running over gesture, pretending to play the piano.

-Ah, the sequencer - Octa extracted a flat plastic rectangle dotted with wide keys from the shelf. - Here you go.

- What kind of an instrument is that? - said Whitehouse, horrified. He touched the keys and turned on the switch. The female restroom of lock scanner shifts filled with rustling of leaves and chirping of birds.

-Nice background - stated Dybal, looking at Kamista. - Do you have another little room here?

-The REM sleep room, - she nodded and stood up. - Shall I show it to you?

-This will do. Lead on, oh, Amazon! - the navigator took a sip from the bottle and went after yagda Kamista. - REM sleep, this is exactly what we need.

The two of them, somewhat smoothly and smartly disappeared behind an oval door.

Meanwhile Whitehouse tinkered with sequencer buttons, filling the space of the room either with howling of monsters or with the screeching sound of iron on the glass:

-I can"t do it.

-There"s no going back! - Taunted Mackliff, who has already loaded himself up with cognac. The lighter was shaking in his hand, and he was not able to light a long cigarette.

-Take this, it won"t do - Whitehouse gave the sequencer back to Shiela and having cleared his throat one more time, straightened up. - I will sing acapella.

-That's right, Ronnie, sing a ballad! Go for the ballad! - shuddered Mackliff, looking like a sports fan. Girls noisily cheered him up with screams and claps.

Whitehouse started slowly; warming up, as if from a distance, gradually adding:

The dawn"s turning gray over the lea,

And thin fog floats over it.

A banner flutters above the main reg,

A trap for the Teutons was set.

In the silence of dawn in the village Grunewald,

A rooster will sing its song

The foot will go on, crushing the grass,

Causing dandelion fluff to fall.

Whitehouse closed his eyes, stretched out his hand, like a real medieval minstrel, spreading his powerful fingers over the scraps.

At this point, there was no "Ziem-002"base, or hollow footsteps of the patrols in the hall, no mountain peaks of the Andes above his head, where the sun was setting; there were no qualifying exams, no Tskugol or Swertz, no Natotevaal -as if all that didn"t exist...

The spears will break pulling out the moss from the ground

Scatter the shields into pieces.

And someone will fall, unable to breath,

Take with his chest the speed of an arrow.

And in the evening the purple sunset

Will cover a piece of land...


His voice became more menacing and powerful.

An ancient battle thundered around him.

Heavy knights collided chest to chest, fighting with long two-handed swords. Huge war horses neighed wildly, falling upon the infantry, bristling with spears and trampling it down with their spiked horseshoes. Horsemen fell under the blows of axes, hung in the stirrups, stitched through with short crossbow arrows.

Fluttered the pennants of new troops of the attacking crusader army, recruitingly hummed the pipes and roared the drums, commanders clamored, stopping the retreating warriors with bayonets and stabbing daggers at their hearts...

Mackliff echoed the pilot in chorus, tapping the fork on the upturned saucer in small intervals; Shiela moaned with delight, and Octa, gradually catching the tone and tempo, dug into the sequencer with her fingers, extracting rattling, jingling, groaning and roaring sounds of deep reverb from it.

In the silence of dawn in the village of Grunwald,

A rooster as usual will sing...

The door burst open, with a crunching sound of a ricocheted latch, and on the treshold of the smoky and finally quiet room appeared yagd Audun Tskugol accompanied by von Conrad and two patrols:

- All rise! Attention!

When Whitehouse unsteadily got up, looking totally detached; Shiela whispered to him:

- Come back here after three. Alone. If you can.

They stood in front of the Commander like naughty schoolboys before their teacher, staring at the floor in embarrassment.

They were not afraid of him, did not tremble like human flesh under the surgeon's scalpel. They have seen and suffered a lot, including fragile Octa Tantan, who survived several assault operations.

But the cold look of the Commander, his truly sad voice, three black stripes on the sleeve, which meant that its owner had three times returned alive from the ship destroyed in a battle...

For a while they stood in silence, looking each other up and down.

At this moment Dybal and yagda Kamista Raga came out of the REM room.

Their clothes, buttons and zippers, along with tousled hair and blushed faces produced the impression either of passion, or of a fight. But their pleased faces showed that it was the first.

- And you, yagda Kamista Raga, a woman of the higher caste! How could you join this outrage?! This den. - Yagd Tskugol ruthlessly scolded the revelers for a while, and in the end he added - In four hours, we leave the Earth on the raider 'Tetvuthurts VH'. You will pass the exams in combat. That's all. Dismissed.

All but the room hosts noisily went to the corridor.

Kamista gave Dybal a dazzling goodbye-smile.

When they were already in their cadet platoon premises, von Conrad apologetically said:

-I am sorry, guys, for giving you in with these girls. That was a serious matter. Something happened. And yagd Tskugol got a DCT from Marshal Commander...

- Come on, Manfred, don't worry - flopping on his bed, said Dybal. - It's not the last time we dated girls. But it certainly was quite brutish of you...

-What if it was the last time for me? - Whitehouse stated grimly and began to empty the cognac bottle, which he quietly stealed from the table before the departure. - Here, Manfred, take one for the road. They won't let us drink on the raider.

Mackliff staggered to the bed, and, falling on the fleecy blanket, put his feet up on the back:

- Colonel, you should better tell us more about this sudden haste - he wiped his cheek from Okta's lipstick and checked his lip, swollen from an overly passionate farewell kiss.

- Well, I actually do not know anything, - shrugged von Conrad. - I only know that yagd Tskugol was appointed commander of our group. They named this group "Independence VH-0". Zero means this task is very important.

-Well, it's clear as day. Once the commander over five newrie privates is commando commander of the whole Ziem sector -said Whitehouse in a deep voice. - This Tskugol is great. I respect him. Surely this was his idea to ask Yaschemgarth give the crew the name of our shuttle.

For a while they were all silent.

Conditioner hummed quietly, Mackliff thoughtfully stroke the lighter sharply, Dick Aydem was cozily snoring in the corner.

-Oh, Shiela will be waiting for me at three, but we are leaving at two- Whitehouse sighed and shouted in a drunken swagger:

- I wish they all died, these damn Swers! Plague take them!

-Why are you yelling like at a baseball game? You do not let me sleep - Aydem turned his sleepy face, stretched, yawned, from ear to ear, and looked at the clock. -Oh, a basement at 79 Avenue has just opened and lame Campbell is frying pork sausages. Have you ever been to New York, Manfred?

The Colonel shook his head. Aydem mumbled something unintelligible, and then turned to the wall, putting a pillow over his ear. Silence finally fell over the barracks.

They were quickly moving away from the Earth: it seemed like it was melting.

The outlines of the continents became more and more difficult to discern, light clouds painted phantom pictures on its surface.

It was still the same bluish-green planet.

On Earth, there wasn't any gray film of a "nuclear canopy": there was no war.

It was quiet in the navigator room of the Tetvuthurts VH raider.

Only computers rustled occasionally, writing the data of course and work of the engine on the "black box"; speakers strummed below the big screen, signaling the appearance of the image data on the duty lockscanner: "Distance 23 Tohs. Two vessels on the NN59-K6 way.

The response to IFF complies with the existing code... Distance is 15 Tokhs starboard.

A group of barrage mines.

Location corresponds to the scheme of the mining sector."

Thoughtful Whitehouse was sitting next to the duty navigator Einar Berserk; tapping with his ribbed sole on the rest of almost horizontal seat.

Berserk, with sad deep-set eyes, looked at the holographic image of the receding Earth, slowly covered by the Moon's shadow.

Here's another joke. Once a Norwegian and a Swedish sailor argued on who was best in cooking sausage...

Whitehouse inattentively listened to the monotonous jokes of former Norwegian submariner about eternal rivalry between the Swedish and Norwegian sailors, butchers, lumberjacks, prostitutes, and could not get rid of the obsessive motif of an old soldier's song, which Mackliff was whistling during loading and before take-off:

... We are waking up at dawn, wind smells of the ocean,

It"s swinging our banner to the skies.

Only dust under the boots, they have God and we have banner

Walking on with heavy arms atilt...

-Damn it, that song is pestering - he sighed. - Listen, Einar, tell me about other guys in our team: Slepeh, Garedda and Krozzeh?

- Ah ... I'll tell you. Yagd Ged Garedda and Kmeh Krozzeh are mechanics. Nice guys. Yagd Stikt Slepeh is the first navigator. He's boring and foppish. He used to be one of the ordinary, but recently became a "yagd" for some accomplishments and now he is boasting about it, and gives us no peace, - said the Norwegian, and returned to his jokes. - Once a Danish cop comes back home, and his wife tells him...

-Hell, it started again - said Whitehouse suddenly frustrated. - No offense, Einar, it's not about you. This is one song that is bothering me.

-Navigator Berserk, prepare the system to zero-jump - a deep voice of yagd Tskugol could be heard from the speakers.

- This is for me- Berserk brightened up at once and reached for the teleportation panel.

The computers worked tenesly, collecting information for one of the most difficult phases of the flight, and immediately displayed the data on the main screen:

-compensator substance; normal

-field intensity transmission; normal

-field generator: normal

-the last point of the transition: correcting.

All mechanisms should come to a halt; the crew should fasten their seats. The final countdown, ten, nine, eight ... - thundered the Commander from the conning tower, while turning the keys that enabled access to the code table for selecting the end point of teleportation. - ... three, two, one. Are the modules all set?

- Ready - said Berserk.

Whitehouse lay sprawled in his chair, squinting at the navigator, not daring even to blink, yagd Zherr frightened the students with stories about the cunning zero-crossing. The instructor talked a lot about what happens to people and machines, which at the moment of teleportation moved around the ship, and thus had different speed compared to the zero-transition generator and the ship itself.

They disperse in a flume between the start and the end points of the jump.

A hand, for example, inadvertently raised at "0"moment, at the end point could be a foot away from the shoulder, or worse - outside the ship in space.

It did not concern the contractions of heart, lungs, diaphragm, blood flowing through the veins and arteries, as the amount of motion was negligible, and, besides the unpleasant feelings, the astronauts were in no danger.

-Attention ...Zero - echoed in the compartments and decks of "Tetvuthurts."

-Well, that did not work - said Whitehouse with disappointment, he didn't feel anything. Only his heart constricted a little, and the back of his head felt heavy, a distant hint at the headache. - What's the matter, Einar?

-Leave me alone - the navigator frantically gasped for air and rubbed his chest with shaking hands. - Cannot get used to this bullshit.

-Zero-crossing to the sector A15N44 completed.

Nothing has been damaged. Emission of the displaced substance is correct.

Generator set to the braking mode, - said the mechanical voice of the main computer.

It was doubled by the running line on the display: the duty lock scanner was already looking around: "Distance 15 Tohs forward. A lighthouse of the Stigmarkont base.

Two drifting patrol vessels nearby. The response to IFF complies with the existing code.

I'll go check the guys, - Whitehouse slid off the chair. - Shall I get you something to chew from the buffet?

-Sure, go. Take a walk. I am not allowed to eat anything while I'm on duty; - Berserk has already recovered and was pounding away on the keys of the central console.

Having passed the central trunk of the raider, Whitehouse entered the chief cabin, where the whole team was gathered: yagd Stikt Slepeh, both technicians Krozzeh and yagd Garreda, Aydem, von Conrad, Mackliff and Dybal.

Commander sat at a round table, rubbing his chin and looking anxiously at the screen on the wall. On the screen, against the background of infinite stellar space, the debris of military ships was slowly turning round.

The lines crawled bottom up, like titles of a film:

-Up to the present moment the Swertz raiders have destroyed, put out of action, brought into a state of complete unavailability:

- Yaggishvalder-42, of the 156th squadron, intact.

- Three patrol boats of the 211th patrol division.

- Unmanned cargo ships, a total of 24.

- Raider "Metropolia"

- Transponders, a total of 11.

- Navigation buoys a total of 5.

- 342 units of static mines of the Stigmarkont and Shlokrist Defense Systems

- mine sweepers

- Repair Base "Heroes of Eknaim" consisting of three vessels.

- 2-class battleship "Shtadl"

The raider captured by cruisers "Jezera" and "Khan" on May, 28 this year in sector A17N44, refers to the outdated type "Tsvohgum."

It served as a cover for the scanner-raider of unknown structure, that had first showed at the 3rd theater and destroyed the YAG-42.

This new raider of the Swertz has allegedly cup-like shape, powerful weapons and propulsion of a new type.

According to the observations and calculations, it can teleport without preconditioning.

The other battle characteristics were not determined.

New Raider of the Swertz was tentatively named "Krovur", which was the first word of the DT intercepted from it on May 20.

DT cannot be deciphered at the moment.

- Great damages. This is more than the third fleet had lost since the beginning of the war.

- This "Krovur" is a hell of a machine - said technician Krozzeh.

His high forehead wrinkled, while he said that.

-If it is not neutralized in the near future, we have to leave our squadrons under the protection of the forts, and the fight for space will be lost. Then the swers will bring the heavy weapons up and begin to methodically drive us out from the fortified areas, - yagd Slepeh provided the feedback with importance. - Then they will get to the Metropolis. We have been entrusted with a great responsibility.

- We know about the responsibility before Natotevaal. I am interested in the opinion of the crew on our further actions - yagd Tskugol propped up the chin with his fist, causing his cheek cover his left eye.

Meanwhile, "Tetvuthurts" slowly entered the port of Stigmarkont.

Bots of technical service scurried about it, the patrols and giant transports gradually drifted towards. There were several battleships in the docks and orange lamps lit up on their armor panels - they were welcoming "Tetvuthurts."

The citadel of the base was not yet visible, but you could guess its titanic size by the powerful emitter towers of the protective cap.

Shafts of lights hit in all directions from the emitter towers illuminating the piers, sheds, megrazine tanks and residential units.

Surface of the sheds shimmered like a pearl in the light, in stark contrast with the domes of tanks, lined with black compensatory armor.

It was busy on the berth.

Loaders, service robots, different mechanisms, fussed about, forming or carrying away stacks of containers, pyramids of bags, valves and cables.

Several workers were enthusiastically cutting a rusty old cruiser frame into pieces, scattering around the sheaves of dazzling green sparks.

The reflection of krypton welding played on the gray slabs of lime compression, polished joints of mechanisms, creating one complete fairy-tale vision.

- So, we have the forces of all third directory at our disposal, all the information and all the agents of the Natotevaal SS, - looking at the panorama of Stigmarkont, the commander went on. - We have to make the decisions. Marshal Commander yagd Yaschemgart waits for the announcement of the opened hostilities today.

- I suggest we should detect "Krovur" guided by the observation buoys, block the area with formations, which are ready for the thrust, and attack it by superior forces. - expressed his opinion yagd Garedda.

- In May, a whole yaggishvalder was destroyed. This means seventy new, magnificent ships under the command of an experienced commander - said yagd Slepeh. - I studied at the VGF Academy with Captain Tertisote. He was a daring, experienced guru of the war in space. Things cannot be solved with frontal, goofy blows. Yagd Garedda frowned resentfully:

Then we need to gather all the forces of the 3rd directory in the dangerous area and entrap "Krovur". No ship would be able to withstand the power of three hundred battleships.

-In the meantime, other raiders of the Swers will smash our strongholds to pieces - sarcastically smirked yagd Slepeh. - A perfect solution.

-Then there is only one way: we must destroy Krovur"s base. And then mine all the planets, asteroids and large comets that are not occupied by our troops. That's it, - Concluded yagd Garedda.

-If this was possible, we would have won Natotevaal long ago, - the first navigator grinned again. - And how comes that our High Command hadn"t thought of it?

-I see you're very smart, yagd navigator, a fount of humor. - the mechanic burned with anger. - In the meantime, you can"t offer anything either.

-And what should I offer? The Commander must have already decided everything - yagd Slepeh looked expectantly at the commander. But he did not answer, deliberately staring into star atlases.

-It seems to me, gentlemen, - cautiously chimed in Dybal. - We must first find the "Krovur", and see what it's like, and know it inside out. And only then we shall decide.

-That's right - Mackliff supported him. - We find it, give its coordinates; wait for reinforcements and attack. In any case, if we get baked, we can teleport.

Any object leaves a trail after teleporting. The end point can be estimated by residual voltage within 5 Tohs. If "Krovur" wants to destroy us when we meet, nothing will stop it - said Krozzeh. - Withdrawing from the battlefield by zero transition is pointless. You either win or stay on the battlefield as a corpse.

Von Conrad, who was carefully listening to the discussion, cleared his throat and stood up from the chair:

- I am a new person in this war; perhaps I have a misunderstanding. Now the question is how to destroy an enemy raider. But this cannot be the ultimate challenge.

Everyone turned their heads to him, puzzled.

The colonel continued:

- The logic is simple. If the Swers made one "Krovur", they can build much more ships of the same class. The only way to win - is to take over the ship, and then safely bring it to any FB, where it would be chopped up into pieces and find out its structure, vulnerabilities, what will enable us to construct an effective weapon against it, or build a similar vessel.

-Listen, soldier, how... - began Slepeh, but the commander interrupted him.

-I am very happy, astronauts that finally such an opinion appeared. It coincides with the directive of the Supreme Command, said yagd Tskugol, and put aside his star atlases. - We must capture the "Krovur."

-This is insanity - almost groaned yagd Slepeh. - For all the time of Natotevaal we were not able to capture the whole enemy ship. And we are offered to do so in relation to the monster, which alone can destroy a whole yaggdishvalder.

Whitehouse cast a contemptuous glance at the first navigator:

- Are you scared yagd Slepeh?

He angrily shrugged:

-How dare you, soldier, talk with "yagd" in such a tone? Do you want to be put on trial?

-What a big deal, one more number printed on the ID badge - muttered Whitehouse. - Some soldier.

- Whatever are you mumbling there? - yagd Slepeh rose, intending to grab the lapels of the pilot"s suit. - Repeat!

- Stop this fight immediately, - suddenly snapped the commander and left the table. - Discussion is over. We are in Stigmarkont for four hours. Technicians are to take full tanks of megrazine, load the full ammunition and check all the systems. The team is at your disposal. At three o'clock sharp we depart to the area of Blue Plume. That"s all.

-Why are we going there, yagd Commander? - started yagd Slepeh but yagd Tskugol has already left the chief cabin.


***

When Whitehouse and Dybal got out of the "Tetvuthurts" elevator onto the cracked lime compression pier, their truck was already awaiting them at the ramp, with an open door of the cabin.

- Wow, what a beauty, - inside the cabin happy Dybal saw a slender girl in a skintight suit. - I think we have to stay in Stigmarkont.

He quickly got into the truck, lifted the visor filter of his pressurized helmet:

-Let me introduce myself, Alexander Dybal. A fighter of an invisible front.

-Uruza - she answered, respectfully looking at the commandos" patches and smiled.

Meanwhile Whitehouse, who was a meter away from the step of the loader, fell with his shoe to the collector hatch, which someone forgot to cover with a bar, lying nearby:

- What a mess!

While he was pulling out the leg, jammed between pipes, Dybal was enthusiastically telling Uruza about the wonderful beaches of Florida, windsurfing, high waves of the surf with a white fringe of foam.

Finally Whitehouse got to his seat, closed the door and sadly touched the dirty knee cap of his new assault suit.

-Which store are we going to? - asked the operator-girl and turned on the engine. The tracks of the loader stretched, its body lifted, and a powerful machine slowly moved off along the pier.

-Fifth-store. Mines of active defense. Seven hundred, - Dybal said, checking the display on his sleeve. - Tell me Uruza, are there any sealed premises on this asteroid, or do you always have to wear this suit?

-Don"t you like wearing a suit? - replied the girl out of courtesy.

-There are disadvantages. You can miss many interesting things.

- Al, they surely have rooms for your pleasures...-growled the pilot - What a stupid question to the operator while driving!

-Do not bother me, Ronnie. This is just to maintain a conversation - interrupted Dybal discontentedly. -I mean cultural interaction, a little bit of brandy, dancing to nice music. Right, Uruza?

The girl shrugged indifferently.

-Maybe this time we will do without music and songs? - Remembering the heartbreaking sounds of Tantana"s sequencer, his cheekbones contracted. - Moreover, no one invited us anywhere except the mine storage.

-No one invited you. But I was invited. Right, Uruzzie? - Navigator gave her a luscious smile. - We felt that we were one at first glance.

The girl was intently silent; weaving between huge containers that had a label of recently evacuated fort "Ihteneld-34-B".

Dybal resentfully fell silent and stared in the window.

The truck drove to the overpass that ran along the pier.

"Tetvuthurts" raider was perfectly visible from up there; plastered with fuel tankers and service robots.

The bulk of the raider dimly shone with compensatory armor, casting a blurred shadow on the concrete pier, resembling a shark studded with planes of atmospheric stabilizers, posts of spherical emitters of the field, among which continuously rotated the lockscanner bars, bulged the squat towers of shtralers and nozzles of the shunting engines.

The main weapon of the combat vessel: antimatter radiator and shafts of thermonuclear missiles carrying masset charges were located below the conning tower, and were now covered with a solid armor plate, which also served as a launch site for reconnaissance probes, sloops and boats of various purposes.

"Tetvuthurts" shone with chains of open side-lights, with garlands of external lights, flashing the disclosed planes of solar batteries.

On the predatory hump of the conning tower glowed kumit characters: "Raider Tetvuthurts-BX. 5980035".

- Here we are, - said Uruza.

The truck jerked and stopped with a deep sound of a humming engine. Huge gates of store N5 were already rolling back before its gripping device.

In the dim light of the lamps behind the gates they could discern shelves, which went deep into the underground tunnel.

Cassettes with active defense mines glowed darkly on the shelves, like tiny black balls in preservative lubricant.

A panel lighted above the opening, interested whether the incomers had a permission to obtain the mines.

Whitehouse somewhat confused in the keys, typed in the code, the password and number of the request on an arm bar.

Purple rays of control signal, which pierced the entrance like a web, went out; automatic guns slid back to the ports, and over stacks of mines on the ramp a service robot in charge of safe shipment showed up.

Uruza had already put her hand to the grip tumbler, but the alarm was suddenly activated, the gates began to close rapidly and the cylinder of the robot deftly rolled somewhere into the darkness: - Is something wrong with the code? - said Whitehouse, alarmed.

- No, the code is right - the girl cracked the cabin door open, and pulsing sound of sirens reached their ears, despite the fact they had soundproof pressurized helmets on. - In any case, we cannot stay here. We have to get to the nearest shelter.

She sent the heavy machine to the narrow passages between the containers, stacks of boxes, brown ore mounds.

Showers of sparks came from titanium tracks at cornering; the engine howled strenuously, Uruza furiously muttered something through clenched teeth.

- What a race - irritably grumbled Whitehouse, dangling around and hitting the valve of the breathing mix with his mouth. - Paris-Dakar.

Suddenly Stigmarkont plunged into total darkness.

Composed voice burst into astronauts" helmets:

- "Attention! All military services must prepare to repel the assault. Staff of the port must take cover. Attention ..."

- That"s Swers! They attacked us - cried Uruza. - Get out!

They fell out of the truck and stumbling ran to a squat hood of the cover; their eyes on the illuminated annihilation counter on the sleeves of overalls: "They"re just about to strike..."

They burst into a dome of lime compressed cover, and a thick door automatically slammed shut behind them, slid apart with powerful locks in all directions and self-thickened, filling the slots with silicone gel.

Inside, in front of a small panoramic view screen were several armchairs, a narrow lift cabin behind them, with a single button "evacuation". The environment was complemented with a low shelf with first aid kits and breathing apparatus.

- We have to inform the commander that we are here, - Whitehouse said anxiously, plopping into a low chair.

- The shelter"s micro computer will do it automatically with your ID tag radio beacons. - Uruza set microclimate data on the panel. - Well, you can take off your helmets now.

The computer traced out a message on the screen:

"Cap 425.

Three persons sheltered.

ID tags number..."

Having removed the pressurized helmet and taking a deep breath of warm, dry air, Whitehouse fished out a pack of "Ktorvik" from his pocket and put a cigarette to his mouth.

Uruza frowned:

- It is forbidden to smoke in here.

- Uruzzie, just a couple of puffs, - he smiled uncertainly, melting from the look of her green eyes. - No one will ever know.

- It's up to you. But a couple of puffs will cost you a disciplinary action, - She replied, and turned to the screen.

Stigmarkont seemed deserted.

Abandoned.

Only a few dark, cigar-shaped silhouettes were moving in pitch darkness.

The patrol rushed to the external raid.

- Or is it a drill? - Asked Dybal, and at this point the metal floor of the shelter shuddered and swayed.

The space above the Stigmarkont citadel lit up with green flames that slowly flowed down a huge, invisible dome shield.

The flicker of greenish lights of residual annihilation on the surface could be seen on the screen.

Through the conversion microphones, a roar burst inside the shelter as if a few storms merged into a single thunder.

- This is a sighter - Uruza bit her lower lip. - I do not understand how the Swers managed to pass the base"s Forts of external outline.

The patrol, meanwhile, stopped at the entrance to the harbor, and began to strike the blackness of space with dazzling white rays of the shtralers.

The carcass of planetary defense troop slowly approached them, followed by a pack of mine layers.

The new rumble turned the transmission of microphones into a total crackle.

It seemed that Stigmarkont was being split, shattered into small pieces.

Everything was shrouded in smoke.

Brief flashes of annihilation strikes broke through it.

The base"s shield was breached in several places, and antimatter got to the compensatory armor of fortifications.

It bit into the armor plates and devoured the compensation weight which was tearing toward it. Two of the raid patrols were already burning, throwing fiery glares on the quickly receding spots of the rescue boats.

Field emitters cast intensive crimson light, attempting to restore the defense; central forts emitted fumes digesting the antimatter, sometimes firing up the fans of thermo capacitors, deflecting the dangerous energy of star temperatures.

The capacitors exploded in dazzling fireworks at a safe height.

The shtralers of the citadel could be heard, having received a signal from the central computer of the fire area. They were joined by ships, caught up with the attack at the pier. Whitehouse anxiously watched the increasing level of influence analyzers:

"The intensity of radiation is 502.5 Tals.

The radioactivity is 108 Kohs..."

There has not been a single hit in the shelter yet, and the compensation protection has already consumed forty percent of the reserve substance for absorption of the peripheral annihilation.

- What will happen when the compensator is exhausted? Then what? - Asked the pilot.

The girl was silent, watching as in a flash of the exploded patrol, the adjacent navigational buoys got evaporated.

-Uruza!

-Ah, yes. The make-up will be carried out from the new charger - the girl said quietly - I can"t do that anymore. I will apply for Space. I"m fed up with sitting at the base, waiting for a direct hit to burn you up.

-And how often does that happen? - asked Whitehouse, perplexed, lighting another cigarette.

- Every week a raider is sent to the Metropolis, stuffed with coffins to the upper deck, and at times, there are only duplicates of ID tags inside - girl's voice trembled. - Nobody, nobody feels safe in this war.

- I think they stopped firing - said Dybal, suddenly cheerful and turned on the deaf external microphones once again.

A bluish glow and continuous roar of flame spread over Stigmarkont.

The supply depots were burning.

The base was on fire. Mine warehouses exploded in almost equal intervals, turning chunks of lime compression woven with titanium reinforcing bars from the piers.

Above the megrazine tanks circled several automatic fire bots, fluttering about and filling their warmed plating with liquid helium.

Some battleship was burning by the pier.

The fire on it was also being extinguished.

The shtralers of the citadel were silent. The shield has been completely restored, despite the damage to several emitters. Floating batteries still fired intermittently by the raid, but with less heat, apparently because the aims have already left the area of effective fire. The attack has been repelled.

- Bastards! - Exclaimed Uruza, clenching her tiny fists. Tears glimmered in her eyelashes.

- Yep, those Swers are the bad guys, - agreed Dybal, reassuringly patting her on the back. - Made a pogrom, you know. I"m curious whether they have managed to take one down at least?

Whitehouse shrugged.

He looked in fascination at the regaining consciousness Stigmarkont and his fingers trembled as if from a heavy hangover.

He was in shock from what he saw.

- Attention, "Tetvuthurts" calls for Whitehouse and Dybal. Return to the ship immediately, - a voice of navigator Berserk was heard from the speaker.

- Wow, what honour, - the girl sobbed and somehow smiled. - They call you by name, not by a personal code. And we have beaten them back yet...

-Let's go, Al, - Whitehouse got up from the chair and pulled the lever of the front door, but it did not budge. PC responded with a blinking alert on the screen: "The intensity of residual radiation is 742.9 Tals. That is 15% above the allowable level."

-Damn it! It could not be otherwise, we had to repel. What force! We struck heavily all together... - Dybal's left eyelid was slightly trembling.

Whitehouse reluctantly returned to his place, and took a small jar from the shelf and read the label. - "Stellar Dawn".

Low alcohol drink series 7869. He bit through the cap and sipped the "star dawn":

- Wow. It looks like a beer. Here, Al, have a wet.

Dybal waved him away, totally focused on Uruza.

-Hey, will I see you at the weekend? I mean, in your free time?

-I do not know - she shrugged. - And what are we going to do? And we are not going to have any weekends, not soon. We will be busy with reconstruction works...

-What do you mean, what we are going to do...? We will sit in silence; drink some "Dawn"...

-That's it? What about the repair works?

-Depends on the circumstances, -the navigator smiled charmingly, not paying attention to the word "repair works" - Give me your address! -Dybal embraced the girl gently.

-All right. ID tag MN4556, the third division of port services. And it's time for you to go, by the way, - she took Dybal's hand off her buttocks, in the same delicate way. -Put your helmets on.

This time the computer confirmed that the residual impact complies with the minimal standard, and the doors unlocked.

Having said goodbye to Uruza in an unusually cheerful and resourceful manner, Dybal and other astronauts wandered toward "Tetvuthurts".

The lime compression was still soft under the ribbed soles and resembled skin, tightened from a burn. Having passed the town of containers with the fort's "Ihteneld-34-V" belongings, which were now scarred with cracked and blistered paint, Dybal stopped and typed a sophisticated code on an arm bar.

-Hello! Is this controller's office of the third Division? Fine. Tell me, is there a girl named Uruza, in your office, ID tag MN4556? There isn't? I wonder... No, no. It's all right. I just wanted to know where we could now get ten cassettes of mines.

- Well, what did they say? - Whitehouse asked his frustrated friend.

-They said that the stores had been destroyed and mines would be delivered to our "Hurts" from the stores of Ilhovert- some serial number. They are on the way.

- No, man, what did they say about Uruza?

- About Uruza? You know, Ronnie, she has deceived me, like a student at festivities in Sokolniki. They don't know any Uruza.

-And Sokolniki, where is this place? - the pilot became interested all of a sudden, pushing Dybal aside, to the piers.

-It does not matter, Ronnie. Hey, get lost! Why are you dragging me like a cop drags some tramp? Go on, the trumpet calls us - cheerfully concluded the navigator and quickly followed Whitehouse through the jet black smoke.

Flares from raging around fires danced on the crests of their helmets.

***

Once the central computer notified that the whole team has assembled, and all the systems were ready, yagd Tskugol sent the raider forward to the port's exit.

He was alone in the conning tower, in front of the scanner screen, from the center of which to the edge slowly slipped fairway navigation buoys, piers, patrol ships returning from combat and planetary defense batteries, flashing their rinkels at parting, shapeless pieces of port facilities, scattered from the explosions.

Captain-Commander was content; jaws clenched tightly, eyes narrowed to slits.

He slowly re-read the DT that he has just received:

Digital Coded Telegram 00A

Confidential level: A

FB Stigmarkont.

Auga, the 12 of 4725 from the beginnings of Natotevaal.


Commander of a special division

"Independence IN-0"

Captain-Commander

yagd Audun Tskugol.


Yagd Commander!


I inform you that according to the data of Stigmarkont lock scanner services, a ship of unknown design which took part in the FB attack was disguised as an outdated "Tsvohgum"-type raider. The undefined raider went unnoticed through the outer ring of forts and was located only in 103 Tohs from Stigmarkont FB.

During combat it maneuvered across and back on the course, which, according to experts' conclusion, eliminates the presence of living beings.


Several direct hits did not cause any damage to it.

Total firepower is 10 orders.

It had teleported in the direction of the "Blue Plume" system after the fight; presumably to the sector N66V01.

Natote!

Lock scanner watch commander,

Captain yagd Teynot Mart.

-This is "Krovur" - commander said through clenched teeth. - Teynot is beating his brains for nothing on why his lock scanners hadn"t spotted the other ships.

- "Krovur" attacked on his own, having firepower much more than ten orders.

- Yagd Commander, did you say something to me? - Dybal entered the room.

- No, no. Sit down - yagd Tskugol pointed to a chair next to him. - Well, what happened with the mines?

-We got in the truck, drove to the store. Suddenly this mess started. We barely had time to hide. The warehouse exploded, the girl cheated.

-What girl?

-Never mind...What do we do with these mines now?

- They will be brought by an emitter-bot, which was sent to us for strengthening the protective field.

When it appears on the traverse, you will coordinate its maneuvers and load the cassettes. In fact, that is the reason I called you.

Dybal sighed with relief.

He initially thought that the commander would scold him, because on the way to "Tetvuthurts" he and Whitehouse stumbled on a mobile snack bar on the quay, where commando division "Skull" was loading. They were already quite loaded with "Star Dawn", with "Stigm" whisky on top of that.


After that Whitehouse intruded upon a sergeant from Winnipeg.

At first they exchanged sneers. Then they argued and jostled.

The fight has begun and several dozen commandos stood up for their colleague, a technician from New York, who took the side of his countryman and a curfew patrol.

Then several pilots from a standing nearby "Haldesmemur" raider got involved.

The slaughter ended with the arrival of the commandant's platoon, shtralers firing over the heads and throwing tear gas grenades.

Whitehouse and Dybal managed escape from this mess.

Yagd Tskugol gazed thoughtfully at the fast approaching parking lights of "Ilhovert-44" fort.

The fort burned, wrapped in black smoke and shimmering from permanent annihilation. Did "Krovur" do this?

Dybal was silent, chewing an acid anti-alcohol pill, trying to break free from the heavy hops of "Stellar Dawn."

Commander finally sat back and said,

- You and your comrades for instance...

You already know a lot. You are good with shtralers, you clearly maneuver in space, moving cross-country as our best fighting robots, quickly recover the most complex programs that were disturbed by extraneous noise.

But your consciousness is different from ours.

-Tell me, if "Krovur" appeared in the Earth's atmosphere and threatened it, and you had Natotevaal"s equipment, what would you...

-Attack and destroy - without a moment's hesitation, said Dybal.

- It's more powerful. It cannot be destroyed.

- Are you sure? - wondered the navigator, he had never seen the Commander so grim. - Well, if it is more powerful... I do not know your ways, but there are three components of victory on Earth: force, anger and slyness.

-If we are weaker, then anger and slyness can decide the outcome of a fight.

-What kind of anger - yagd Tskugol shook his head. - Anger is a lot of pugilists.

- I do not agree with you, yagd commander. The constituents of anger are perseverance and a will to win, no matter what. In order to defeat a powerful enemy you should hate him and laugh at him.

For example, you call the enemy Svers. And we call them swarts. And that makes us stronger. Do we have a different mentality? We do.

That is why "swarts" are so afraid of us.

That's why Natotevaal needs us, the "cold stellar plasma", the soldiers of the Earth. - Dybal lapsed into silence seeing that a DT sheet crawled out from under the shtramp roller, - We have a message, yagd Commander.

Yagd Tskugol looked at the sheet:

- Reconnaissance probes detected something suspicious in the sphere-sector N66V01, sub-sector 22, nearby an asteroid class 111.

- You may go now, Al. I remember everything that you said about the hatred or the "swarts".

Dybal saluted and went out, and the commander leaned to the intercom microphone:

-Navigator Berserk, prepare the systems to zero-jump.

Report of your readiness - then he said to Krozzeh. - Kmeh, send the DT to the emitter-bots" commander so that he follows us to the N66V01 sector, sub-sector 22.

-Got that, yagd Commander - said Krozzeh.

A few minutes later Berserk reported of the readiness and yagd Tskugol started typing the coordinates of the end point of teleportation.

Suddenly Dybal ran into the room:

-Yagd-Commander, I think I came up with a plan! Now I know!

-You must be out of your mind! The transition is in fifteen seconds, immediately return to your chair and fasten your seat-belt - said Commander almost choking with indignation.

Haven"t you heard the warning alarm? What a mess...

- Readiness?

- Countdown, - said Berserk from the navigator room.

- Zero!

The view changed instantly.

An iron asteroid, dotted with craters and rocky massifs now filled half of the view screen. The constellations of a Blue Plume border galaxy shimmered behind it, in boundless distance.

There lied the areas of the Swertz Empire.

The "Dome" emitter-bot, that teleported right after the raider, was approaching the asteroid from the other side, head-on.

It was clearly visible now - small, it looked like a pot-bellied hedgehog, because of the abundance of racks of sphere emitters:

- This is Lieutenant Stikt Maktik speaking.

I bring to your notice that all of the bot systems function properly, I"m awaiting instructions.

- All right, Lieutenant.

Continue to converge, and then join up from the starboard side at a distance of four Kers, and follow me.

- A1 readiness, - said yagd Tskugol.

Alexander Dybal sat nearby, still struggling with an overwhelming desire to part with the contents of his stomach; still rubbing orange circles of discrete overload from his eyes:

-Damn it, I cannot get used to this attraction. Are you still here? - said the commander, not taking his eyes off the control panel. Go to your compartment now.

Commander enabled the camouflaging system and all that was left from the raider was just a blurred silhouette, and a vague shadow that enveloped the irregularities on the asteroid's surface.

The emitter-bot also camouflaged and the raider"s lock scanners along with the central computer, kept working intensively to re-create its image in the new spectrum.

- Yagd Commander, one word and I'm leaving.

- I figured out what we should do with this "Krovur".

We only need three things...

Dybal broke off and stared at the screen in bewilderment - the emitter-boat suddenly began to make strange maneuvers, turning away from the approach course. - Has the Lieutenant gone nuts?

- Maktik speaking. My lock scanners spotted a rapidly approaching object.

Now an asteroid is blocking the view but it will be here in a minute, a minute ten seconds. The outlines of the aim are undefined. The response to the "friend or foe" identification does not match with the current code.

I will try to deviate from the course and steal the show.

Attention, I"m losing the connection and turning to the laser Morse code... - Maktik"s last words drowned in crackle of continuous noise.

- Krozzeh, broadcast our coordinates in plain text, and send a help request to all the nearby ships - yagd Tskugol reached for the tumbler that activated the protective field, but changed his mind; peripheral swirls of the field would inevitably raise the dust cloud on the asteroid"s surface and unmask the raider. - Battle alarm!

Take your places in the compartments.

Initiate the emitters, ready the missiles, mines full cock!

Commander's and navigator"s chairs got covered with transparent caps, the bustroger began to compress below.

Viscous gel, growling, filled the depreciation belts, the opened glass of pressurized helmets and the armrests, which now served as the main ship control.

The computer transmitted the lock scanner data directly to the suprafrontal screens of the pressurized helmets.

- After the battle, if we survive, you will be put on trial. - said the Commander dryly; before the bustroger finally hid his pressurized helmet visor, Dybal saw his eyes, hard, steel-colored, eyes of the "Tetvuthurts" Commander.

Meanwhile, the emitter-boat of Lieutenant Maktik continued to move away from the asteroid, making the flat curve.

Protective field was activated and cosmic dust burned on the boat, revealing its shimmering outline.

Suddenly the "Dome" jumped aside like a tennis ball, and a dazzling stream of antimatter hit the place where it was situated a second ago.

Maktik said:

- The object opened fire.

All systems are under intense outside exposure with little overload.

Keep maneuvering.

The object will appear in front of you in a few seconds.

- This is technician yagd Ged Garedda speaking, should I launch the repeater probe for better communication with the "Dome"?

- No way, it will unmask us.

No probes or R13 or scouts. - The Commander did not need a scout, and he felt with his skin what was moving across the asteroid, in some five hundred Kers, he sensed "Krovur." - Gunner, activate the emitter at full capacity. Full alert.

- Yes, Captain, - answered von Conrad from the emitter tower.

Lying like everyone else in the bustroger bath; he symbolically spat on his right thumb and rubbed it on a wide key trigger.

The "Dome" continued to dodge from the shots, which now became more focused. They tore the protective field, ricocheting they splashed in all directions with antimatter protuberances, but the boat just hurled back like a sturdy nut from the jaws of splitting tongs.

Maktik delivered a message:

-The systems of preemptive maneuvering were disabled from outside influences. Turning to manual control.

The intensity of the protective field dropped to eighty-two percent. Hold on, Lieutenant. We summoned help. - Said the commander and gritted his teeth, seeing as several direct hits covered the bot with a ball of fire.

All contact with him was lost.

The "Dome" spun like a top, and started to shoot out the condensing rockets, extinguishing the instant overheating of armor plating.

- Berserk speaking.

Yagd Commander!

We have to do something now, or Maktik will be lost!

-Mind your own business, navigator, - yagd Tskugol cut him short harshly.

-Krovur! - almost shouted Berserk.

Above the gray surface of the asteroid the outline of the protective field could be seen; narrow, fading at the front.

The computers started to work furiously, selecting the radiation band for lock scanners. They didn"t succeed from the first time.

Suddenly "Krovur"s" body could be seen in detail: predatory flat nose, warty battle towers, plane lock scanner antennae looking like window blinds, small scales of black armor, rinkels resembling Kabbalistic writings.

Its emitters continually hit the emitter-bot, slowly moving their short trunks.

-We will be detected in a moment! We must ram it - wailed Dybal, shaking his hands in bustroger.

-Main emitter fire at full power, five missiles salvo - barked the Commander.

The whole body of "Tetvuthurts" shuddered, vibrated - to the last wire, to the last screw.

Oceans of dust rose and reared up on the asteroid"s surface, in an instant wrapping everything around with dense, gray and black veil.

The place where the enemy was supposed to be positioned got swollen in hellfire of hundreds of thermonuclear explosions and flashes of annihilation.

Covered with protective field, "Tetvuthurts" made a leap up to the axis of the original motion, trying to be above the cloud and take a good overviewing position.

The overload was infinitely growing.

Even in the bustroger bath people felt that if it were a couple Tans bigger, then the flesh would separate from the bones.

Having emerged from the cloud, the Commander turned on the thrusters and started throwing the raider from side to side, not staying in one spot for even a second.

Eyes and lock scanners sank into a slowly sprawling cloud within which something continued to rumble and blaze up.

Technician yagd Garedda launched two reconnaissance probes to that area, and they reported that only the emitter-bot was found, tumbling dangerously close to the asteroid, and trim pieces of exploded rockets.

"Krovur" has disappeared.

- It is above us, commander - stated Von Conrad with icy calm expression. - I conduct continuous fire with perfect hit, but it seems like it does not care.

Major antimatter emitter was hitting somewhat upwards, straining all energy potential of the ship.

-This is Lieutenant Maktik speaking. I have multiple injuries.

The intensity of the protective field is no more than twenty percent...

You gave a sharp blow to it, yagd Commander!

It fell to pieces!

-Maktik, get out of the clouds immediately, you are just a hundred Kers from asteroid rocks!

Dock to our left platform and get ready for zero-crossing.

-Yes, Sir...Wilco.

-Good luck, Lieutenant - yagd Tskugol released five more missiles into the enemy and started the fight "in curves."

The fire of "Tetvuthurts" that could turn a small planet into a cluster of boiling substance wrapped around "Krovur" and without any effect was carried away into the void. "Krovur" committed unimaginable evolutions, moving at right angles to the course, or going backwards without any prior braking, like a fly or a giant bumblebee.

It moved with such acceleration, at which all living beings would have died inevitably, but its actions told of its live excitement.

"Krovur" played with "Tetvuthurts" as a fed cat plays with a half dead mouse.


It kept "Tetvuthurts" in the fork of its shtralers, the ones that effortlessly penetrated the protective shields of Stigmarkont Forts recently.

Yagd Tskugol continued making sophisticated curves in space with tenacity and fearlessness of a bomber, shaking his half dead people in bustroger baths, extremely overloading the thrusters which were already twinkling crimson; dangerously straining the creaking and whining frame, saving the last five missiles.

He tried to jump out of the fork at least for a second and pick up Maktik"s bot. When he succeeded and the "Dome" firmly grabbed the raider with mooring anchors, the propulsion engines of "Tetvuthurts" roared and it pulled away from the enemy to a distance of several hundred Kers.

Continuing to increase the flow of megrazine, extending the distance, he rushed at full speed toward the forward outpost "Prokh-22-A".

-Navigator Berserk, report on the readiness for the zero-transition - Commander requested the central panel.

-Not ready. Initiator of substance compensation is out of order. Yagd Garedda is now working there in bustroger overalls.

-We have only ten minutes, navigator... Maktik, Lieutenant Maktik!

-Maktik is on the line.

-I order you to move to the raider immediately with your crew.

-I am the only one who survived, yagd commander.

The gunner and the navigator were killed from depressurization of bustroger pellets... Wilco...

After a few minutes of frenzied race, "Krovur" finally caught up with them.

They managed to contain the Swers for some time with active defense mines that scattered in the air astern of "Tetvuthurts".

They exploded in protective field and on "Krovur"s" armor, covering half of the sky with fiery salutes.

After a series of successfully discharged mines that exploded on the armor, tearing shreds of "Krovur"s" constructions, it quit the game.

Never before since the descent from the stocks, had "Tetvuthurts" gotten subjected to such a blow.

Its protective field was swept away from the body in an instant, like dust from the book shelf; it hung astern with shimmering energy clots. Armor was exposed in several places, the lock scanners and all the superstructures were cut off, uprooted, ripped out with flesh.

Some of the nozzles cracked and megrazine bubbled out in all directions, as if a fireplace got swept by a hurricane.

The space around the raider boiled with bursts of nuclear explosions, which immediately made the armor red-hot.

"Tetvuthurts" became the epicenter of hell-fire from ejected condenser rockets. It was being tossed like a fragile boat on a storm wave.

It got deaf and blind; it was falling to pieces, entire sections dropping out of the ripped belly.

Peripheral computers, unable to withstand the overload, driveled, the shtralers fell silent and the last rocket salvo burned in space, and blank discs of imitation mines could no longer deceive the Swers, who had already reduced the distance to 50 Kers.

Raider "Tetvuthurts-VH-O" was dying with Commander yagd Audun Tskugol in its heart, who continued to dent against stop the handle of "the full speed", burning the remains of megrazine:

-Berserk, readiness!

-Ready!

Attention to all services.

We teleport.

Separate and blow the "Dome" up at ten.

Leave as many debris as possible, space strike me, you know how to do this! All megrazine that is left - overboard, all bots, probes, vehicles, containers overboard!

Isolate and undermine the running reactors!

As many debris as possible, let them think that we have self-destructed!

-Berserk speaking. Maktik completed the transition.

He's in the airlock.

The main computer is malfunctioning, I'm afraid a significant deviation at the final point is possible...

-I do not care for the end point, starting the countdown!

-Hey, Manfred, Manfred!

This is Mackliff speaking.

I'm sorry that I thought you were a careerist idiot.

You were a good guy, actually...

-Thank you, John.

-Guys, this is Krozzeh!

Fire in the engine compartment, the reactor is going to blow up now.

Goodbye!

Natote!

- Good-bye guys!

Comrades, return to your places, the last parade is coming!

-Zero!

A moment before the jump into the unknown, "Tetvuthurts" seemed to fall apart, turn into a multitude of fragments, when "Krovur"s" last salvo reached it.

Before going into oblivion, the main computer stated:

"The enemy volley exceeds the total fire power of "Tetvuthurts" in 6.587 times. Chance of complete destruction upon all relevant damage is 99.9 percent..."

***

Digital Coded Telegram AHO77

Confidential level: A

Stigmarkont FB

12 Auga 4725 f.t.b. of Natotevaal

To:

Coordinator of Natotevaal Security

Marshal Commander

Yagd TOTE YASCHEMGART.

Yagd Commander,

I bring to your notice that yesterday, 11 Auga at 16-45, raider "Tetvuthurts-VH-0" and the emitter-bot "Dome-567" were attacked and destroyed.

Multiple fragments of the lost ships were found on the battlefield.

The black box of the emitter-bot, with properly working analyzers of post-gravitational fields, which was found in the same place, makes it possible to establish that the enemy had gone to the area of the Blue Plume, sector A55S00, sub-sector 345.

Presumably, the assault was committed by the raider "Krovur."

I propose to start the "Terhoma" operation on destroying "Krovur"s" base in the area mentioned above.

I request that the crews of raider "Tetvuthurts-VH-O" and EB "Dome-567" get rewarded posthumously with Platinum Stars of the third degree:

Captain-Commander yagd Audun Holnik Tskugol / commander /

Captain yagd Stikt Toin Slepeh / 1st navigator /

Lieutenant yagd Ged Deuce Garedda / Senior Technician /

Sergeant Kmeh Krozzeh / technician /

Sergeant Einar Berserk / 1st navigator /

Private Ronald Whitehouse / 2nd navigator /

Sergeant Manfred von Conrad / side-shooter /

Private John Mackliff / Computer Technician /

Private Dick Aydem / side-shooter /

Private Alexander Dybal / 2nd navigator /

Lieutenant Stikt Aurus Maktik / commander /

Sergeant Deer Pomme Touhtrim / navigating officer /

Private Yakira Suzuki / side-shooter /

The title "Yagd" should be awarded posthumously to those who did not have it.

Natote!


Consolidated Brigade Commander of the 3rd and 5th directories

Fleet-Commander

yagd Bussoht Rakedda.

***

-I wish I had half your complaint, damn it - said navigator Alexander Dybal, stretching his stiff limbs watching disheveled Whitehouse crawl under the folding table of computer panel, breathing hard.

-Why the hell did he fall right at the time we were drawn into "zero"? - the pilot searched the fleecy flooring with splayed fingers. - He was such a nice fellow...

-There is nothing to grin about, Al. Do you know how many times he rescued me? You don"t.

Well, for instance, in Winnipeg, in the reserve: we kind of went with Barbara to get some fresh air...

Lake, pines, birds are singing...

-Was it Barbara from Huron City or that stewardess from American Airlines? - Dybal smiled slyly: his body was still vibrating with the strain of recent chase.

-No, this girl was high class. A teacher from Cambridge. Either Saxon literature, or surveying - Whitehouse sighed sadly. - Ah...I understand your skepticism.

It"s all right; I'll show you a picture of her.

Hey, where are you now, boy-pistol?

Aydem peeped into the computer-watch room.

He was pale, and had a burning red lump the size of a plum on his forehead:

-Have you lost someone, Ronnie? - He leaned against the case of ventilation system with his shoulder. - Someone from our lot?

-Not who, but what, -replied Dybal. - It is a "Viking Combat" that he sent into space at zero crossing.

-Ronnie, don"t tell me you were going to shoot the swarts with that wreck!? Did you prepare to aim it at them? - Aydem pulled out of his trouser pocket a bruised, scratched gun and threw it on the floor behind Whitehouse. - This one, perhaps?

-Yes, yes, of course it is! - Whitehouse rushed to the gun.

-Your piece of iron was lying in the gateway chamber of the reactor, a little more and it would be left overboard - said Aydem and looked up at the crackling intercom speaker.

- Attention, this is yagd Tskugol speaking. The crew must look through the compartments; calculate the damages, the killed and the wounded.

- I didn't get the meaning of this order - shrugged Aydem. - Everything must have been calculated already by the main computer, and the tentacles of service robots are crawling in the frame with all their might.

- All right, I'm going to the chart house - Dybal rose from his chair. ; To see what Slepeh is doing there. - He tapped Whitehouse on the shoulder and made his way through the right peripheral corridor to the center of the ship. The raider was unrecognizable.

What used to be flat was now covered with bubbles; the straight became wavy, the three-dimensional was now solid.

Space filled many rooms and the word "Depressurization" glowed on the doors that had been automatically sealed along a contour.

Gravitator failed, and every now and then some unfixed object or structure, would suddenly pop up in free fall and crash back when the gravity was restored.

Not one peripheral sensor had escaped destruction and the main computer worked hard to analyze the battle damages:

-the intensity of the protective field, 15% of normal level.

-reflectivity of the armor plating, 12% of normal level.

-total deformation of the pressure hull, 73%

-performance of the PC network-7% of normal.

-Intercom-37% of normal level.

- External Communication-0%

-Weapons, including quad Toh shtralers, long range annihilators, thermo- missiles, mines of active defense-0%

-Megrasine - 0.6% of the normal level.

-Probability of a successful zero-jump-0, 0001%...

"Tetvuthurts" continued to move slowly with an indefinite course, gliding along the vectors of space gravity, spinning uncontrollably along its long axis.

Having passed the sluggishly moving tentacles of a service robot, which was trying to dismantle the crumpled emergency ladder of vertical storage shaft, Dybal saw Mackliff who got stuck in a jammed automatic door:

-Hey, John, how did you manage to get stuck there?

-It's a no-go, help me, - groaning, said Mackliff, vainly trying to break out into the hallway.

Navigator rested his shoe against a rough beam, and pulled Mackliff by the collar with all his might.

Making a lot of noise and swearing they fell onto the corridor ladder. It turned out that Mackliff had a box of plumbing tools with him and almost all of it fell out on Dybal.

Shaking all kinds of drill attachments, milling cutters and blades out of his collar the navigator could not get rid of the feeling that he had already seen this crumpled synthetic-fiber track under his feet, the cracked hinges, and Mackliff's palms, collecting silicon-fluorine parts.

-Idiots - snapped Mackliff breaking off at someone, and Dybal thought that Whitehouse had yelled at him exactly in the same way, hanging next to the bent arm at the portside of "Independence."

He shuddered and his eyes involuntarily searched for the saucer of illuminator, expecting to see Arab station through it.

Commander, coming down the clattering metal steps brought him back from the state of prostration:

-How do you feel, guys?

-Worse than you can imagine, - said Mackliff rising. - Like after a long illness.

Just then Dybal noticed that under the left eye of the engineer shone a quite definite bruise.

Commander also noticed a strange hematoma:

-This is the first time in service that I encounter such damage after the battle.

-I fell, yagd Commander - lied Mackliff. - On the steps.

Dybal openly laughed:

- I think it is a result of revelations against Manfred that you've uttered just before the zero-jump. About an idiot climber and so on.

-We had an argument, what's the big deal? - protested Mackliff. ; A precious friend he has been. He came and began to appeal to the conscience.

Why, had I thought of him in that way.

Well, one thing led to another.

Commander sadly shook his head:

- Okay, I'll deal with it.

And you, Al, should seriously consider what you are going to say to the Tribunal Commission. Why at the time of the battle you were in the control room instead of the cabin, - he turned and walked toward the spindle of the reactor where technicians were working, and finally said - yagd Slepeh insists on the tribunal, and I cannot stop him.

- I will smash Slepeh's face - Dybal growled and added with an unexpected frivolous enlightenment - I will think it over at the tribunal.

Why bother now?

Not a single ship around for several transitions.

They moved to the lock-watch bay.

There, among the chaos and devastation; on the box of a broken transformer sat Manfred Maria von Conrad and stared at the plastic bottle of brandy "Toot-five rings" which stood among a hill of sandwiches with meat paste.

Seeing Maсkliff the shooter apologetically said:

-Let"s drink on the brotherhood, John. All is forgotten.

-Yeah! First you mutilate me, and then ask me to drink on the brotherhood - Mackliff gingerly touched his black eye. - Okay, pour until the commander has not sensed it.

-How did you get cognac on a combat ship? - Inquired Dybal, putting an oval saucer of an emergency lamp shade to the jet of amber liquid, - For Victory!

-I borrowed it from Krozzeh. Nice guy, this Krozzeh, even though he is from the Metropolis - said joyful Von Conrad. For Victory!

-For "Independence" ; joined in Mackliff and put the opened bottle into his pocket - leave some for Maktik. This will help him now more than the pills. Uh, damn! This speaker again.

- Attention, please return to your place in the compartments. Battle alarm ; a mechanical voice of the main computer still floated in the reverberating corners and astronauts already stomped on the ladders and stairs, enlivening the dying ship.

Von Conrad followed Dybal:

Listen, I'll sit with you. Shtralers are broken anyway. Maybe I will be useful.

-Oh, what a day today. Things are getting from bad to worse. All right, come to us, you will help to debug the recorders and the card table, - answered Dybal while running.

The main computer cut in again:

- False alarm. At a distance of 68 Tohs, R11azimuth relative to the course; "Kon Ziemm" base-hospital accompanied by a convoy.

Producing the rapprochement maneuver. A base-hospital accompanied by two minesweepers and a patrol was approaching fast.

At a distance of 34 Tohs the minesweepers overshadowed the floating hospital, which was taken into a ring by emitter buoys, then turned around and went back.

- I have a feeling that they are going to attack us - Dybal pressed his cheek to the navigation window and scratched his nails on the armored glass. - Hey, guys, it's us, "Tetvuthurts"!

It was dark in the chart house, only the survivor instruments exchanged winks, and the rims of escape hatches phosphoresced.

Yagd Slepeh dejectedly sat before the tablet, arms crossed, and von Conrad delved into course recorders' mechanics. After Dybal's disturbing comments, he also made his way to the window:

- They took us for the swers. We have to tell the Commander so he gives them some kind of a signal.

Yagd Tskugol emerged in a moment. His voice was strained:

-Our transmitter of the "friend or foe "identification system is not functioning. Rinkels were shot down in combat, the body is unrecognizable.

They will not recognize us.

The gunner must put the suit on immediately, go to the armor and give signals.

-What kind of signals, yagd Commander? - Von Conrad was taken aback.

-Any kinds of signals, strike me space!

Judging by the AS code on their rinkels, these crews were recruited from your fellow countrymen. Maybe they will understand you.

Maybe they will recognize the suit configuration, or...I do not know.

Hurry, they are going to open fire!

Dybal's face suddenly brightened:

- Wait, Manfred, I know what to do, I am going! - He rushed to the airlock and began to put the suit on frantically.

***

Meanwhile, the convoy ships approached closer.

An intense radio exchange pulsed between them:

-Attention, commander of "Levura-AS-85" calls for yagd Kaar...

Yagd Commander, I see motion on the object's surface. Other manifestations of activity were not observed.

External influence: zero; relative speed - zero, protective field is virtually absent.

-Yagd Kaar speaking.

Keep the combat approachment.

Fire for effect from a distance of 300 Kers.

We cannot risk the hospital. There are three hundred wounded on board.

Trawler "0gayra-AS-2" Commander Lieutenant Lipetsky calls for yagd Kaar...I can see a Shape on the trim.

Proportions match with a humanoid being.

Computer recognizes the suit for external repairs, adopted in commando units of Natotevaal.

Should I send the reconnaissance probe ahead?

-Enough of the initiative, Lieutenant.

"Krovur" can use our communications. No one knows yet what it looks like, and what tactics it uses.

Only fragments of our yaggishvalders celebrate its achievements in space. Follow the order, Lieutenant.

-Yes, sir! Executing your order, yagd Commander.

Gunner Nagoyama, initiate the radiators at full blast.

Field emitters to maximum.

-Commander of "Levur" calls for Lieutenant Lipetsky...

-Serge, do you see a man at the stern? Can you see what he is doing?

-Damn it, Vaclav, he is showing his ass and tells us to go to hell...

Nagoyama, dismiss fire!

-Yagd Kaar speaking...Why are the radiators silent? What's the matter?

-Horst, Horst! Do you see him? That's hilarious!

-This is yagd Kaar speaking. Lieutenants Lipetsky, Sibelhorn, Ganevski, I dismiss you from the command of Natootvaal' ships, announce you arrested and reduced in rank to the rank and file.

The co-pilots are now in charge of the ships. The object should be immediately destroyed! Fire! Fire, consume me space!

-Horst, can you hear me? I never thought that five-zero transitions from Raumshtrasse tavern in Berlin, I would see a jerk on a charred piece of iron who would be doing the "kiss my ass" thing.

-Yagd Kaar, this is Navy Lt. Horst Sibelhorn speaking; in accordance with the Natotevaal' Fleet Charter state on default of misleading orders, I cancel the order to start fire and an order of removal from command is nullified as well.

As for the reduction in rank, we can only be demoted by the Supreme Command, and you are aware of it.

Anyway, there is no need to get aggravated, yagd commander.

That is our people. Definitely.

-Do what you want, Lieutenant. You will deal with the tribunal.

- Lt. Lipetsky speaking. Just now a reconnaissance probe received a personal signal from the idiot on the armor: ID AS4450-VH-O. This is 2nd Class astro-navigator Alexander Dybal from the special group of Independence commandos.

And these ruins are nothing but the "Tetvuthurts" raider considered lost two days ago; this is our local 'Flying Dutchman'...

***

Whitehouse was lying on a soft hospital bed, watching the entertainment program out of the corner of his eye, which consisted of a sequence of short stories on the adventures of three pilots in the Swertz areas, hits like "Pink Sunset" and "Vacation" and a mediocre vaudeville.

On the nearby bed sat Von Conrad, intently playing chess with himself ; and after each game he sighed sadly:

-Well, I've lost again.

Hoarse cock was heard from a neighboring ward. This was Dybal, all painted as a Mohican following Aydem's will, who had again won in a card game.

Suddenly Mackliff burst into the ward: breathless, disheveled, in his government pajamas:

-Ronnie, guess who I have just met in the treatment room? Take a wild guess!

-Your ass - unenthusiastically said Whitehouse.

-Wrong. Next?

-The Swertz Emperor.

-Wrong again.

-Get lost, John. I'm sick of you.

- Ronnie, you're such a moron, ; said Mackliff, offended. - Octa. Octa Renenna from the "Ziem" base. Well? Why are you staring at me? Get your things and let's go. She is treating us.

-Just don't paint the town red like you did at "Ziem" - Colonel gave them a disapproving look. ; This is a battlefront. We're at war.

-Exactly, Manfred, - Dybal appeared in the doorway, wiping Indian military paint off his face. ; Business is business.

- Oh, what a good nose has the navigator. He feels everything - Mackliff laughed.

Octa Renenna met them in full splendor: luxurious hair shone in the dim light of the treatment room, there was a touch of color in her cheeks and her overalls gently clung to the perfect shape of her body:

-Well, there come Our Space Heroes. What are we going to do now? Shall we sing again? What was that song...

'At quiet break of dawn in the village of Groenewald...'

-Grunwald. I think we shall better not - Mackliff said tensely. ; Our friend's voice has not yet recovered after the battle.

-Well...John, colonel did a good job on character building -

Dybal closed his left eye with his hand. ; Bashi Bazouk turned into a disciplined soldier.

-Is that your addressing sign? - Asked the girl, and also closed her left eye .

-No, Al is just kidding - said Mackliff, turning so that she would not notice his black eye.

-Shall we dance?

-Of course we shall! - said the navigator happily and gracefully caught the girl by the waist. - So, the ancient waltz "In the mountains of Mayach-Kurils".

They circled around Mackliff who stood rooted to the ground and Whitehouse grandly proceeded to the table, where he immediately spotted a few tin tubes and a bottle of "Toote."

-Where are the girlfriends? - Mackliff asked, wincing, because navigator stepped on his foot. ; Is Kamista here by any chance?

-No, she is at "Ziem" - Octa was a little confused. - If I am not enough for you, you can call Moss from the surgery department or Tefola from the morgue.

-Oh, do not call Tefola from the morgue. And I kind of dislike surgeons, you know. They have that unpleasant look. That piercing look -Whitehouse winced. - What does this phrase mean, if you were not enough for us? Seriously?

- Do not be a bore, Ronnie - Dybal waved his hand ; Just sit down and relax. Your force will come in handy for other purposes. "Krovur" is still alive.

-Is it true that during the battle you wrote an obscenity on "Krovur", and nearly captured its commander? - smiled Octa.

-My God, beautiful, where did you get this information? ; wondered Dybal.

-Well, everyone in Stigmarkont talks about it.

And your paratroopers from the "Black Lightning" set off fireworks in Kanstarma on this occasion - said Octa. ; They had almost burnt the docks.

This was in the "News".

And they also said that all of you got the "yagd" title posthumously, and were awarded with platinum stars.

-Good Lord, poor Commander! He won't be able to take me to the court martial. I'm a Yagd, after all and holder of a platinum star ; Dybal grieved falsely. - What would you say about it, yagd Whitehouse?

-This is strange, - he replied reluctantly and added. - It's all propaganda. I know about these things.

Once, near Ankara, when the Arabs were arrayed so that our division spent up to seven regulation rounds in a day, one guy from air defense had shot two helicopters down.

And it was written in the newspapers that he had hit five of them.

For the courage, so to speak.

Then Whitehouse started a dispute with Mackliff on the importance of SBNLC in ground operations, not forgetting to consume the pleasant burning liquid.

After a while, they've stopped paying attention to Octa and Dybal and hugging each other, sang the "heavy rifle at the ready," and criticized swers, Islamists, three-star General Bill Cutner, head of NASA's base at White Sands Cape.

-I've always dreamed of meeting a girl like you, Octa - whispered Dybal while dancing, and the girl smiled and graciously nodded...


***


Digital Coded Telegram 00A


Confidential level: А


The flagship of a consolidated brigade

Of the 3rd and 5th directories

battleship "Mirtowert"


To SS coordinator of Natotevaal,


Marshal Commander

yagd TOOTE YASCHEMGART.

Yagd Commander!

I bring to your notice that today, at 13-15, Auga 24th year 4725, parts of 111U Fleets under my team launched the "Terhoma" operation on destroying "Krovur's" base in the Blue Plume area, sector A55S00, sub-sector 354.

The object of the attack is located on the asteroid 1012 Kers in diameter and contains typical components of advanced FB of the Swertz.

Having blocked the aforesaid area and cleared it from the drifting mines, parts of the "Dragon" commandos division armed with heavy weapons, landed on the asteroid's surface in 250 Kers from gun turrets of the base's line of defense and began to advance them.

At the same time the base was subjected to massive strike of antimatter and thermonuclear warheads.

Noise services treated its structures with pulses of Gauss, UPS and Beta rays at full capacity, for deregulation of the measurement systems, computers and biological organisms.

The opponent did not provide any resistance.

Strictly at the estimated time, the commander of the reconnaissance company Lieutenant Zar Yunniser, reported on crossing the base's border line, marked by a sensor line of security alarm and of approaching dust cloud, raised by the volleys of fire training.

After the mobile annihilation plants have rammed the dome shield in several places, "Dragon" tank companies began to concentrate for the attack, and military robots were sent forward for setting the local protection emitters.

All in all five emitter-forts were deployed in the direction of the main blow. At 16.00 o"clock, commander of land operations, the Navy Commander - Toin Emmis, gave the order on launching the tank attack. Companies of the "Dragon" started the advance without resistance and reached the domed structure in a few hours, which turned out to be a long range communications transponder which had been destroyed.

The advance was carried out without air cover as a dust cloud covering the base had strong-screening properties, which led to multiple interferences to aircraft remote control and influenced the coordination of their collocation while approaching the target.

After the collision of two aircrafts the parasol was abandoned.

At 17.36 ships of the Swertz numbering 34 vehicles, launched an attack in sector V56077 with the aim to lift the siege from the base, but their attack was repulsed.

No casualties were sustained.

Currently tank companies continue their advance toward the center of the base.

Commander of the united brigade,

Fleet-Commander

yagd Bussoht Rakedda.


***


Leaving the BH "Kon Ziemm" the next day, thoughts of Whitehouse, Mackliff and Dybal were of the same resilient body and moist kisses of Octa Renenna, her passionate embrace in the treatment room.

- One more sperm-squeeze like that and I'll head to the forefathers - absently noticed Mackliff at the gateway to the gallery, and searched the pockets of his brand new suit for cigarettes.

- Hell yeah... She treated all the three of us...- Whitehouse assented - Did she make us drunk or something? She worked under me, as if her life depended on it. Like a machine. A witch.

- She"s a nice girl, you know nothing about women...- said Dybal, already standing at the lower deck of a new raider. - What a name this crockery has - "Kon Drerh." - I would name instant action rat poison like that. I wonder what this wreck is like in action.

- It"s all right, Al. You won"t have to put up with this name for a long time.

Another meeting with "Krovur", and they will give us a third ship - said Whitehouse with a grim smile.

They walked along the central trunk of "Kon Drerh" in the direction of the main post.

It smelled of new plastic, lubricant of service robots and unparalleled cologne of navigator Berserk.

Krozzeh already busied himself with adjusting something by the extinguishing system closet:

-Hey, guys. Why the sour look? You enter a new ship. That is bad luck.

-Allrighty, we are going to have some fun then - dismissed Mackliff. - Listen, Kmeh, in the morning I heard guys at the hospital saying that "Kon Drerh" headed to Metropolis. What is this nonsense about?

-This isn"t nonsense. Marshal Commander yagd Yaschemgart wants to personally hand us the rewards for the battle with "Krovur" - mechanic smiled. -

So you need a good shave and a smooth out.

- Nothing grows on my face for two months from your meals, - said Mackliff. -

Well, this is the metropolis then.

Let's see how these Natotevaaleans live, or maybe they are not Natotevaaleans.

Natotevaal is the name of the war, as I get it. So how are these people called, for whom we are fighting?

-What's the difference, John, - Whitehouse squatted beside Krozzeh.

-That's right - agreed Mackliff, looking around for Commander or yagd Slepeh, and lighting a cigarette. - I do not care whom to fight for. I'm a mercenary.

-You are a good mercenary. And a nice guy - said Krozzeh, sounding offended.-You fight for us.

Mackliff only shrugged in response.

When they entered the elevator, Whitehouse suddenly boomed:

- No, guys. I have got a feeling that Octa has raped us. Do you get it?

I feel that I was abused, like a put-upon boarding school freak.

I did not want her, but still I was caught between her sweaty breasts, against my will. I am a man after all! Damn it! Not her.

-Ronnie you're such a bore, - mused Dybal. - All of us were raped to some degree, as we were sent to this war.

Far, far beyond the Baikal,

From his home and his yard,

To the Akatui prison,

Walked a convict in shackles, deported...

-I thought you gave your consent, Al. Wasn"t that you who was shouting about our participation in Natotevaal once the Earth were in danger? - Mackliff said quietly, giving his comrades a sign so they would not talk out loud, - I'm here voluntarily.

And yagd Tskugol promised that we can return home at first request.

-Don"t be a fool, John. No one is going to let you go now. Only to the next world.

We have gotten into this war ourselves, and there"s no one to blame here. - Whitehouse switched to whisper. - We should wait for a chance and show off.

I terribly miss my goons, Arnie and George. And my lovely Dorothy...

-And Barbara from Cambridge, - winked Dybal. - Well, shall we arrange a revolt?

- No, Al. You're crazy all the same - sighed Whitehouse - I did not say "riot".

I said - an opportunity.

- Well, well. We know you - chuckled Mackliff. - Okay, let's go. Commander must be out of his wits because of our delay.

***

Teratonna, the seventh planet of the Metropolitan somewhat resembled Earth in futuristic fiction novels.

No rattling of transport, no factories, military bases, prisons, mines, oil wells, landfills and garbage dumps.

Cleanliness.

Fruit trees, flowers, bright two-storey houses, azure squares, tall, slender men in tight clothes, carefree faces, rolling laughter.

No war, no swers, no stress.

Metropolis, the heart of the country, the cradle of the nation, which spread out over dozens of zero-crossings.

- There is probably not a single pub- Mackliff said in a bored voice, looking at the wide streets from the cabin of a silent gravity conveyor. - Boredom.

-Of course, it's a planet for spending a holiday.

Here they take a break from everything, including alcohol and tobacco, - said their guide, an elderly man in the uniform of a technical service colonel. -There are planets with plants only, and planets with kindergartens, schools and colleges. There are also planets-cemeteries and city-planets.

-It seems to me, we should better take a look at the cemetery planet - skeptically noticed Aydem. - To see the place of the further stay, so to speak.

-No, no. You will be buried on Earth anyway.

-Thank you for your comfort, yagd Sirert.

-That"s strange, yagd Aydem. You are a hero, and you say such things - the guide shook his head, and suddenly perked up. -And here is the stadium.

You can play ball there. Do you know how to play ball, yagd Von Conrad?

- I play football. I'm good at standing at the gates.

- Or even behind them, - laughed Dybal. - Right, Manfred?

Von Conrad did not answer, rubbing a small eight-pointed star made of white metal on his chest.

A few hours before the meeting with Marshal Commander yagd Yaschemgart, which was supposed to be held in the building of the General Headquarters at the central FB of metropolis, sociable Dybal met two students from the VGF Academy and invited them to play a match against a team of "Kon Drerh."

Instantly excited Maсkliff supported the idea. Yagd Slepeh contemptuously refused, promising to report to yagd Tskugol when he returns from the meeting.

Technician yagd Garedda also refused, referring to the pain in his leg.

Swimming pools, open space...

The team of "Kon Drerh" took the field in the number of seven.

The game"s rules were quite similar to rugby, with the difference, that the players were dressed in protective armor and were able to camouflage a la "soap film."

Yagd Sirert could not prevent the action and obediently went to the stands, getting mixed with a cheerful crowd of students, soldiers, and girls from a nearby technical college.

At the edge of the field, on the dividing line stood the grand prize - two boxes of "Five Rings" Tote".

Von Conrad could hardly remember the further mess, which took place at the field after a signal of computer-judge.

Some unseen mass kept knocking him down, someone pulled a mellow-like ball out of his hands and breathed down his neck.

However, in the crowd, the colonel managed to slip out of the pile of bodies and took the ball to the in-goal field.

Whitehouse, who was acting next to Von Conrad as a full back, had no special tactics, but made use of his weight by hanging on the running opponent or making quite non-elegant sweeps.

Thus he earned several penalties in the gate, a lot of comments and, in the end, was sent off for foul play.

In the stands he got into the company of several New York commandos and went sightseeing with them, which included the well-known "California" pub, where mostly gathered people from Earth along with "mulatto" children of mixed marriages and young people, in search of romantic spirit.

Whitehouse didn"t speak of his adventures in the company of his fellowmen, but from the fact that a patrol had accompanied him to the awards ceremony, it was clear that they were wild.

Mackliff together with Dybal quickly mastered the subtleties of the game, and it turned out that they were a perfect match of strikers, who totally fooled the enemy with their swift and daring passes towards the in-goal field.

Berserk and Krozzeh played in the middle line and were tireless in making huge mess at the midfield which was completely absurd; although spectators and fans who were experts in such brawls really enjoyed it.

Dick Aydem looked a little unconvincing at the field.

After the game, it turned out that at the very beginning of the first counter-attack, he slammed one burly cadet with his foot against a place, unprotected with armor, and spent the rest of the game trying to baffle pursuit of his flaming with vengeance rival.

One way or another, but they have won the brandy and drank it right away. Yagd Slepeh and yagd Sirert also could not resist the temptation. Then almost everyone got sick.

Sudden physical load, microtraumas from concussions, caused by collisions, contortions, scrapes and bruises combined with alcohol - all that made everybody lay down on the benches of the stadium and come round for two hours.

Then the team dispersed in all directions.

Some went to bathe in the central fountains, the others went to visit friends in the Academy's barracks, and others decided to look at P.E. classes of girls from Technical College.

When neat, clean-shaven and smart captain commander arrived at the appointed place to lead his crew to yagd Yaschemgart, he found no one.

- Damn alcoholics - said yagd Tskugol mildly and went to look for his people in the commandant's office. The award took place the next day. Everything was very casual and quick.

The hangover commando group was checked for weapons, led them through the security corridor, and left them in a large hall for receptions.

The walls, floor and ceiling were absolutely smooth and of a monotonic bluish gray color.

Doors, merging with the wall, opened automatically; huge windows had no curtains or blinds or tinting.

- Hey, Al, look at the funny cleaner - said Mackliff when a short, fat man in clothes that resembled a crumpled sweatsuit entered the room.

- Shut up, it's probably some local bigwig - hissed the co-driver, noting that yagd Tskugol held a port at the sight of the old man - Stand at attention! - thundered yagd Tskugol, and, having made a few clear front-line steps, stood with his hand raised forward: - Yagd Marshal-commander, the crew of the raider "Kon Drerh" ...

-All right, Captain, let"s do without ceremony - said yagd Yaschemgart in an unexpectedly rich, powerful voice. - Well done, good job in every sense... Natote.

- Natote - barked commandos and the echo resounded from wall to wall.

Yagd Tskugol"s earlobes reddened .

He realized that Marshall knew about yesterday match with the cadets and of Whitehouse"s outrage in "California".

- Why is your left pocket unzipped, Sergeant? - Suddenly asked the marshal, walking past the bulging formation of commandos, getting hold of Von Conrad"s pocket with his dry finger. The other burned with shame.

-Uh-oh...what a mistake, colonel, - could not help saying Dybal .

-Not good. You must take care of your appearance. Do not lose the honor of your native planet - said yagd Yaschemgart and pinned a platinum star to von Conrad"s chest.

After that, he buttoned his zipper pocket and began awarding the others.

Most of all he liked Berserk. He had a long talk with him about fishing, nets and spinning.

At the end, Berserk took heart to tell the marshal a joke about a Danish fisherman who met a hedgehog selling glue vials in the middle of the ocean.

Marshal did not get it, but laughed, pleased with cheerfulness of his soldier.

-What are your requests? - Said yagd Yaschemgart at last.

-We would like to send some letters, yagd Marshal-Commander - stepped forward Dybal. - To drop a line.

-Get them ready. I'll have them delivered immediately. However, do not write too much.

Or there will be too many blank spaces after they get checked by the censorship department. Natote!

They spent in the brig of the Metropolis FB the remaining three days by the order of the Commandant, Navy Commander-yagd Kerr, who cared for public order. Afterwards yagd Slepeh, Krozzeh and yagda Garedda, were released for a day to visit their relatives, and Dybal managed to fool the guards and escape with two technician girls.

The rest spent their time playing cards, watching TV and writing letters.

Whitehouse wrote more letters than the others.

Three letters to his wife and sons, a letter to his grandmother in Detroit, his father and mother in Colorado Springs, three letters addressed to mysterious women, and finally, a letter with a laconic address:

"Hunter Saurno Santo. Magdalena. Great desert. "

Now, sitting in the back seat of a gravitational transporter, which was floating above Teratonna"s gardens; he thought that yagd Tskugol was probably aware of the fact that most of the crew was only waiting for a chance to leave this whole Natotevaal thing for good and return home.

-And these are the ruins of the ancient settlements of our ancestors that date back fifty thousand years before the Natotevaal - happily said yagd Sirert, pointing to a shapeless heap of stones.

-Great news - Whitehouse cast him a stiff smile and was lost in his thoughts.

They were flying above this blossoming planet with no seas or rivers and a cloudless sky for about two hours until the commander contacted them:

- You must quickly return to the raider...

***


Digital Coded Telegram 00А


Confidential level: А


The flagship of the consolidated brigade

Of the 3rd and the 5th directories

"Mertowert" battleship


To: Natotevaal SS coordinator,

Marshal Commander

yagd TOTE YASCHEMGART


Yagd Commander!

I bring to your notice that the advance of tank companies from the 'Dragon' commandos Division noticeably slowed by 21-15 due to rough terrain.

When the connection worsened the attackers switched to laser Morse code, reporting, that they were approaching the squat towers which apparently were the major emitters of the protective field of the base without interference.

When the emitters were destroyed, heavy infantry was supposed to commit to battle and start a floor-by-floor capture of the base through ventilation system shafts and elevator channels.

By 21-30 heavy cruisers "Mower Mass", "Tarrahk", 2 class battleships "Aulis", "Kahunipadare", "Kekvut", "33 "and auxiliary vessels were moved up close to the base and hung over the dome of the assault brigades of the "Dragon" division.

Around 22-00 o"clock, Lieutenant Zar Yunisser going ahead with his vessel before the tank companies reported that he saw radiator caps, rapidly rising out of the ground and masts of all round action annihilators.

It was clear from his message that lifting shafts of the combat caps were randomly spaced and thickly covered the position, so that even two medium tanks wouldn"t be able to pass one another.

No other details on the location of bunkers were received since the connection has disappeared completely, and the cloud over the base became completely impenetrable.

However, judging by the flashes inside it and a sharp rise of radioactivity, it became clear that the Swers opened barrage fire.

At 22-18 the battle ships which were prepared for landing were subjected to fire attack.

Two boats were covered with smoke right away and began their retreat to the cover group under the protection of "Kekvut." Battleship "Aulis" and heavy cruiser "Mower mass" that faced an attack and took most of the volley"s energy, were completely destroyed, and fell to the surface of the asteroid 55-60 Kers from the border of the base.

"Kahunipadare" hiding behind its protective field suffered severe damage, but gave an opportunity to withdraw the assault brigades from the area of effective fire.

At 22-34, parts of the "Dragon" division focused to support the first wave tank companies suffered an attack; vessels of yaggdishvalder-15 from the 588 squadron were also attacked by fire, while putting up a cordon around the base. As a result of shelling, two battleships and seven patrols were badly damaged and had to evacuate their crews.

At this time, in the dust cloud over the base the Swers" aircrafts started operating with the aim to destroy the remnants of the commandos division, who had entrenched themselves in 243 Kers from the central emitters. All attempts to knock them down were unsuccessful.

They only managed to run three of the control systems off the course then the aircrafts took refuge in one of the rocky asteroid arrays, partially hidden by a dust cloud.


At 25-00, fleet-commander yagd Toin Emmis gave a command to pass over to the defensive.

When yaggdishvalder warships have moved off to the cordon line of the asteroid, the swers ceased fire, but kept exposing the computer systems of our ships and aircrafts with intense noise.

Active mining of the whole areola of the asteroid and a deep scan of the adjacent space is currently being carried out in order to anticipate unexpected attack on our units from "Krovur", which probably has already been alerted by the staff of the base of the attack.

Judging by the short skirmishes in the bridgehead, disparate parts of commandos continue their persistent defense, although their current ammunition should have already come to an end.

After the approach of the new "Skull" division from Stigmarkont FB the attack is supposed to be repeated with the use of military robots type "555".

In the result of the attack that lasted from 16-00 to 25-00, the casualties total:

- 3 heavy cruisers.

- 4 battleships of the 1st class.

- 8 battleships of the 2nd class.

- 5 patrols of "Levur" type.

- 86 small and 39 large assault brigades.

- 2 minesweepers of "Ogayra" type.

- 11 patrol boats.

- 4 air assault aircrafts.

- 203 medium tanks "Shrekt" and "Mole", 335 infantry transporters type "Reom-11."

- 31 self-propelled annihilation vehicles.

- 103 demining machines of various types.

- 17 mobile emitter bots SEB-A-O.

- 488 combat robots of various types.

Total losses of personnel are:

- 1351 units killed.

- 256 units wounded.

Of these, 5 units of flag officers, including the "Dragon" division commander - Colonel yagd Dyult Chatel, who died in the attempt to evacuate the remnants of his division from the bridgehead.

Natote!


Commander of the united brigade

Fleet-Commander

yagd Bussoht Rakedda.


***


Looking around and clutching a crumpled plastic sheet in his hand, navigator Berserk entered the wardroom of "Kon Drerh" raider.

He put this crumpled piece of paper on the table before Dybal and Mackliff, and wearily sank into the chair:

- Here, read this DT on the "Terhoma Operation".

Dybal flattened the DT of yagd Bussoht Rakedda on his knee: it told of unsuccessful attack on the base in sub-sector 354 and gave a whistle:

-Whoa, fifteen hundred dead!

-Tell me, Einar, is the war of machines always accompanied by such wild casualties? - asked Mackliff, looking at the description of the slaughter over the navigator"s shoulder - Reminds me of Waterloo.

But that was clear: regiments drew up in a square under gun and artillery fire and went in dense ranks right at the artillery batteries; canister salvos at close range mowed down squadrons of hussars, dragoons, cuirassiers.

But this! Why are the casualties so heavy?

-Unsuccessful air assault operations always result in heavy casualties among the commandos - shrugged Berserk. - Two months ago, my friend has disappeared in the "Reyspodokh" air assault campaign, in the system of Small Starts. His name was Olaf Gutbran.

-Your friend died, and you're sitting there, shrugging your shoulders.

Haven"t you thought that all these commandos at Terhoma were also someone's friends? Almost all of them were from Earth.

All had mothers, children, women who loved them - said Mackliff sternly, rage reflecting in his eyes.

- They were considered dead on Earth a long time ago.

Their mothers have mourned over them; their women share their bed with others - said Berserk quietly. - No letters reached from here. I know for sure. Our letters may arrive, though, as it was yagd Yaschemgart"s promise.

- I don"t care for this Yaschemgart - cried out Mackliff. - You sound like a computer. Natotevaal goes back thousands of years, and it will continue forever, perhaps.

And again, they will keep replacing the deceased with the guys from Yorkshire, Los Angeles, Osaka, Danzig and St. Petersburg! And whom do they take, Einar? The best. They take beautiful people, the top of our society, thus weakening our nations. If they hadn"t used us as cannon fodder, hadn"t taken our cream; from milk we would have long become first-class butter!

We would have had our own "Krovurs" and "Tetvuthurtses"!

And we would have been hosts of the space, and not swers or Tskugols!

-Why do you think that people have been taking part in Natotevaal for ages? I suppose this is the case of the last century - spoke Dybal, who began to feel Mackliff"s nervousness. - And, please, John, would you stop yelling!

-I do not think so. I know it. Take the rock paintings of a caveman for instance, with beings in spacesuits and vehicles resembling planetary battleplanes clearly visible on them.

And Ul-Mar-Konchines: a plateau with giant paintings inlaid of boulders? These drawings can be only seen from a height of five miles. This is no religious building, but a navigational guidance needed in the mountainous terrain. What"s next?

Aztec roads: wide, short, not leading anywhere, perfectly horizontal. Why did the Aztecs need these useless constructions, if they did not even have the wheel?

Because these were not roads but runways - Mackliff jumped from his chair vigorously waving his hands, backing up his words. - A mammoth skull, as if shot through by shtralers and tales of flying dragons and other devilry?

Have you ever seen, Al, a "Boeing-979" landing over a quiet forest at night? Side lights flashing, the roar and flames of its engines. Doesn"t that remind you of a dragon?

Those who came up with the ancient legends about dragons have seen such things.

- That"s all poetry, John, - said navigator glumly. - We got here from the orbit. You are U.S. Air Force Lt., Aydem is U.S. Navy Air Force Captain, Whitehouse graduated from the Academy of Communication and some other university, Berserk is a fine electronics specialist and so on, and still they taught us ABC at "Ziem".

Tell me, what good could Natotevaal get from a dark Pithecanthropus or Roman legions centurion?

What could have done some glorious Badbrok knight, even if he won ten tournaments and stacked hundreds of English yeomen?

How could you explain elementary navigation rules, assault brigade control or shtraler fan shooting to a janissary?

-They could have brainwashed them, inserted all the necessary information directly into the subconscious. Same way as they put kovakt and kumit into our heads.

-And why did they take us to the shooting ranges, polygons and tech classes then? And even forced us to take exams?

-But...

- No buts - Mackliff put his fists on the table. -We have to decide something.

Berserk, who echoed both Dybal and Mackliff during the conversation, took a cigarette from his breast pocket, squeezed it, but changed his mind and tucked it behind his ear:

- A riot?

Mackliff was startled to hear a word which has been spinning in his mind for several minutes.

It most accurately reflected a feeling that arose in his heart, mixed of anger, rage, annoyance, frustration, pride and despair.

A riot!

Silently like a big cat, Whitehouse entered the wardroom:

- Why the sour look, guys?

Mackliff silently handed him the crumpled DT sheet and Berserk said dully:

- Yesterday fifteen hundred of our people were killed at Terhoma. Today the attack will resume. The "Dragon" commandos are going to be thrown into the grinder.

- The "Dragon"? Are these the guys with whom we quarreled at a pier in Stigmarkont? Remember, Al? Good guys - moodily said Whitehouse. - All of them will perish there. But no one forced them. You, John, are standing here, as if ready to crush down all the barriers up to the running reactor, but haven"t you given your consent?

- I have. But if it were not for Tskugol, if he did not exist, I would long have been at home, drinking cocoa with crispbread. I don"t believe they will ever let us go, because you will always recognize a person in the crowd who saw burning spaceports and collision of raiders in space.

- How so?

- By the eyes.

- Come on, John, - Whitehouse made an indefinite movement with his hand. - You would never wish to be at the controls of a fighter, when you have felt the power of a planetary assault plane. Ever. The others feel the same. And we are fighting for Earth here you"d better keep that in mind. The Swers will destroy it if they win.

I think that the main task now is to destroy "Krovur" and its base, so our guys would not be killed in bunches, and then... then we'll see.

-I...Do you really think so, Ronnie? - Mackliff raised an eyebrow in surprise. - It is so unlike you. How prudent. Did commander brainwash you, too?

-You're out of your mind, John. Do you want to excite a riot of commandos? - Whitehouse got in a rage. - Even if you"d raise a few divisions, you cannot beat the entire Natootvaal"s fleet and then the "swarts".

We're just going to die, all of us. Terhoma is being besieged now.

Our fellows are dying there. We must raze this base to the ground, before the slaughter has started, and attend to "Krovur", and then move back home.

Do you get it?

-You"re insane, - said Mackliff and helplessly collapsed into a chair.

There was a long pause, which was only once interrupted by commander"s voice, calling von Conrad, who was adjusting the aft salvo fire tube.

Several times footsteps and short altercations could be heard from the hallway - technicians were arguing about the order of current engines inspection.

Finally Dybal cautiously said:

-I know what to do with this base.

We should teleport our raider to the protective dome and crush the major emitters with its belly, and then flatten it all up.

-Not a bad idea. The swarts will not have time to switch the lock scanner systems and emitters to short track - nodded Whitehouse. - But this is practically unattainable.

Even if the jump is very precise, deviation at the end point is 5-6 Kr.

The height of the protective field of the base is 12-13 Kr, the body of "Kon Drerh" is 0.5 Kr.

We are likely to show up either at the border of the protective field, and it will cut the raider in half; or get into the asteroid"s ground.

Then the substance compensator won"t cope with the overload, and we will be blurred between the start and the end points of teleportation.

- And if there won"t be any deviations at the end point? - navigator shook his curly hair. - But suppose there won"t?

-We are professionals, Al, not self-murderers. We should have no "if" or "maybe" - evilly snapped Mackliff.

-Hey - Berserk raised his hand.

-He had a face saying that a great discovery spun in his head, and was just ready to get out. - We have to teleport to the shield on a little reconnaissance bot and set a beacon.

Then, with the exact coordinates of the end point, the will not be any deviations.

Raider will land right under the protective field.

There is a mess at the base now.

Swers will not detect the reconnaissance bot immediately.

-Brilliant, Einar - Dybal shouted happily, slapping the confused navigator by the shoulder. - Bravo!

-Besides of the swarts, we have another problem - said Berserk, waving the navigator away. - Yagd Tskugol has a task to place observational beacons in sector A67S95 and wait for "Krovur" there.

He will not turn "Kon Drerh" to Terhoma.

-This dumbass Yaschemgart does not know a thing about war - shouted Mackliff. - And we'll deal with Commander. We'll make him turn the raider to Terhoma!

-Enough talking. We should take Aydem, the Colonel, and go to the commander - firmly said Whitehouse.

It took them a few minutes to find Von Conrad, Aydem and reach the main post.

Mackliff typed a conventional code on the keyboard of a combination lock and put his ID badge into the slot of identifier. The massive door slid to the side:

- Yagd Commander, the team wants to talk to you about a very important matter.

Yagd Tskugol grimly listened to the team, swaying from right to left on a turntable chair, looking at the toes of his shoes.

The main console behind him lived its separate, independent life, exchanging winks with countless sensor lights, lines at the displays, of which was comprised a continuous dialogue of peripheral computers with the main PC, uninterruptedly adjusting the curves of the course, and regulating the power of the running reactor.

Yagd Slepeh stood by the commander, casting a baleful look at the talking Whitehouse.

- We will smash them, yagd commander. Turn the raider to Terhoma, and give computer a task to prepare the bot - Whitehouse concluded, and his last words seemed to float around for several moments, despite the powerful soundproof properties of the post.

This is the opinion of the crew - added Mackliff in a muffled voice.

-What do you mean, "opinion of the crew?" - Growled yagd Slepeh. - Did this booze at the stadium badly affect your brains? Off to your compartments!

First navigator wanted to say something else, but did not manage to do that.

With a wave of his hand, Whitehouse moved forward Aydem and von Conrad, who gently but forcefully seized yagd Slepeh, dragged him away and locked in a closet with fire spacesuits.

Yagd Tskugol slowly got up and reached for the remote.

Mackliff quickly pulled the shtraler out of his holster and aimed it at the bridge of the commander:

- We respect your experience and exposure yagd Tskugol, we've seen you in action, but I warn you...

Yagd Tskugol glanced the astronauts up with his severe sending-chills-down-the-spine look, fleered, and deliberately slowly pressed the "internal threat alert" button.

Then he drew himself up to his enormous height:

- A riot?

The alarm signal hummed and squealed, and the computer displayed a message: "Charging of the fighting robots is complete. They are heading to the main post. The compartment doors are locked."

- So, yagd Mackliff, why aren"t you shooting? - Abruptly asked the Commander.

- Oh, Captain, we came to you with an open heart and you...

Whitehouse made a great leap forward and knocked the commander to the ground.

But instead of falling and becoming quiet, he rolled over the back and before Whitehouse could turn around, with a short, precise punch to the base of the neck, put him across the board.

The approaching Mackliff was deprived of his shtraler at one stroke of the leg and Dybal was knocked down with a powerful sweep.

Before von Conrad and Berserk could figure something out, Commander slipped between them, and was by the flung-open door, from which showed smooth bodies of the fighting robots.

Machines shielded the Commander with their bodies and put forward their short arms, studded with barrels of shtralers.

Then they turned on the system of bio-neutralization, and the team found itself limply sprawled against a nappy rug, and all they could do was just breathe and slightly move their tongues.

- God damn it, we have ended up in a bad way! - said Dybal in Russian.

Dark as a cloud Captain-Commander passed the motionless bodies and sat in a chair:

- This is the first time I encounter such a thing. The crew at the barrel of a shtraler, demanding to be sent to its doom - he rubbed his fist, which he hit against the neck of Whitehouse. - Awesome. The crew wants to arbitrarily change the course of the vessel performing the task of the Supreme Command.

If I do not destroy you now, I risk losing the right to command Natotevaal"s vessels forever. I will be denuded the status of "Commander", the "yagd" title and will be reduced to the ranks. Then I will have to wash decks or repair garbage collectors for the rest of my life.


-Okay, yagd Commander, no matter what you say, you don"t know how to fight. You"re shitty at war, - said Dybal forcing himself to speak, and making a sophisticated movement, spat on the base plate of a nearest robot.

The spit burned in the protective field and was drawn into the air gate like a whitish cloud.

- Do you seriously believe in the success of your venture? - Yagd Tskugol chuckled.

- Yes, we do.

- How long will this operation take?

- Gee, Santa Maria! Not more than forty minutes, - shouted Whitehouse breathlessly. - Then we will fully attend to "Krovur".

Al invented a way how to get him on the hook like a hungry perch.

We will show them what a war in space means.

- All right. So be it. Just do not pretend that you are the saviors of the galaxy. You are dust, mere dust under the shoes of empires, - said the commander.

- Thanks for the kind parting words, - growled Mackliff.

- Yagd Slepeh - Commander turned to the cabinet, in which the first navigator was hidden. - You have not heard or saw anything. Got it?

- Got you, yagd commander - said a voice in response.

***

You could hardly see a camouflage assault suit on Aydem as he was abundantly loaded with weapons, various purpose grenade launchers, shtralers of different calibers, vision devices of different spectra, automatic rifles, explosives, cutters, sensors, ammunition pouches, mines.

Apart from this Dybal also carried smoke rockets and a radio beacon...

They were lying behind a bulk of fused boulders covered with rusty stains. In a shallow crevice behind was a reconnaissance-bot from "Kon Drerh". Swertz base stretched around; a few hours ago an attack of Natotevaal yaggdishvalders has been warded off.

Black carcasses of disabled tanks and armored vehicles stood in placers, bodies of men in camouflage assault overalls were steaming; armored caps burned, smashed by fire of assault ships, dust and smoke from ripped out fortifications slowly settled down.

Deadly silence hung over the base, swer fighters occasionally swept by with a wild roar, and robots fired systematically finishing off the enemy: wounded commandos hiding amid the chaos of dead machinery.

At times short fierce firefights sprang up somewhere close by, and robots with awkward, limping gait, rushed there, guided by several spotters that hung like ridiculous thick saucers at great height.

The emergence of intelligence bot was left unnoticed.

The background radiation level was so high in a crevice, that the bot wasn"t visible even on the arm radars of the astronauts, although, they could reach it with the hand if desired.

Dybal warily looked at the space that separated them from the major emitters, where they had to put up a beacon, and slowly sipped hot coffee from a thermos.

He has already noticed many of the surveillance lock scanners, shtraler towers and antimatter transmitters, defined the location of power and psychedelic fields by the conduct of the dust, discerned some of the motionless fighting robots, which were standing at the ready, and noted a lot of different things that could play a crucial part in the future. The major threat now posed the minefields, "pitfalls" and areas of "napalm" puddles.

-So, Al, how long are we going to be sitting like that? - asked Aydem, eagerly playing with a giant bazooka in his hands. - The radioactivity level is decreasing.

The bot will be located in the next half-hour. We have to go.

- Don"t rush, we still have some time left - Dybal said, seeing as a few dozen yards away, a combat robot was picking at the guts of a burning ATV. - Ah, what a bastard, it is bossing around.

Suddenly, a black figure of a tanker jumped out of the rover and ran toward them.

- Look, that"s one of our people - cried Aydem, almost jumping up.

The swer robot stopped taking the rover apart and began to turn slowly, leisurely raising the short rame of its shtraler.

The tanker ran in zigzags, although it was clear that the robot was going to open parallel fire, and that wouldn"t help.

Commando was close, if not for the misted visor of his pressurized helmet, they would be able to see his face.

-Ah, dammit, we can"t let him die for nothing - breathed out Dybal and put the shtraler"s muzzle forward. He paused for a moment, and changed it to a rifle:

-It would be more accurate that way.

The robot did not have time to shoot.

The navigator was aiming at the shield of optical sensors, but hit the battle part. Something detonated from ten armor-piercing charges and the robot blew up like a nice carnival firework.

- Damn it, the spotter might have seen our shot - we"d better run off - said Aydem nervously.

- Nonsense, he is now admiring his "militant" being scattered in all directions, - said the navigator. - Although he must have already seen the guy.

At this point, the running tanker, having crossed himself for his miraculous escape, got into the psycho-pathogenic field. He crouched, folded in half, and started to stumble and fall.

He rose, as if struggling with a terrible burden, and fell down again.

He crawled.

He rose again, as if pulled out of the field and then stepped into one of the "puddles".

Blue lightnings of electric charges gleamed around him, and the land billowed up in a pillar of fire.

-Hell - Aydem painfully bit his lip and closed his eyes - he couldn"t stand watching a living being writhe in fire.

-Thanks, man, your death opened the way for us, revealed a trap... - bitterly said Dybal. - It is time, Dick. Come along this ridge to the ruins of the repeater station.

Dybal half rose on his arms, like a sprinter before a start, and crossed a pile of macadam in several hops.

Aydem followed him, hopefully looking at the dusty asteroid sky.

There, in infinite height, was "Con Drerh" catching swer spotters in its sight.

They quickly broke through the stony placers and reached the place where tanker"s remains, who has burned in a "pool of napalm", were still smoking.

Aydem wanted to reach for his ID tag, but Dybal pushed him with a rifle butt just in time.

- Have you gone mad, or something? Do you want to be cremated for free?

They reached the body of the infantry carrier in a few dashes.

They ducked inside, relieved .

They hunkered down and listened.

Silence.

They have not been detected yet.

Among the charred skeletons in shrunken landing suits, the soot and smoke of the dying engine, shone the screen of a transporter finder, turbid from the fire.

It had outlived its crew, and was duly showing the location of the whole base to the dead.

Dybal leaned over the detailed picture, where dots of the "militants" were crawling, flashed the crosses of patrol fighters, and tapped his finger on the screen:

- This rangefinder shows that the goal is approximately in three hundred feet straight.

The line connecting the conveyor with the emitters showed two lock scanners, a horseshoe minefield, several "pitfalls" and a group of broken equipment.

- The chances are slim, but we shall still try, - concluded Dybal.

Sounds of intensive firing could be heard outside, a couple of stormtroopers sped forth, spilling cassettes of annihilation bombs: the DF screen showed busy traffic.

Aydem cautiously peered into the embrasure of a rifle:

-Our bot was detected, now they are going to search for its passengers. Why won"t this damn colonel shoot the spotters?

-Manfred knows what he"s doing.

Spotters can only be taken down from the first shot.

They won"t wait for the second volley.

They will hide behind the overall protective field and that"s it - Dybal took a mouthpiece of a food tube in his lips and made a few sips of coffee. - Damn suit, my ear is itching, and I can"t even scratch it - he nervously rubbed his ear on the ledge of his headphones. - Well, Dick, let"s proceed?

There was thunder in the sky and a roar, as if a storm has started. Aydem popped the hatch of his periscope and sighed with admiration:

- Good job, Manfred.

Bubbling fiery clouds, sucking in the surrounding dust were now in places where the spotters have been just hanging.

Suddenly Aydem jumped from the hatch and fastidiously cursed - on the crest of a nearby hill showed several combat robots and a squat machine on a gravitational cushion.

-Is that all for us? - Asked Dybal involuntarily switching to whisper.

He noticed this group on the screen of a finder.

-Could that be a patrol? - Aydem prepared the bazooka, fixed the grenade cap and checked whether a side door of the troop compartment opened.

The hatch slid open, and through the gap he saw that the "militants" that headed forward to their armored vehicle.

-We can"t wait, we must shoot now, - said Aydem, opening the door wide open and almost without aiming, driving an annihilation grenade at the swer tankette.

It burned until the metal of its armor melted, and having made a spinning movement, fell down to the ground.

- Done - stated Aydem, putting a bazooka away and taking the shtraler instead.

At the same time robots stretched in a chain and began to quickly roll down the hill, opening fire on the go.

They tried to get into an open hatch, but the irregularities of the terrain prevented them from doing it.

Movement could be seen at the base.

Apparently, the swers thought that an attack on the spotters meant the second storm has started.

Rocky hills moved: screen-concrete caponiers and flattened aircraft launch sites rose from their depths. The domes of emitters, plasma guns and shtralers began to sprout in giant mushroom spawns.

Ventilation shaft caps and elevator lifts dodged at the same time.

-What a show. It seems to me we won"t get out from here alive...Well, the hell with it... That's enough, we can"t take them all down - said Dybal, anxiously watching as the number of "militants" around the carrier was rapidly increasing. Like cockroaches they crawled out of the folded terrain, gradually closing the ring.

- Iron idiots. They cut us away from the perimeter, while we need to go in a totally different direction. Downtown. Al, let"s burn them up a little and leave - Aydem shot out the whole grenade clip without a pause and pulled away to the side.

Dybal set smoke bombs with metal and "jamming" contents by the hatch.

A moment later, the area of one square yard was covered with an impenetrable veil.

The area became a black blot on the screen of a DF.

-Finally...Let"s run -said Dybal through gritted teeth. - There is a chance to die in a beautiful way...

Astronauts have fallen out of their hiding place and with all their might rushed to the side of a group of destroyed tanks, just a yard from the huge screen concrete building, which was crowned by emitter towers.

Jumping over dangerous areas and keeping weapons at the ready, they felt a strong vibration underfoot.

This was "Con Drerh": it detected their veil and started firing thermonuclear missiles at the periphery of the base.

Above the smoke cloud, almost over the heads of the running astronauts roared the gunships, which were shooting at the empty transporter; a "militant" silhouette rose from the caustic mist, and was immediately riddled by Aydem.

But they were already detected.

They ran like hunted hares, dodging and jumping over the boulders. Flashes of annihilators tweaked around them, the activated mines blew up, bursting jets of plasma burned out lakes of steaming basalt.

They came across several dead tanks in a small dell, behind the destroyed repeater station, among the bodies of "militants" and corpses in black tanker overalls.

- Over here! - shouted Dybal when hell broke loose around them.

Aydem dived after him beneath the bottom of one of the tanks and began firing indiscriminately in all directions, without aiming, because there was no place to aim.

It was even hard to see the fingers of a stretched arm. Radars plunged into the area of continuous noise.

- As if that was not enough. We're not alone here - Aydem felt the bottom of the tank over their head rattle with heavy steps.

- Our number goes up, - said Dybal with evil cheerfulness and put the shtraler"s barrel into the void of the open hatch. - Oh, come on...

***

All in all five emitter-forts were deployed in the direction of the main blow. At 16.00 o"clock, commander of land operations, the Navy Commander - Toin Emmis, gave the order on launching the tank attack. Companies of the "Dragon" started the advance without resistance and reached the domed structure in a few hours, which turned out to be a long range communications transponder which had been destroyed.

The advance was carried out without air cover as a dust cloud covering the base had strong-screening properties, which led to multiple interferences to aircraft remote control and influenced the coordination of their collocation while approaching the target.

After the collision of two aircrafts the parasol was abandoned.

At 17.36 ships of the Swertz numbering 34 vehicles, launched an attack in sector V56077 with the aim to lift the siege from the base, but their attack was repulsed.

No casualties were sustained.

Currently tank companies continue their advance toward the center of the base.

Commander of the united brigade,

Fleet-Commander

yagd Bussoht Rakedda.


***


Leaving the BH "Kon Ziemm" the next day, thoughts of Whitehouse, Mackliff and Dybal were of the same resilient body and moist kisses of Octa Renenna, her passionate embrace in the treatment room.

- One more sperm-squeeze like that and I'll head to the forefathers - absently noticed Mackliff at the gateway to the gallery, and searched the pockets of his brand new suit for cigarettes.

- Hell yeah... She treated all the three of us...- Whitehouse assented - Did she make us drunk or something? She worked under me, as if her life depended on it. Like a machine. A witch.

- She"s a nice girl, you know nothing about women...- said Dybal, already standing at the lower deck of a new raider. - What a name this crockery has - "Kon Drerh." - I would name instant action rat poison like that. I wonder what this wreck is like in action.

- It"s all right, Al. You won"t have to put up with this name for a long time.

Another meeting with "Krovur", and they will give us a third ship - said Whitehouse with a grim smile.

They walked along the central trunk of "Kon Drerh" in the direction of the main post.

It smelled of new plastic, lubricant of service robots and unparalleled cologne of navigator Berserk.

Krozzeh already busied himself with adjusting something by the extinguishing system closet:

-Hey, guys. Why the sour look? You enter a new ship. That is bad luck.

-Allrighty, we are going to have some fun then - dismissed Mackliff. - Listen, Kmeh, in the morning I heard guys at the hospital saying that "Kon Drerh" headed to Metropolis. What is this nonsense about?

-This isn"t nonsense. Marshal Commander yagd Yaschemgart wants to personally hand us the rewards for the battle with "Krovur" - mechanic smiled. -

So you need a good shave and a smooth out.

- Nothing grows on my face for two months from your meals, - said Mackliff. -

Well, this is the metropolis then.

Let's see how these Natotevaaleans live, or maybe they are not Natotevaaleans.

Natotevaal is the name of the war, as I get it. So how are these people called, for whom we are fighting?

-What's the difference, John, - Whitehouse squatted beside Krozzeh.

-That's right - agreed Mackliff, looking around for Commander or yagd Slepeh, and lighting a cigarette. - I do not care whom to fight for. I'm a mercenary.

-You are a good mercenary. And a nice guy - said Krozzeh, sounding offended.-You fight for us.

Mackliff only shrugged in response.

When they entered the elevator, Whitehouse suddenly boomed:

- No, guys. I have got a feeling that Octa has raped us. Do you get it?

I feel that I was abused, like a put-upon boarding school freak.

I did not want her, but still I was caught between her sweaty breasts, against my will. I am a man after all! Damn it! Not her.

-Ronnie you're such a bore, - mused Dybal. - All of us were raped to some degree, as we were sent to this war.

Far, far beyond the Baikal,

From his home and his yard,

To the Akatui prison,

Walked a convict in shackles, deported...

-I thought you gave your consent, Al. Wasn"t that you who was shouting about our participation in Natotevaal once the Earth were in danger? - Mackliff said quietly, giving his comrades a sign so they would not talk out loud, - I'm here voluntarily.

And yagd Tskugol promised that we can return home at first request.

-Don"t be a fool, John. No one is going to let you go now. Only to the next world.

We have gotten into this war ourselves, and there"s no one to blame here. - Whitehouse switched to whisper. - We should wait for a chance and show off.

I terribly miss my goons, Arnie and George. And my lovely Dorothy...

-And Barbara from Cambridge, - winked Dybal. - Well, shall we arrange a revolt?

- No, Al. You're crazy all the same - sighed Whitehouse - I did not say "riot".

I said - an opportunity.

- Well, well. We know you - chuckled Mackliff. - Okay, let's go. Commander must be out of his wits because of our delay.


***

Teratonna, the seventh planet of the Metropolitan somewhat resembled Earth in futuristic fiction novels.

No rattling of transport, no factories, military bases, prisons, mines, oil wells, landfills and garbage dumps.

Cleanliness.

Fruit trees, flowers, bright two-storey houses, azure squares, tall, slender men in tight clothes, carefree faces, rolling laughter.

No war, no swers, no stress.

Metropolis, the heart of the country, the cradle of the nation, which spread out over dozens of zero-crossings.

- There is probably not a single pub- Mackliff said in a bored voice, looking at the wide streets from the cabin of a silent gravity conveyor. - Boredom.

-Of course, it's a planet for spending a holiday.

Here they take a break from everything, including alcohol and tobacco, - said their guide, an elderly man in the uniform of a technical service colonel. -There are planets with plants only, and planets with kindergartens, schools and colleges. There are also planets-cemeteries and city-planets.

-It seems to me, we should better take a look at the cemetery planet - skeptically noticed Aydem. - To see the place of the further stay, so to speak.

-No, no. You will be buried on Earth anyway.

-Thank you for your comfort, yagd Sirert.

-That"s strange, yagd Aydem. You are a hero, and you say such things - the guide shook his head, and suddenly perked up. -And here is the stadium.

You can play ball there. Do you know how to play ball, yagd Von Conrad?

- I play football. I'm good at standing at the gates.

- Or even behind them, - laughed Dybal. - Right, Manfred?

Von Conrad did not answer, rubbing a small eight-pointed star made of white metal on his chest.

A few hours before the meeting with Marshal Commander yagd Yaschemgart, which was supposed to be held in the building of the General Headquarters at the central FB of metropolis, sociable Dybal met two students from the VGF Academy and invited them to play a match against a team of "Kon Drerh."

Instantly excited Maсkliff supported the idea. Yagd Slepeh contemptuously refused, promising to report to yagd Tskugol when he returns from the meeting.

Technician yagd Garedda also refused, referring to the pain in his leg.

Swimming pools, open space...

The team of "Kon Drerh" took the field in the number of seven.

The game"s rules were quite similar to rugby, with the difference, that the players were dressed in protective armor and were able to camouflage a la "soap film."

Yagd Sirert could not prevent the action and obediently went to the stands, getting mixed with a cheerful crowd of students, soldiers, and girls from a nearby technical college.

At the edge of the field, on the dividing line stood the grand prize - two boxes of "Five Rings" Tote".

Von Conrad could hardly remember the further mess, which took place at the field after a signal of computer-judge.

Some unseen mass kept knocking him down, someone pulled a mellow-like ball out of his hands and breathed down his neck.

However, in the crowd, the colonel managed to slip out of the pile of bodies and took the ball to the in-goal field.

Whitehouse, who was acting next to Von Conrad as a full back, had no special tactics, but made use of his weight by hanging on the running opponent or making quite non-elegant sweeps.

Thus he earned several penalties in the gate, a lot of comments and, in the end, was sent off for foul play.

In the stands he got into the company of several New York commandos and went sightseeing with them, which included the well-known "California" pub, where mostly gathered people from Earth along with "mulatto" children of mixed marriages and young people, in search of romantic spirit.

Whitehouse didn"t speak of his adventures in the company of his fellowmen, but from the fact that a patrol had accompanied him to the awards ceremony, it was clear that they were wild.

Mackliff together with Dybal quickly mastered the subtleties of the game, and it turned out that they were a perfect match of strikers, who totally fooled the enemy with their swift and daring passes towards the in-goal field.

Berserk and Krozzeh played in the middle line and were tireless in making huge mess at the midfield which was completely absurd; although spectators and fans who were experts in such brawls really enjoyed it.

Dick Aydem looked a little unconvincing at the field.

After the game, it turned out that at the very beginning of the first counter-attack, he slammed one burly cadet with his foot against a place, unprotected with armor, and spent the rest of the game trying to baffle pursuit of his flaming with vengeance rival.

One way or another, but they have won the brandy and drank it right away. Yagd Slepeh and yagd Sirert also could not resist the temptation. Then almost everyone got sick.

Sudden physical load, microtraumas from concussions, caused by collisions, contortions, scrapes and bruises combined with alcohol - all that made everybody lay down on the benches of the stadium and come round for two hours.

Then the team dispersed in all directions.

Some went to bathe in the central fountains, the others went to visit friends in the Academy's barracks, and others decided to look at P.E. classes of girls from Technical College.

When neat, clean-shaven and smart captain commander arrived at the appointed place to lead his crew to yagd Yaschemgart, he found no one.

- Damn alcoholics - said yagd Tskugol mildly and went to look for his people in the commandant's office. The award took place the next day. Everything was very casual and quick.

The hangover commando group was checked for weapons, led them through the security corridor, and left them in a large hall for receptions.

The walls, floor and ceiling were absolutely smooth and of a monotonic bluish gray color.

Doors, merging with the wall, opened automatically; huge windows had no curtains or blinds or tinting.

- Hey, Al, look at the funny cleaner - said Mackliff when a short, fat man in clothes that resembled a crumpled sweatsuit entered the room.

- Shut up, it's probably some local bigwig - hissed the co-driver, noting that yagd Tskugol held a port at the sight of the old man - Stand at attention! - thundered yagd Tskugol, and, having made a few clear front-line steps, stood with his hand raised forward: - Yagd Marshal-commander, the crew of the raider "Kon Drerh" ...

-All right, Captain, let"s do without ceremony - said yagd Yaschemgart in an unexpectedly rich, powerful voice. - Well done, good job in every sense... Natote.

- Natote - barked commandos and the echo resounded from wall to wall.

Yagd Tskugol"s earlobes reddened .

He realized that Marshall knew about yesterday match with the cadets and of Whitehouse"s outrage in "California".

- Why is your left pocket unzipped, Sergeant? - Suddenly asked the marshal, walking past the bulging formation of commandos, getting hold of Von Conrad"s pocket with his dry finger. The other burned with shame.

-Uh-oh...what a mistake, colonel, - could not help saying Dybal .

-Not good. You must take care of your appearance. Do not lose the honor of your native planet - said yagd Yaschemgart and pinned a platinum star to von Conrad"s chest.

After that, he buttoned his zipper pocket and began awarding the others.

Most of all he liked Berserk. He had a long talk with him about fishing, nets and spinning.

At the end, Berserk took heart to tell the marshal a joke about a Danish fisherman who met a hedgehog selling glue vials in the middle of the ocean.

Marshal did not get it, but laughed, pleased with cheerfulness of his soldier.

-What are your requests? - Said yagd Yaschemgart at last.

-We would like to send some letters, yagd Marshal-Commander - stepped forward Dybal. - To drop a line.

-Get them ready. I'll have them delivered immediately. However, do not write too much.

Or there will be too many blank spaces after they get checked by the censorship department. Natote!

They spent in the brig of the Metropolis FB the remaining three days by the order of the Commandant, Navy Commander-yagd Kerr, who cared for public order. Afterwards yagd Slepeh, Krozzeh and yagda Garedda, were released for a day to visit their relatives, and Dybal managed to fool the guards and escape with two technician girls.

The rest spent their time playing cards, watching TV and writing letters.

Whitehouse wrote more letters than the others.

Three letters to his wife and sons, a letter to his grandmother in Detroit, his father and mother in Colorado Springs, three letters addressed to mysterious women, and finally, a letter with a laconic address:

"Hunter Saurno Santo. Magdalena. Great desert. "

Now, sitting in the back seat of a gravitational transporter, which was floating above Teratonna"s gardens; he thought that yagd Tskugol was probably aware of the fact that most of the crew was only waiting for a chance to leave this whole Natotevaal thing for good and return home.

-And these are the ruins of the ancient settlements of our ancestors that date back fifty thousand years before the Natotevaal - happily said yagd Sirert, pointing to a shapeless heap of stones.

-Great news - Whitehouse cast him a stiff smile and was lost in his thoughts.

They were flying above this blossoming planet with no seas or rivers and a cloudless sky for about two hours until the commander contacted them:

- You must quickly return to the raider...


***


Digital Coded Telegram 00А


Confidential level: А


The flagship of the consolidated brigade

Of the 3rd and the 5th directories

"Mertowert" battleship


To: Natotevaal SS coordinator,

Marshal Commander

yagd TOTE YASCHEMGART


Yagd Commander!

I bring to your notice that the advance of tank companies from the 'Dragon' commandos Division noticeably slowed by 21-15 due to rough terrain.

When the connection worsened the attackers switched to laser Morse code, reporting, that they were approaching the squat towers which apparently were the major emitters of the protective field of the base without interference.

When the emitters were destroyed, heavy infantry was supposed to commit to battle and start a floor-by-floor capture of the base through ventilation system shafts and elevator channels.

By 21-30 heavy cruisers "Mower Mass", "Tarrahk", 2 class battleships "Aulis", "Kahunipadare", "Kekvut", "33 "and auxiliary vessels were moved up close to the base and hung over the dome of the assault brigades of the "Dragon" division.

Around 22-00 o"clock, Lieutenant Zar Yunisser going ahead with his vessel before the tank companies reported that he saw radiator caps, rapidly rising out of the ground and masts of all round action annihilators.

It was clear from his message that lifting shafts of the combat caps were randomly spaced and thickly covered the position, so that even two medium tanks wouldn"t be able to pass one another.

No other details on the location of bunkers were received since the connection has disappeared completely, and the cloud over the base became completely impenetrable.

However, judging by the flashes inside it and a sharp rise of radioactivity, it became clear that the Swers opened barrage fire.

At 22-18 the battle ships which were prepared for landing were subjected to fire attack.

Two boats were covered with smoke right away and began their retreat to the cover group under the protection of "Kekvut." Battleship "Aulis" and heavy cruiser "Mower mass" that faced an attack and took most of the volley"s energy, were completely destroyed, and fell to the surface of the asteroid 55-60 Kers from the border of the base.

"Kahunipadare" hiding behind its protective field suffered severe damage, but gave an opportunity to withdraw the assault brigades from the area of effective fire.

At 22-34, parts of the "Dragon" division focused to support the first wave tank companies suffered an attack; vessels of yaggdishvalder-15 from the 588 squadron were also attacked by fire, while putting up a cordon around the base. As a result of shelling, two battleships and seven patrols were badly damaged and had to evacuate their crews.

At this time, in the dust cloud over the base the Swers" aircrafts started operating with the aim to destroy the remnants of the commandos division, who had entrenched themselves in 243 Kers from the central emitters. All attempts to knock them down were unsuccessful.

They only managed to run three of the control systems off the course then the aircrafts took refuge in one of the rocky asteroid arrays, partially hidden by a dust cloud.

At 25-00, fleet-commander yagd Toin Emmis gave a command to pass over to the defensive.

When yaggdishvalder warships have moved off to the cordon line of the asteroid, the swers ceased fire, but kept exposing the computer systems of our ships and aircrafts with intense noise.

Active mining of the whole areola of the asteroid and a deep scan of the adjacent space is currently being carried out in order to anticipate unexpected attack on our units from "Krovur", which probably has already been alerted by the staff of the base of the attack.

Judging by the short skirmishes in the bridgehead, disparate parts of commandos continue their persistent defense, although their current ammunition should have already come to an end.

After the approach of the new "Skull" division from Stigmarkont FB the attack is supposed to be repeated with the use of military robots type "555".

In the result of the attack that lasted from 16-00 to 25-00, the casualties total:

- 3 heavy cruisers.

- 4 battleships of the 1st class.

- 8 battleships of the 2nd class.

- 5 patrols of "Levur" type.

- 86 small and 39 large assault brigades.

- 2 minesweepers of "Ogayra" type.

- 11 patrol boats.

- 4 air assault aircrafts.

- 203 medium tanks "Shrekt" and "Mole", 335 infantry transporters type "Reom-11."

- 31 self-propelled annihilation vehicles.

- 103 demining machines of various types.

- 17 mobile emitter bots SEB-A-O.

- 488 combat robots of various types.

Total losses of personnel are:

- 1351 units killed.

- 256 units wounded.

Of these, 5 units of flag officers, including the "Dragon" division commander - Colonel yagd Dyult Chatel, who died in the attempt to evacuate the remnants of his division from the bridgehead.

Natote!


Commander of the united brigade

Fleet-Commander

yagd Bussoht Rakedda.


***


Looking around and clutching a crumpled plastic sheet in his hand, navigator Berserk entered the wardroom of "Kon Drerh" raider.

He put this crumpled piece of paper on the table before Dybal and Mackliff, and wearily sank into the chair:

- Here, read this DT on the "Terhoma Operation".

Dybal flattened the DT of yagd Bussoht Rakedda on his knee: it told of unsuccessful attack on the base in sub-sector 354 and gave a whistle:

-Whoa, fifteen hundred dead!

-Tell me, Einar, is the war of machines always accompanied by such wild casualties? - asked Mackliff, looking at the description of the slaughter over the navigator"s shoulder - Reminds me of Waterloo.

But that was clear: regiments drew up in a square under gun and artillery fire and went in dense ranks right at the artillery batteries; canister salvos at close range mowed down squadrons of hussars, dragoons, cuirassiers.

But this! Why are the casualties so heavy?

-Unsuccessful air assault operations always result in heavy casualties among the commandos - shrugged Berserk. - Two months ago, my friend has disappeared in the "Reyspodokh" air assault campaign, in the system of Small Starts. His name was Olaf Gutbran.

-Your friend died, and you're sitting there, shrugging your shoulders.

Haven"t you thought that all these commandos at Terhoma were also someone's friends? Almost all of them were from Earth.

All had mothers, children, women who loved them - said Mackliff sternly, rage reflecting in his eyes.

- They were considered dead on Earth a long time ago.

Their mothers have mourned over them; their women share their bed with others - said Berserk quietly. - No letters reached from here. I know for sure. Our letters may arrive, though, as it was yagd Yaschemgart"s promise.

- I don"t care for this Yaschemgart - cried out Mackliff. - You sound like a computer. Natotevaal goes back thousands of years, and it will continue forever, perhaps.

And again, they will keep replacing the deceased with the guys from Yorkshire, Los Angeles, Osaka, Danzig and St. Petersburg! And whom do they take, Einar? The best. They take beautiful people, the top of our society, thus weakening our nations. If they hadn"t used us as cannon fodder, hadn"t taken our cream; from milk we would have long become first-class butter!

We would have had our own "Krovurs" and "Tetvuthurtses"!

And we would have been hosts of the space, and not swers or Tskugols!

-Why do you think that people have been taking part in Natotevaal for ages? I suppose this is the case of the last century - spoke Dybal, who began to feel Mackliff"s nervousness. - And, please, John, would you stop yelling!

-I do not think so. I know it. Take the rock paintings of a caveman for instance, with beings in spacesuits and vehicles resembling planetary battleplanes clearly visible on them.

And Ul-Mar-Konchines: a plateau with giant paintings inlaid of boulders? These drawings can be only seen from a height of five miles. This is no religious building, but a navigational guidance needed in the mountainous terrain. What"s next?

Aztec roads: wide, short, not leading anywhere, perfectly horizontal. Why did the Aztecs need these useless constructions, if they did not even have the wheel?

Because these were not roads but runways - Mackliff jumped from his chair vigorously waving his hands, backing up his words. - A mammoth skull, as if shot through by shtralers and tales of flying dragons and other devilry?

Have you ever seen, Al, a "Boeing-979" landing over a quiet forest at night? Side lights flashing, the roar and flames of its engines. Doesn"t that remind you of a dragon?

Those who came up with the ancient legends about dragons have seen such things.

- That"s all poetry, John, - said navigator glumly. - We got here from the orbit. You are U.S. Air Force Lt., Aydem is U.S. Navy Air Force Captain, Whitehouse graduated from the Academy of Communication and some other university, Berserk is a fine electronics specialist and so on, and still they taught us ABC at "Ziem".

Tell me, what good could Natotevaal get from a dark Pithecanthropus or Roman legions centurion?

What could have done some glorious Badbrok knight, even if he won ten tournaments and stacked hundreds of English yeomen?

How could you explain elementary navigation rules, assault brigade control or shtraler fan shooting to a janissary?

-They could have brainwashed them, inserted all the necessary information directly into the subconscious. Same way as they put kovakt and kumit into our heads.

-And why did they take us to the shooting ranges, polygons and tech classes then? And even forced us to take exams?

-But...

- No buts - Mackliff put his fists on the table. -We have to decide something.

Berserk, who echoed both Dybal and Mackliff during the conversation, took a cigarette from his breast pocket, squeezed it, but changed his mind and tucked it behind his ear:

- A riot?

Mackliff was startled to hear a word which has been spinning in his mind for several minutes.

It most accurately reflected a feeling that arose in his heart, mixed of anger, rage, annoyance, frustration, pride and despair.

A riot!

Silently like a big cat, Whitehouse entered the wardroom:

- Why the sour look, guys?

Mackliff silently handed him the crumpled DT sheet and Berserk said dully:

- Yesterday fifteen hundred of our people were killed at Terhoma. Today the attack will resume. The "Dragon" commandos are going to be thrown into the grinder.

- The "Dragon"? Are these the guys with whom we quarreled at a pier in Stigmarkont? Remember, Al? Good guys - moodily said Whitehouse. - All of them will perish there. But no one forced them. You, John, are standing here, as if ready to crush down all the barriers up to the running reactor, but haven"t you given your consent?

- I have. But if it were not for Tskugol, if he did not exist, I would long have been at home, drinking cocoa with crispbread. I don"t believe they will ever let us go, because you will always recognize a person in the crowd who saw burning spaceports and collision of raiders in space.

- How so?

- By the eyes.

- Come on, John, - Whitehouse made an indefinite movement with his hand. - You would never wish to be at the controls of a fighter, when you have felt the power of a planetary assault plane. Ever. The others feel the same. And we are fighting for Earth here you"d better keep that in mind. The Swers will destroy it if they win.

I think that the main task now is to destroy "Krovur" and its base, so our guys would not be killed in bunches, and then... then we'll see.

-I...Do you really think so, Ronnie? - Mackliff raised an eyebrow in surprise. - It is so unlike you. How prudent. Did commander brainwash you, too?

-You're out of your mind, John. Do you want to excite a riot of commandos? - Whitehouse got in a rage. - Even if you"d raise a few divisions, you cannot beat the entire Natootvaal"s fleet and then the "swarts".

We're just going to die, all of us. Terhoma is being besieged now.

Our fellows are dying there. We must raze this base to the ground, before the slaughter has started, and attend to "Krovur", and then move back home.

Do you get it?

-You"re insane, - said Mackliff and helplessly collapsed into a chair.

There was a long pause, which was only once interrupted by commander"s voice, calling von Conrad, who was adjusting the aft salvo fire tube.

Several times footsteps and short altercations could be heard from the hallway - technicians were arguing about the order of current engines inspection.

Finally Dybal cautiously said:

-I know what to do with this base.

We should teleport our raider to the protective dome and crush the major emitters with its belly, and then flatten it all up.

-Not a bad idea. The swarts will not have time to switch the lock scanner systems and emitters to short track - nodded Whitehouse. - But this is practically unattainable.

Even if the jump is very precise, deviation at the end point is 5-6 Kr.

The height of the protective field of the base is 12-13 Kr, the body of "Kon Drerh" is 0.5 Kr.

We are likely to show up either at the border of the protective field, and it will cut the raider in half; or get into the asteroid"s ground.

Then the substance compensator won"t cope with the overload, and we will be blurred between the start and the end points of teleportation.

- And if there won"t be any deviations at the end point? - navigator shook his curly hair. - But suppose there won"t?

-We are professionals, Al, not self-murderers. We should have no "if" or "maybe" - evilly snapped Mackliff.

-Hey - Berserk raised his hand.

-He had a face saying that a great discovery spun in his head, and was just ready to get out. - We have to teleport to the shield on a little reconnaissance bot and set a beacon.

Then, with the exact coordinates of the end point, the will not be any deviations.

Raider will land right under the protective field.

There is a mess at the base now.

Swers will not detect the reconnaissance bot immediately.

-Brilliant, Einar - Dybal shouted happily, slapping the confused navigator by the shoulder. - Bravo!

-Besides of the swarts, we have another problem - said Berserk, waving the navigator away. - Yagd Tskugol has a task to place observational beacons in sector A67S95 and wait for "Krovur" there.

He will not turn "Kon Drerh" to Terhoma.

-This dumbass Yaschemgart does not know a thing about war - shouted Mackliff. - And we'll deal with Commander. We'll make him turn the raider to Terhoma!

-Enough talking. We should take Aydem, the Colonel, and go to the commander - firmly said Whitehouse.

It took them a few minutes to find Von Conrad, Aydem and reach the main post.

Mackliff typed a conventional code on the keyboard of a combination lock and put his ID badge into the slot of identifier. The massive door slid to the side:

- Yagd Commander, the team wants to talk to you about a very important matter.

Yagd Tskugol grimly listened to the team, swaying from right to left on a turntable chair, looking at the toes of his shoes.

The main console behind him lived its separate, independent life, exchanging winks with countless sensor lights, lines at the displays, of which was comprised a continuous dialogue of peripheral computers with the main PC, uninterruptedly adjusting the curves of the course, and regulating the power of the running reactor.

Yagd Slepeh stood by the commander, casting a baleful look at the talking Whitehouse.

- We will smash them, yagd commander. Turn the raider to Terhoma, and give computer a task to prepare the bot - Whitehouse concluded, and his last words seemed to float around for several moments, despite the powerful soundproof properties of the post.

This is the opinion of the crew - added Mackliff in a muffled voice.

-What do you mean, "opinion of the crew?" - Growled yagd Slepeh. - Did this booze at the stadium badly affect your brains? Off to your compartments!

First navigator wanted to say something else, but did not manage to do that.

With a wave of his hand, Whitehouse moved forward Aydem and von Conrad, who gently but forcefully seized yagd Slepeh, dragged him away and locked in a closet with fire spacesuits.

Yagd Tskugol slowly got up and reached for the remote.

Mackliff quickly pulled the shtraler out of his holster and aimed it at the bridge of the commander:

- We respect your experience and exposure yagd Tskugol, we've seen you in action, but I warn you...

Yagd Tskugol glanced the astronauts up with his severe sending-chills-down-the-spine look, fleered, and deliberately slowly pressed the "internal threat alert" button.

Then he drew himself up to his enormous height:

- A riot?

The alarm signal hummed and squealed, and the computer displayed a message: "Charging of the fighting robots is complete. They are heading to the main post. The compartment doors are locked."

- So, yagd Mackliff, why aren"t you shooting? - Abruptly asked the Commander.

- Oh, Captain, we came to you with an open heart and you...

Whitehouse made a great leap forward and knocked the commander to the ground.

But instead of falling and becoming quiet, he rolled over the back and before Whitehouse could turn around, with a short, precise punch to the base of the neck, put him across the board.

The approaching Mackliff was deprived of his shtraler at one stroke of the leg and Dybal was knocked down with a powerful sweep.

Before von Conrad and Berserk could figure something out, Commander slipped between them, and was by the flung-open door, from which showed smooth bodies of the fighting robots.

Machines shielded the Commander with their bodies and put forward their short arms, studded with barrels of shtralers.

Then they turned on the system of bio-neutralization, and the team found itself limply sprawled against a nappy rug, and all they could do was just breathe and slightly move their tongues.

- God damn it, we have ended up in a bad way! - said Dybal in Russian.

Dark as a cloud Captain-Commander passed the motionless bodies and sat in a chair:

- This is the first time I encounter such a thing. The crew at the barrel of a shtraler, demanding to be sent to its doom - he rubbed his fist, which he hit against the neck of Whitehouse. - Awesome. The crew wants to arbitrarily change the course of the vessel performing the task of the Supreme Command.

If I do not destroy you now, I risk losing the right to command Natotevaal"s vessels forever. I will be denuded the status of "Commander", the "yagd" title and will be reduced to the ranks. Then I will have to wash decks or repair garbage collectors for the rest of my life.


-Okay, yagd Commander, no matter what you say, you don"t know how to fight. You"re shitty at war, - said Dybal forcing himself to speak, and making a sophisticated movement, spat on the base plate of a nearest robot.

The spit burned in the protective field and was drawn into the air gate like a whitish cloud.

- Do you seriously believe in the success of your venture? - Yagd Tskugol chuckled.

- Yes, we do.

- How long will this operation take?

- Gee, Santa Maria! Not more than forty minutes, - shouted Whitehouse breathlessly. - Then we will fully attend to "Krovur".

Al invented a way how to get him on the hook like a hungry perch.

We will show them what a war in space means.

- All right. So be it. Just do not pretend that you are the saviors of the galaxy. You are dust, mere dust under the shoes of empires, - said the commander.

- Thanks for the kind parting words, - growled Mackliff.

- Yagd Slepeh - Commander turned to the cabinet, in which the first navigator was hidden. - You have not heard or saw anything. Got it?

- Got you, yagd commander - said a voice in response.

***

You could hardly see a camouflage assault suit on Aydem as he was abundantly loaded with weapons, various purpose grenade launchers, shtralers of different calibers, vision devices of different spectra, automatic rifles, explosives, cutters, sensors, ammunition pouches, mines.

Apart from this Dybal also carried smoke rockets and a radio beacon...

They were lying behind a bulk of fused boulders covered with rusty stains. In a shallow crevice behind was a reconnaissance-bot from "Kon Drerh". Swertz base stretched around; a few hours ago an attack of Natotevaal yaggdishvalders has been warded off.

Black carcasses of disabled tanks and armored vehicles stood in placers, bodies of men in camouflage assault overalls were steaming; armored caps burned, smashed by fire of assault ships, dust and smoke from ripped out fortifications slowly settled down.

Deadly silence hung over the base, swer fighters occasionally swept by with a wild roar, and robots fired systematically finishing off the enemy: wounded commandos hiding amid the chaos of dead machinery.

At times short fierce firefights sprang up somewhere close by, and robots with awkward, limping gait, rushed there, guided by several spotters that hung like ridiculous thick saucers at great height.

The emergence of intelligence bot was left unnoticed.

The background radiation level was so high in a crevice, that the bot wasn"t visible even on the arm radars of the astronauts, although, they could reach it with the hand if desired.

Dybal warily looked at the space that separated them from the major emitters, where they had to put up a beacon, and slowly sipped hot coffee from a thermos.

He has already noticed many of the surveillance lock scanners, shtraler towers and antimatter transmitters, defined the location of power and psychedelic fields by the conduct of the dust, discerned some of the motionless fighting robots, which were standing at the ready, and noted a lot of different things that could play a crucial part in the future.

***

The major threat now posed the minefields, "pitfalls" and areas of "napalm" puddles.

-So, Al, how long are we going to be sitting like that? - asked Aydem, eagerly playing with a giant bazooka in his hands. - The radioactivity level is decreasing.

The bot will be located in the next half-hour. We have to go.

- Don"t rush, we still have some time left - Dybal said, seeing as a few dozen yards away, a combat robot was picking at the guts of a burning ATV. - Ah, what a bastard, it is bossing around.

Suddenly, a black figure of a tanker jumped out of the rover and ran toward them.

- Look, that"s one of our people - cried Aydem, almost jumping up.

The swer robot stopped taking the rover apart and began to turn slowly, leisurely raising the short rame of its shtraler.

The tanker ran in zigzags, although it was clear that the robot was going to open parallel fire, and that wouldn"t help.

Commando was close, if not for the misted visor of his pressurized helmet, they would be able to see his face.

-Ah, dammit, we can"t let him die for nothing - breathed out Dybal and put the shtraler"s muzzle forward. He paused for a moment, and changed it to a rifle:

-It would be more accurate that way.

The robot did not have time to shoot.

The navigator was aiming at the shield of optical sensors, but hit the battle part. Something detonated from ten armor-piercing charges and the robot blew up like a nice carnival firework.

- Damn it, the spotter might have seen our shot - we"d better run off - said Aydem nervously.

- Nonsense, he is now admiring his "militant" being scattered in all directions, - said the navigator. - Although he must have already seen the guy.

At this point, the running tanker, having crossed himself for his miraculous escape, got into the psycho-pathogenic field. He crouched, folded in half, and started to stumble and fall.

He rose, as if struggling with a terrible burden, and fell down again.

He crawled.

He rose again, as if pulled out of the field and then stepped into one of the "puddles".

Blue lightnings of electric charges gleamed around him, and the land billowed up in a pillar of fire.

-Hell - Aydem painfully bit his lip and closed his eyes - he couldn"t stand watching a living being writhe in fire.

-Thanks, man, your death opened the way for us, revealed a trap... - bitterly said Dybal. - It is time, Dick. Come along this ridge to the ruins of the repeater station.

Dybal half rose on his arms, like a sprinter before a start, and crossed a pile of macadam in several hops.

Aydem followed him, hopefully looking at the dusty asteroid sky.

There, in infinite height, was "Con Drerh" catching swer spotters in its sight.

They quickly broke through the stony placers and reached the place where tanker"s remains, who has burned in a "pool of napalm", were still smoking.

Aydem wanted to reach for his ID tag, but Dybal pushed him with a rifle butt just in time.

- Have you gone mad, or something? Do you want to be cremated for free?

They reached the body of the infantry carrier in a few dashes.

They ducked inside, relieved .

They hunkered down and listened.

Silence.

They have not been detected yet.

Among the charred skeletons in shrunken landing suits, the soot and smoke of the dying engine, shone the screen of a transporter finder, turbid from the fire.

It had outlived its crew, and was duly showing the location of the whole base to the dead.

Dybal leaned over the detailed picture, where dots of the "militants" were crawling, flashed the crosses of patrol fighters, and tapped his finger on the screen:

- This rangefinder shows that the goal is approximately in three hundred feet straight.

The line connecting the conveyor with the emitters showed two lock scanners, a horseshoe minefield, several "pitfalls" and a group of broken equipment.

- The chances are slim, but we shall still try, - concluded Dybal.

Sounds of intensive firing could be heard outside, a couple of stormtroopers sped forth, spilling cassettes of annihilation bombs: the DF screen showed busy traffic.

Aydem cautiously peered into the embrasure of a rifle:

-Our bot was detected, now they are going to search for its passengers. Why won"t this damn colonel shoot the spotters?

-Manfred knows what he"s doing.

Spotters can only be taken down from the first shot.

They won"t wait for the second volley.

They will hide behind the overall protective field and that"s it - Dybal took a mouthpiece of a food tube in his lips and made a few sips of coffee. - Damn suit, my ear is itching, and I can"t even scratch it - he nervously rubbed his ear on the ledge of his headphones. - Well, Dick, let"s proceed?

There was thunder in the sky and a roar, as if a storm has started. Aydem popped the hatch of his periscope and sighed with admiration:

- Good job, Manfred.

Bubbling fiery clouds, sucking in the surrounding dust were now in places where the spotters have been just hanging.

Suddenly Aydem jumped from the hatch and fastidiously cursed - on the crest of a nearby hill showed several combat robots and a squat machine on a gravitational cushion.

-Is that all for us? - Asked Dybal involuntarily switching to whisper.

He noticed this group on the screen of a finder.

-Could that be a patrol? - Aydem prepared the bazooka, fixed the grenade cap and checked whether a side door of the troop compartment opened.

The hatch slid open, and through the gap he saw that the "militants" that headed forward to their armored vehicle.

-We can"t wait, we must shoot now, - said Aydem, opening the door wide open and almost without aiming, driving an annihilation grenade at the swer tankette.

It burned until the metal of its armor melted, and having made a spinning movement, fell down to the ground.

- Done - stated Aydem, putting a bazooka away and taking the shtraler instead.

At the same time robots stretched in a chain and began to quickly roll down the hill, opening fire on the go.

They tried to get into an open hatch, but the irregularities of the terrain prevented them from doing it.

Movement could be seen at the base.

Apparently, the swers thought that an attack on the spotters meant the second storm has started.

Rocky hills moved: screen-concrete caponiers and flattened aircraft launch sites rose from their depths. The domes of emitters, plasma guns and shtralers began to sprout in giant mushroom spawns.

Ventilation shaft caps and elevator lifts dodged at the same time.

-What a show. It seems to me we won"t get out from here alive...Well, the hell with it... That's enough, we can"t take them all down - said Dybal, anxiously watching as the number of "militants" around the carrier was rapidly increasing. Like cockroaches they crawled out of the folded terrain, gradually closing the ring.

- Iron idiots. They cut us away from the perimeter, while we need to go in a totally different direction. Downtown. Al, let"s burn them up a little and leave - Aydem shot out the whole grenade clip without a pause and pulled away to the side.

Dybal set smoke bombs with metal and "jamming" contents by the hatch.

A moment later, the area of one square yard was covered with an impenetrable veil.

The area became a black blot on the screen of a DF.

-Finally...Let"s run -said Dybal through gritted teeth. - There is a chance to die in a beautiful way...

Astronauts have fallen out of their hiding place and with all their might rushed to the side of a group of destroyed tanks, just a yard from the huge screen concrete building, which was crowned by emitter towers.

Jumping over dangerous areas and keeping weapons at the ready, they felt a strong vibration underfoot.

This was "Con Drerh": it detected their veil and started firing thermonuclear missiles at the periphery of the base.

Above the smoke cloud, almost over the heads of the running astronauts roared the gunships, which were shooting at the empty transporter; a "militant" silhouette rose from the caustic mist, and was immediately riddled by Aydem.

But they were already detected.

They ran like hunted hares, dodging and jumping over the boulders. Flashes of annihilators tweaked around them, the activated mines blew up, bursting jets of plasma burned out lakes of steaming basalt.

They came across several dead tanks in a small dell, behind the destroyed repeater station, among the bodies of "militants" and corpses in black tanker overalls.

- Over here! - shouted Dybal when hell broke loose around them.

Aydem dived after him beneath the bottom of one of the tanks and began firing indiscriminately in all directions, without aiming, because there was no place to aim.

It was even hard to see the fingers of a stretched arm. Radars plunged into the area of continuous noise.

- As if that was not enough. We're not alone here - Aydem felt the bottom of the tank over their head rattle with heavy steps.

- Our number goes up, - said Dybal with evil cheerfulness and put the shtraler"s barrel into the void of the open hatch. - Oh, come on...


***

Berserk has just pushed Mackliff out of the navigation room: after they saw off the bot with Aydem and Dybal to the swers" base, he was trying to take over the control panel, and send the raider for help.

- You should better go read the letters. Yaschemgart kept his word.

Our scribble reached Earth, and their scribble returned to "Kon Drerh"- said the navigator at last, ignoring the shrieks of the IT engineer.

Mackliff somberly trudged to his quarters, wishing to wet his throat right now.

But there were no drinks at the Raider.

Vigilant yagd Slepeh had confiscated everything and fired it over the side.

- Hey, John, - a stranger"s voice called him from behind. Mackliff spun around.

White as a sheet Whitehouse, stood by a waste bin, clutching a piece of paper with his strained fingers:


-That"s a disaster, John.

-Did you have a fight with Garedda again? - The IT engineer giggled and felt such a heavy look of the navigator, that sent cold shivers down his back. - What happened?

-From home... Here, read this... I can"t talk right now - he handed the letter to Mackliff.

"Dear Ronnie,

Once we got a call from Colonel Paterson, who said that "Independence" died under mysterious circumstances, all of us - Arnie, Georgie, your sister Margaret and me were like sleep-walkers for a month - we couldn"t hear or see anything around us.

This Rosengolds bastard and his henchman Litbarsky used this situation and finally kicked me out of the editorial board.

I am now unemployed.


The "News" refused to hire me, saying they didn"t need that theater controversy although I suspect this also due to Rosengolds" doings.

Shortly after Paterson"s call your ex-fellow from Ford Strehse Captain Stronger, came without warning - he was all drunk and ugly.

He started asking questions about you, suggesting dirty deals. He said a night with me was worth a hundred bucks.

When I slapped him with a towel, he came to his senses and started telling me that you were a traitor, and that you have sided with the Islamists and blew up the space shuttle and that the U.S. command had irrefutable proof; and that we wouldn"t receive your salary for the past two months, as well as the posthumous pension.

But if told them your present location, the command may slightly soften position.

I gave him another slap in the face and shouted that you were missing and that you were a national hero of America, and that the command may stick our pension into their fat bureaucratic ass.

When he went outside, I saw that he was talking to some people, standing next to your old car.

Then everyone left, except for one, who stayed in the "Bull" restaurant, which is opposite; and sitting at a table, started to watch our windows and entrance.

Only then I realized that Colonel Patterson would not have sent this Stronger to my apartment, he would have invited me to the General Headquarters.

This was confirmed when your salary and pension were added to my "World bank" card.

A week later, I was about to leave New York because the real nightmare had started.


First Arnie disappeared.

Went to school and did not return.

The police said that they registered up to three hundred cases of teenage- disappearances a day, and that 99% of them turn up the next day at some "black" disco high from marijuana or crack.

Me and Margaret searched dozens of dance halls and bars, but Arnie has vanished without a trace.

All this time, some strangers kept an eye on us.

Arnie was found three days later.

When I returned from the store, he was lying on the bed, wrapped in a sheet. He was fast asleep.

He smelled of gunpowder, like at your official dash, and had dried blood on his body.

That scared the hell out of me: I thought that he was wounded or tortured.

But there were no wounds.

That was not his blood.

When he awoke, he could not remember anything.

Then Margaret died.

She talked me into giving her your old "Ford" for a picnic weekend.

She was going with Sam, who finally invited her to Caldwell.

When she and Sam got in the car and started the engine, the car exploded and burned.

There was nothing but ashes.

Sam had no family, and we buried their ashes in one urn, by the grave of your grandmother Teresa at the cemetery in Yonkers.

The following night after the funeral, some people tried to break in saying that they were from a municipal war-on-drugs group.

I wanted to call the police, but the phone was disconnected, then Arnie tried to throw bottles at the windows across the street, so the neighbours would call the police. We shouted out the window, but at three in the morning there was no one at the street, even the "Bull" was closed.

They finally broke through the door and tied everyone up.

They shot Brass, Georgie"s new dog, a two-month puppy, and began to search the apartment, rummaging everywhere, they even broke the sink, the tub and the toilet. They teared the parquet off, and ripped the bed.

They were like crazy.

They did not talk to each other, just mumbled something or tortured us, but they worked very cohesively as a team.

One had a sticker on his case, "John Francis Steinberg. Salesman." - though he rather resembled a pathologist than a merchant.

Once I have once again said I had no idea where you were and that I didn"t get any letters, and that you did not come to leave, one of the men, the one who was wearing a mask, took it off, and I recognised Stronger.

He threw a nylon cord over my neck of and started strangling me in front of the children.

He said: "Look, how your mother is suffocating, she is in pain, she is dying; tell me what you know about your father, Ronald Whitehouse."

I have almost died when I heard shots, explosions, and there was a disgusting smell of gas on the street. Arnie and George began to shout: "Police, help, over here,' - but it was not the police, it was someone else.

They were all hung with weapons, and could become invisible.

This must have been some kind of special military units or another gang.

They started shooting in the house: in elevators, stairways, in the apartment.

Almost right away a sniper has taken Stronger down through the window from the roof of the house next door and I was left alive.

Arnie was wounded in the stomach and was bleeding.

After like an eternity the police showed up, and both sides started shooting them. Then I realized it was not the army.

The first gang has almost been destroyed when the National Guard appeared on armored vehicles and helicopters.

But all they found were corpses and burning floors.

The next day, when I was on duty at Santa Monica hospital by a chamber, where lay Arnie, who had gone through a surgery, I was approached by a man in a five-hundred-dollar suit who said he was assigned to guard us, and that we could not leave New York, as it was much easier to lay low in the city. His name was Michael.

I asked Michael, who was hunting on us and why did they need Whitehouse, and who he was himself.

He replied that he could not tell me anything, except that you were alive, performing an important task for the government.

"So are you from NASA?" I asked, and he said "Most probably."

Then Michael handed me a "SAS Express" credit card and notary papers on a house in Terre Haute, Indiana: "This is the house, donated by the U.S. government for your husband along with a cash contribution in half a million SAS dollars."

Michael did not let me leave to Indiana until "the situation got back to normal" and I was living in a dirty, but quiet home in Richmond, close to the Dover Bay shore, and every morning port signals used to wake me up.

Then I got your letter and cried. For a long time.

Ronnie, darling, my hair turned gray at the temples and now I am blond.

Can you imagine.

And Arnie got well soon..."

Mackliff finished reading the letter sitting on his haunches, and Whitehouse still stood by the waste bin, frozen with an outstretched hand, the same hand which handed the paper to Mackliff.

- Hell, Ronnie, if our families are threatened like this, it would have been better if we burned on "Independence" - flared up Mackliff, but then was again lost in reading the letter of a tired, strong woman.

Below the signature, "Yours, Dorothy" there was a kumit inscription that looked like a stamp:

Ziem-002 Department

Natotevaal SS Intelligence Office

Yagd Whitehouse!


I bring to your notice that your family and close relatives are safe, and the Natotevaal SS will ensure their safety regardless of any action of the Swerts agents.


Coordinator of the UC-3-002,

Captain-Commander

yagd Ol Teague.

-Thank you, sir Teague for your concern.

But the guy has a bullet in his guts, Dorothy has gray hair and a scar from a slipknot, and my sister is buried under a granite slab, along with burnt tires - Whitehouse said grimly, barely moving his tongue.

-Damn it - Mackliff was lost for words and suddenly jumped up, like a scalded cat, put the pilot's letter back in his hand and ran to the dremer, where his letter was sticking out: his sentence, his pain. Perhaps, there was an even tougher story waiting for him...

"John, honey!

I'm fine.

Thanks for a lovely house in Iowa..."

Mackliff noisily breathed out and sat down on the bed, exhausted.

His knees were nervously shaking, the line "I'm fine" before his eyes:

- Well, well that"s great, - said the PC engineer and added, referring to the intercom speakers, shrilling with sounds of a combat alarm:

- I am coming, sir, I will not fail you...


***


***

Digital Coded Telegram 00A

Confidential level B

Flagship of the consolidated brigade

of the 3rd and the 5th directories

"Meretowert" Battleship


To: Natotevaal SS coordinator,

Marshal Commander

yagd Tote YASCHEMGART.

Yagd commander!

I bring to your notice that today, Auga 33, at 13.69, year 4 725 from the beginnings of the Natotevaal, yaggdishvalder-35 of Squadron 604, Fleet U11, which had a task of blocking the Swertz base on the Terhoma asteroid, was attacked by the raider "Krovur".

Yaggdishvalder flagship, 1st class battleship "Krohn" and heavy cruisers "Mech Iltre" and "Allamall" were caught off guard and destroyed.

However with the help of the operating reserve group which I convened, that consisted of YAG-45 and YAG-605 of Squadron 604, we managed to repel the attack.

At the same time, the Civil Military Front of the Swertz Empire mounted a massive assault from the Blue Plume area, with the aim of lifting the siege from the base.

The battle took several squadrons from both sides.

"Krovur" appeared at the most critical points of the fight and won the situation over to the enemy's side.

Having suffered heavy losses that consisted of 135 combat and auxiliary vessels, we had to withdraw to a distance of 30 Ker.

Thus Terhoma was partially unblocked, and all the losses of previous attacks were in vain.

I am ready to take the full measure of justice.

I request the High Tribunal not to extend its resolution on my family.

Natote!


Commander of the consolidated brigade,

Fleet-Commander

yagd Bussoht Rakedda


***

Digital Coded Telegram NO5

Confidential level: B


Service of operational analysis,

Tactical intelligence Office of

the Natotevaal SS.

To:

Commander of the "Independence VH-O"

Captain-Commander

yagd Audun Tskugol.


An inquiry

regarding the raider "Krovur":


During the battle for Terhoma in the Blue Plume area, sector A55S00, sub-sector 354 the following features of the raider "Krovur" were detected;

- the raider is a plate-shaped aircraft with two modes: cruiser and combat.

-in cruiser mode its body is solid, has a radius of 4.7 Krs and an average thickness of 1.01 Kr.

-in combat mode, a remote cabin is separated from the central part of the body, leaving a 2.1 Kr radius void and the raider turns into a toroidal body.

At the time of the fight its cabin, which is a standalone warship moves away at a safe distance.

About ten objects get separated from the main body simultaneously; they most likely perform the repeater functions of the cabin because a variety of interference and communication blocks are commonly used in combat.

-Repeaters, due to their small size are survivable against the enemy; they line up in a chain which connects both parts of "Krovur".

The protective shield of the main body is heterogeneous, similar to the vessels of Natotevaal Civil Military Front and recedes in the central void and the outer rim of the torus.

Thus the effect of "slipping" antimatter shock masses and the bending of shtraler rays and "falling" of missiles through the hull is achieved.

In combat, the main body is located in such a way that our ships are at the same level with it.

This affects our PC-gunners, as a narrow edge is visible, what leads to the "slippage" of charges, etc. and obstructs aiming.

- in cruiser mode, "Krovur" makes movements similar to those of our fast cruisers type "Strerh" and has flat trajectories and does not accelerate over 543 Tans, which is the limit for biological structures.

In combat mode, the main body evolves when the acceleration reaches the level of 1500 - 1700 Tan, what leads to a conclusion that at this point the swers reside in this cab, which moves with presumable acceleration.

Moreover, the main body of "Krovur" in combat mode has the ability to accelerate and maneuver at any angles to the previous course without inhibition, and without describing curves like our vessels.

"Krovur" moves sideways and backwards, making jumps which our experts named "the swarming fly".

This, along with body configurations, the protective field and specific orientation in the battle, makes the fire of our ships virtually ineffective.

-experts believe that the "swarming fly" maneuvers are only possible due to a radically new type of engine, different from the megrazine ones.

"Krovur" probably has gravitational driving force, which, simply, is two or more artificial groups, asynchronously rotating inside the computer by thickening the rim, which is no more than a looped-through accelerator channel.

This allows "Krovur" to change the direction of the flight instantly, along and across its body, which is almost unattainable for our "cigar-shaped" vessels.

-absence of pilots on board of the main body in combat allows to increase the power of emitters and shtralers without limits, as far as they have energy, because their side force fields don"t affect the crew.

Thus the combined firepower of "Krovur" without missiles reaches the power of an autonomous planetary defense battery.

-Krovur"s ability to teleport without prior preparation, due to the peculiarities of its propulsion based on the gravity space vectors, complicates its search on the residual gravitational fields.


Head of SOA

Tactical intelligence management

SS of Natotevaal

Captain yagd Memmer

Fjord 456


Digital Coded Telegram OOA

Confidential level C

To:

Commander of the consolidated brigade,

Fleet- commander

yagd Bussoht Rakedda


Yagd Commander!

I bring to your notice that there is a state of panic on the Terhoma base which we had to unlock.

All combat systems of the base are on alert, and a defensive battle is going on close to the major emitters.

Commander of the "Sterg" patrol cruiser, Lieutenant yagd Siebel, reported that the radar showed a commando raider "Kon Drerh", which had opened fire with thermonuclear warheads at the base, while according to the scheduled military arrangement of the 111 fleet, it should have been setting observation buoys in the A67S95 sector.

Captain commander yagd Tskugol has previously violated the Statute and quarter bill which turned out to be an unnecessary risk for the crew and the ship of our CMF.

I consider it expedient to remove yagd Tskugol from command of the raider "Kon Drerh" and subject him to a trial by the court martial.

Natote!


Commander of 604 Squadron U11 Fleet

Colonel yagd Dera Makhst.


/ Copy to the Head Office of Counterintelligence of the Natotevaal SS /


***

Digital Coded Telegram 00A

Confidential level B

To all combat vessels of the consolidated brigade

of the 3rd and the 5th directories.


I order:

- all martial vessels of the brigade are to gather in sectors-A55S01, A55S06, 8 and 34,

-get ready to storm the Terhoma base and provide fire and other support for the raider "Kon Drerh"

-to impose fights on the enemy at the first opportunity, constrain it with protracted maneuvers.


Natote!

Commander of the consolidated brigade

Fleet Commander

yagd Bussoht Rakedda


***

When Dybal said "Come on", aiming at the open hatch of the tank"s bottom, he saw a disheveled head with a hooked nose in a sweaty pressurized helmet and a man happily shouted:

- Do not shoot! I am Antoine Lemieux, the commander of the machine.

I have got two wounded people with me.

I saw how you ran under the fire of hidden points and secret areas.

It was great!

You are from a special "Strokh" battalion, are not you? - Lemieux smiled, showing his white teeth and blinked frequently.

- Oh, I like this innate French loquacity - said Dybal, catching his breath and wiping the sweat from his forehead in his mind. - Hi to the "Dragon" division from the fellows...

Aydem has already climbed inside, pulling along a flat box of a beacon.

He flopped hard into the shooter"s place and turned on the tumblers of all firing systems with a sweep of his hand:

-Thunder strike me! They are working!

-The running part is also in a good state - Lemieux"s eyes shone, as he put his foot on the pedal and adjusted the frontal view triplexes. - Computer, however, is acting up a bit, but it is even more fun that way. Where are we going, gentlemen?

-Head straight, sir, if possible. And hurry, shouted Dybal, battening down the hatch. - To the emitters, damn it!

-Even to the jaws of the devil, if you like. We won"t make it alive anyway. But still we can die in a nice way, gentlemen, - said Lemieux and pushed the pedal up to the full.

Sixty-tone machine roared like a ship on the rise and jumped on the crest of a hill in one jerk.

Having done a disorientation maneuver, it sent enemy charges into the rocks, and shot out smoke bombs.

A moment before fine dust concealed the tank from the swer observers, Aydem managed to cut two "militants" in half with a powerful fan of radiation and Lemieux with a joyous whoop drove his massive caterpillar over a ridge of the propelled tankette.

Dybal, following the tanker"s advice, has launched two adjustment probes, and now the tank had mobile eyes, which picked the target, selected a weapon and opened fire; all Aydem had to do was to add fire density, so that random spotters or aircrafts were caught in it.

The swers were confused; they did not expect that a lone assault tank "Mole-V-67" would be reanimated.

Their defensive fire was hectic and confused.

Assault fighters threw hydrogen charges in all directions, shtralers beat so hard that they even hit their own emitters, fighting robots just stopped: the tanks were not part of their remit.

Lemieux, going at full speed, started maneuvering around the defensive positions, skillfully avoiding mines and destroying everything on his way:

-Oh my dearest Yvette, we can walk and drink some wine if the night is silent in that ancient park! In the Orleans it"s a wonderful day today... a boat... a courtesan...

- Where the hell are you going? Damn it! - Shouted Aydem and Dybal into their headsets. - Come on! Go to the emitters!

Finally, having crushed down several emitter-domes on the way, and having smashed a big-eared TC antenna and broken a dozen of fighting robots, the tank poked its pointed shark face in the gray screen-concrete emitter safety belt and, after a few seconds of desperate grinding of diamond jaws and a roar of plasma softening cutter, it entered the internal flyover.

-Here we are - gasped Dybal and began to prepare the beacon, removing the shipping dampers.

-Where are you going? God, wait - the tanker"s eyes widened when he realized that his new team was going to come out.

-Whatever, Antoshka, swers won"t be able to shoot now.

We're right underneath their emitters.

One-zero in our favor - Dybal said, jumping on the screen-concrete boards.

They were now clearly visible, but all the power of the base was now powerless against a lone tank, which huddled its hot armor to Terhoma"s heart - the main emitters of the protective field.

Tank"s direction finder showed wedgies, mobile antimatter emitters and whole fortresses on tracks and gravity pads, moving to the center from all sides.

Like giant silica-titanium insects they were climbing out of countless lifts, that brought up packs of spotters and a bunch of crawling robots on the surface.

Flocks of stormtroopers hung over the base, eerily twitching their beak-shaped noses. Raging, they burned the remains of helpless machines and troupes of the "Dragon" commandos, shot at all suspicious bumps, lifting seas of brown soil mixed with atomic fireballs of annihilation breaks.

The beacon was set into position and ready to send its powerful, breakthrough laser pulse in a few minutes, in order to transmit to the computer system of "Kon Drerh" its accurate absolute coordinates.

But the onslaught of swers amplified faster than the final countdown on its control screen, and it became clear to the astronauts, that they will have to sacrifice their tank.

They set aside their shtralers and started to pull out the wounded soldiers.

Lemieux, covering them, was frantically turning the turrets, barely able to take down shiny slider robot bodies from the parapets and vertical emitter walls, shoot the wedgies, trying to enter the ramp, and undermine mosquito clouds with combined power charges.

The "mosquitoes" were now the biggest threat.

These scattered remote controlled explosives, tried to cover, envelope the tank in a cloud and explode with it, without damaging the emitters.

These brown clouds swirled above the battlefield, but they have not yet managed to create the right density needed for the explosion.

Having found a deep pothole in a parapet, the astronauts put injured yagd Mauh Yukr and the mechanic Casimir Lozovsky into it.

After that Aydem pulled Lemieux out of the tank, who was madly tearing back to shtraler"s sight; crushed him down and dragged into the shelter.

- I have a feeling that I was turned inside out - said Dybal, feeling vomit rise in his throat.

The intensity of magnetic and psychedelic fields which swers put up trying to unbalance the tank systems and melt the brains of commandos, reached the absolute maximum.

When Aydem accidentally touched Dybal or Lemieux, attending the wounded, a green spark resembling a krypton welding arc slipped between them. They really were out of their minds, starting to hallucinate, but their movements were more accurate and fast, and their eyes clearly spotted the danger.

"Mole-V-67", programmed to fight to the end, freed from the crew, ground its tracks, turned around, and raced down the ramp, picking up speed.

It crashed into a tight group of tankettes and robots, which were getting ready for a rise; rammed, scattered them, breaking into the open, still shooting in all directions, and finally was lost in chaos of return fire.

There was no fear, just unbearable pain.

Completely detached from past and future, with souls almost leaving their bodies, three Natotevaal soldiers, as if in a dream, kept fighting for the beacon among a multitude of combat mechanisms, and all they could hear now was the pounding of thickened blood in their hearts.

When all the grenades have been released, and all energy shtraler cassettes shot out, they just closed the beacon with their bodies, protecting it from the "mosquitoes", which had almost totally covered their suits like black snowflakes and were eating out armored scales, transmitting hard radiation to their bodies.

Faces, landscapes, pages, details of some lives were built up and then scattered in a kaleidoscope of colorful patterns before their eyes; shapeless visions arose and vanished into the blackness; chimeras and monsters climbed out of the unfettered subconscious...

They died at the moment when the beacon turned on, and "Kon Drerh" appeared from a compensation swirl of teleportation... Huge, glittering with countervailing armor, it hovered like a vision in the clearness of artificial atmosphere.

Having fired a volley from all fire systems and shielding with a protective field, "Kon Drerh" slowly descended onto the towers of the main emitters; crushed, pushed them into the foundation, and turned around several times, grinding them into dust.

Then it rushed like a giant iron along the base, leaving a strip of complete devastation behind, paratroopers sprang onto the burning surface out of agile assault bots of 1U Fleet; devices with excavation equipment, assault drills, mole tanks, military robots and heavy landing gear flopped into fiery dust.

The "Skull" commando division bit into the weakened base as if fell through the ground, quickly occupying the lower levels of fortifications, rapidly advancing the shafts, elevator channels and tunnels, made by assault mechanisms.

- The tank, what a great tank it was... I have assembled it with my own hands, to the last screw - suddenly cried out Lemieux trying to rush back to the place where attack aircrafts were circling over his machine.

Dybal hung on his shoulder and pushed back.

The place where the "Mole" stopped, having stuck in loose ground, turned into an erupting volcano, a nuclear tornado.

Yet the tank was still holding its protective field and kept firing, still fighting, until its armor became red-hot, and its computer systems have failed.

In an instant the shield fell, and it turned into a sizzling puddle of molten metal, into a boiling nuclear lake.

Digital Coded Telegram OOV

Confidential level C

Flagship of the consolidated brigade

Of the 3rd and the 5th Directories

Battleship "Meretowert"

To: Coordinator of Natotevaal SS

Marshal Commander,

Yagd Tote Yashemgart.


Yagd Commander!

I bring to your notice that the CMF base of the Swertz Empire has fallen.

Natote!


Commander of the consolidated brigade,

Fleet-Commander

yagd Bussoht Rakedda.


***

Digital Coded Telegram VNA


Confidential level A


To the Head of 1U Fleet

3rd Galactic Directory

Fleet-commander,

Yagd Blerk Aukarh.


Yagd Commander!


Being empowered by the Supreme Command of Natotevaal,

I appoint the "Star plasma" operation and give an order to:

- stage major hostilities in sphere-sector A45N890; all ships of 1U Fleet should take part.

-with the help of Shlokryst FB service-group, make structures in accordance with Annex 1-VNA and implement their transportation to the sphere-sector A45N890 Sub 55.

- Compose a message and broadcast it in a code of lower complexity, stating that after the battle in SS A45N890 raider "Mommer" was reported missing; its structure was of 'latest design, specifically intended to counter the Swertz raider "Krovur".

Natote!


The "Solar plasma" operation Commander,

Captain-Commander

yagd Audun Tskugol.


***


Yagd Tskugol walked along the lined out crew.

Sometimes he stopped, looking into their gaunt faces.

The team gloomily stared at his back; they lowered their eyes, meeting his gaze.

They did not believe him.

They did not want to think that Dybal and Aydem couldn"t be saved.

They could not imagine that these people could have been killed.

A piece of paper written in a hurried handwriting was still lying on the table of Dybal"s cabin: "It is necessary to camouflage "Kon Drerh" into a vessel of new design, notify "Krovur" of its helpless state and wait until it docks and the enemy attempts to get in; then attack the enemy's crew and break into "Krovur", being carried on their broad shoulders.

The details of this operation are given below..."

Drawn with a marker female profile with a snub nose is above the table, the bottle with remnants of "Five rings" Tote" is still under the pillow, magazine "Women's gymnastics in CMF Colleges of Natotevaal" and antique mechanical "Polyot" watch in nickel-plated casing with faded leather strap.

A chess board with an unfinished endgame, which Berserk asked to postpone due to the call of commander was still on Aydem"s bed.

They are alive.

They just have to be!

They had certainly gone deep into the asteroid before the raider has appeared and therefore didn"t get into the protective corridor by the aft lift, lowered by Berserk.

Now they are either hiding in some remote catacombs or leading a fight with the remnants of Swertz garrison.

Their ammunition, food and gas mixture are coming to an end.

They must be rescued.

And it doesn"t matter that the robot found their identity tags among the charred remains, the commander should realize it!

-Commander, you have to understand this - said Whitehouse gloomily, breaking the tense silence.

-All that you think is wrong, replied yagd Tskugol quietly - you are like children who do not want to believe in their grandpa"s death until the moment when clods of cemetery soil reach the coffin lid.

I clearly understand the reason for your tetanus over this matter.

I understand that you can"t feel it in your subconscious: you were with joker Dybal and reliable as steel Aydem for ages; you have passed the crucible of war, life and death, and stayed alive, as if enchanted, as if immortal.

You thought it would be like that forever.

With the death of your friends everything straightened up.

You are not immortal.

You are just biological beings.

Strong and daring biological beings.

The myth of your subconscious collapsed.

This is a heavy blow.

I sympathize.

-You are speaking vaguely, Sir. We ask you to send us home - tilting his forehead forward, said Mackliff. - We do not care a damn for your war. You refuse to save our guys, and we refuse to fight.

-This is nonsense, they died. Their ID-badges are on the table - interrupted yagd Slepeh.

-Oh, shut up, you pen driver - snapped Whitehouse shortly. - Be sure, I'll fix you!

-What?

- Shut up, or you"ll go back to the cupboard - barely holding back, yelled Whitehouse, clenching his fists.

Stop this riot, yagd navigator - sternly said yagd Tskugol. - And listen to me. If you desert now, as I call it; the rest of your life you will be blaming yourselves for not carrying out this order, for the sake of which died Aydem and Dybal.

Conscience and revenge, that"s how you call it, so it seems.

A heavy silence hung over them, interrupted only by the hiss of intercom speakers, broadcasting the talks of technicians Krozzeha and yagd Garedda, who were installing intricate structures, made in Shlokrist from Dybal"s sketches, on the armor of "Kon Drerh":

-Hey, Kmeh, caps of the nozzles are of a slightly larger radius than needed: slots of the mounts do not match. Can we do without them? The raider is already looking like a piece of an asteroid...

-No, if we have to spoil it, we do it nicely.

Weld it.

Their main function is their form...

A sheet of DT slid out of dremer.

Everyone stared at that glossy paper.

Yagd Tskugol took it by the edges, and read aloud, as if reading out an order:

Digital Coded Telegram VHV

Confidential level A

To: Commander of the "Solar plasma" operation,

Captain-Commander

yagd Audun Tskugol.


Yagd Commander!


I inform you that according to your orders in SS A45N890, a major military clash was staged by the forces of 1U Fleet.

To the outcome of Auga 56, year 4725 from the b. of N., CMF warships of the Swertz Empire, including "Krovur" took part in the staging.

In the sprung up battle a message concerning the loss of "Mommer" was sent among the outgoing DTs, after which "Krovur" teleported to Sub 56.

Natote!


Head of 1U Fleet

3rd Galactic Directory

Fleet-commander,

Yagd Blerk Aukarh.


-Swers fell for it - could not help saying Berserk. - They are somewhere nearby.

-Dybal"s plan worked - said yagd Tskugol - Can you really leave it unfinished?


Whitehouse and Mackliff exchanged looks. It was evident that PC technician has already changed his mind and was anxiously waiting for Whitehouse to answer.

The other"s expression showed a whole range of overwhelming feelings and desires and he finally uttered:

- We will do this, yagd Commander, but then... Then we will choose our fate ourselves - he broke the ranks. - May I take up my duties?

- Yes, you may. Go. We will talk later - Commander nodded.

Yagd Tskugol and Whitehouse exchanged hypnotizing hard looks.

Finally the Commodore spun on his heels and walked out.

-Come on, Ronnie, we have a lot of things to do - Von Conrad touched Whitehouse on the shoulder.

-Manfred, you know, I"m so damn confused now. My thoughts are in a tangle. Why are we here? Tell me!

-Later, Ronald, we will talk afterwards.

Meanwhile, Berserk was broadcasting a message in plain text:

Attention! To all the ships in sphere-sector A45N890!

Commander of raider "Mommer" speaking.

I suffer irreversible failure in sub-sector 55 and evacuate the team.

I ask to protect the incapacitated "Mommer" as soon as possible and transport it to Shlokrist FB.

Natote!


So the bait was set in the air for everyone to see.

After a few agonizing hours after the technicians have reported to the commander that camouflaging of "Kon Drerh" was finished, the lock scanners detected compensatory perturbations in 407 Tohs port side.

Some large object has teleported there.

The signal of combat alarm pierced the space, and the main ship computer alerted:

"Preparing for preemptive maneuver and installation of mobile mine field."

-What the hell! A dying raider wouldn"t be able to make maneuvers and set up minefields - he banged his fists on the main body of the ship's computer. - This piece of iron will ruin the whole thing!


-Attention-to all modules, - said yagd Tskugol.

Prepare to switch off all the systems except for breathing gas regenerator.

The crew is to gather in the navigator room.

-Warming up of the main engines is in process - answered the computer in response, that got Whitehouse really pissed off.

-Calm down, Ronnie - said Mackliff, quickly disconnecting the systems from the computer board. - Upload the blocking program.

But the computer did not obey.

It just could not process why the team at the approach of a formidable opponent was trying to bring a battle worthy vessel into a helpless state.

It turned off the input device and continued preparing the raider for a fight.

Mackliff tried to affect it through peripheral computers, but the raider"s brain was twisting and bluffing, blocking those parts of programs that controlled the fire and running systems.

When enraged Whitehouse broke a knot of supply cables with shots from his "Viking Combat", the computer switched to internal emergency batteries, displayed a word "Betrayal" on the screen, and filled the IT-room with a whole bunch of toxic gases.

Choking and losing consciousness, Whitehouse managed to knock down a lid from fast operations block with his leg, and emptied the whole clip from his Colt into a fine mesh of core processors.

Crawling into the corridor, the astronauts had time to see how the central computer puffed, and was covered with a veil of countless flashes.

- We have screwed this up - hissed Mackliff, his back against a hall bulkhead. - Now "Kon Drerh" is really as helpless as a blind kitten.

We are total morons, Ronnie! The lights went off.

Only the lamps of emergency lighting were still glowing.

They stumbled upon von Conrad on the way to the lift, leading to the navigation room.

The shooter winked at them and conspiratorially whispered:

- I have just found quite an amazing thing.

It turns out that yagd Tskugol is from Earth.

And his name is Stone. Clifford Stone from Alabama.

- You"ve lost your mind, Manfred. He is a real yagd Tskugol, Commander of Natotevaal - yelled Mackliff, totally spaced-out.

He was vomiting from the protective gas attack of the main computer, and having leaned his arm against the lift door, emptied his stomach onto the shoes of the board gunner.

-What a swine you are, John, - winced Von Conrad. - Krozzeh told me that. And he can be trusted.

Today is a totally insane day.

However, that explains why the commander hushed up the case on our rebellion, and covered up the football match story - said Whitehouse, thinking aloud.

- It is clear why yagd Slepeh hates him so much while our VH commandos really like him.

Could Marshal Yaschemgart also be of our origin? He is a chubby little man, who reminds me of lame Campbell from a pub on 79th Ave.

What news, damn it!

- That's not all. Krozzeh said that yesterday the "Bull" commandos division had captured Shlokrist FB. They demand to be sent back home. And it seems that yagd Yaschemgart has flown out to them for negotiations - said von Conrad and entered the lift cabin.

Astronauts staggered after him:

-When we are done with "Krovur" we will immediately neutralize Slepeh.

-That's right Ronnie, and then we"ll immediately go to Terhoma, to look for our guys. Then to Shlokrist, to the "Bull" division, and then back home...


***

The whole crew of "Kon Drerh" except yagd Tskugol gathered in the navigation room by the view-screen of a lock scanner.

Flat outline of "Krovur" was clearly visible on the display in 50-Toh distance.

It was approaching slowly, blinking with cabalistic signs of its rinkels.

Unexpectedly, very close-by, three unmanned "Sterg" patrols of a convoy, which according to the plan of operation, were to show strong concern of Natotevaal Command about the fate of the false "Mommer"; appeared from the teleportation swirls.

They immediately opened defensive fire and "Krovur", slowly, as if reluctantly, changed its direction.

Whitehouse sat on the remote control and deliberately lit up a cigarette, not paying attention to the comments of yagd Slepeh and yagd Garedda.

Von Conrad and Berserk, arguing about something, strolled among the rows of lock-computer cabinets:

-If sensitivity of the sensors reaches 1500 Prells, then we wouldn"t be able to breathe, let alone talk! - No, probing of protective field activity and the temperature of running reactors will show their cooling mode - and with this background everything else would be perceived quite naturally...

-Look, the swers have shot the remote cabin off - exclaimed Krozzeh, pointing at the screen.

A spherical body got detached from "Krovur" and started to recede rapidly.

After that, the enemy raider came alive and no longer passively exposed itself to the blows of the "Stergs".

It made a leap upwards, relative to the floor of "Kon Drerh"" navigation room and instantly showed above the patrols.

Infernal acceleration, at which only metal could survive - stated Mackliff. - It can even dodge from shtralers.

See, the lock scanner cannot cope with processing of the line scanning, and the image is always blurred because of this.

And that's even with its doubled power and the max resolution.

No one answered.

All of them tensely watched the enemy maneuvers.

Patrol engines roared in the silence, trying to win the position for the most efficient fire.

"Stergs" tried to stick together, protected with the overall force field.

Suddenly, one of them fell out of the line unable to cope with the acceleration of a turn, a lightning-shaped flash followed, momentarily blinding the lock scanner of "Kon Drerh".

When visibility restored, that patrol was already being scattered in all directions in a host of flaming wreckage.

One-zero in his favor - grimly said Whitehouse lighting up another cigarette. - It does not trouble itself with pointless shooting.

A game of this self-confident giant with legless midgets went on for several minutes, after which the remaining Stergs were turned into rubble with a few exact salvoes.

- Now, that"s war! - Von Conrad broke the deathly silence and clapped his hands. - Bravo, Swertz. Natotevaal is way-back with its sausage-shaped vessels.

Look, the remote cabin docks again! This is as beautiful as sex, damn it!

- Oh, you bastard, a scum from the fetid geek-planet - yelled yagd Slepeh and his foot hit Von Conrad with all his might in the groin. - Go on, praise the enemy! But no, you will not do that anymore.

As an agent of the SS and in the behalf of Natotevaal, I sentence you to death!

He bent over the fallen colonel and put the shtraler"s barrel to the back of his head:

- I will put this ship in order. Ged, take the rest in your sights!

He didn"t get a chance to shoot.


***

Whitehouse knocked him down, violently stamping his feet.

Garedda, pressed into the barrier by Mackliff and Berserk, wildly rolled his eyes, clutching the holster of a shtraler:

- I am the captain of Natotevaal, you have no right!

You will pay for this: you all are going to die!

Mackliff drove the elbow into his jaw with a grunt, causing the senior technician to bang his head against the edge of the barrier and he went limp, sliding to the floor.

Mackliff, rubbing his bruised elbow, approached Whitehouse who kept beating the quitened navigator with his heavy boots:

- Hey, Ronnie! You will ruin everything. Do not you dare kill him!

He stopped reluctantly, tearing the edging cord from the console panel and tying yagd Slepeh"s hands:

- Tie the technician.

Feebly moaning Von Konrad was gently put into a chair in front of the console.

He opened his eyes for a moment:

- Krovur!

"Krovur" was slowly approaching, blocking half of the screen.

Its protective field and visual camouflage were off, and sharp barrel outlines of shtraler towers were glancing right at the heavily breathing astronauts.

Captain Commander silently appeared in the doorway, cast an icy look at the picture of the carnage in the navigation room and said shortly:

- All standing on their feet follow me.

The avigation room is to be locked and sealed - he turned around and slowly walked toward the docking station.

-Yep, we still have to shoot him down - said Whitehouse, taking aim at the back of Commader"s grey head.

-It is prohibited to use shtralers as well as talk out loud.

Swers can locate the vibration.

It is also recommended to walk noiselessly - without turning back, said yagd Tskugol.

Whitehouse froze in a ridiculous pose with a shtraler in his hand:

- Damn it!

Mackliff took his weapon away and pushed him into the hallway.

Here they armed themselves with fire equipment from the emergency switchboard and entered the air lock, holding their breath.

Yagd Tskugol looked at the scissors for cutting the rivets in Mackliff"s hands and a crow bar with diamond tip under the arm of Whitehouse and nodded with satisfaction.

Berserk grabbed a piece of oil-line pipe.

No one doubted that the Swers were going to get into "Con Drerh" through the docking port.

The logic was simple: opening the casing of an unknown ship they risked running into fuel tanks that could ignite from the fire of cutters and blow up in tandem with other ships.

Swers did not want to take the risk.

They started to make the docking maneuver and "Krovur" slightly hit the berthing port of "Kon Drerh" with an extension of its transition gallery.

Astronauts hastily donned in landing overalls, reinforced with titanium-layer plates and helmets fitted with visors.

They quickly connected the breathing gas cylinders adapters, had air-conditioning system purged with inert gas, set up sensors and breast micro-computer devices.

When the outside bulkhead of the locks has fallen, and Swer" cutters began to heat the second - the inner one; Berserk, not daring to turn on the intercom, leaned his helmet against the helmet of Commander:

- Yagd Commander, you certainly know better, but I think that before the assault team enters, they will send forward their scout.

The scout will disclose us immediately and we will be lost for nothing.

-Where can we hide, navigator? - Asked the Commander.

-In the engine compartment: the cell of mergasine pressurization, unless we won"t get a lethal dose of radiation there, of course.

-Well, - yagd Tskugol faintly nodded and waved his glove in the direction of the stern.

They kept walking behind Berserk in pitch darkness for a long time, illuminating the forward"s back with lights of their pressurized helmets.

They took Von Conrad, yagd Slepeh and yagd Garedda out of the navigation room and Krozzeh helped them to put their suits on.

They listened to the beating of their hearts, which was incredibly loud; it seemed to be spreading across the galaxy:

"No, the swers will not find us, this just won"t happen.

Some frail probe of the scout-robot cannot ruin our powerful, fathomless world! "

As they stood like statues in the niches of mergasine pressurization chamber with sweeping off scale radioactivity counters on the chest, pressed against the rough insulation boards, and serpentine probe of the Swer-scout grinded its metal scales right over their heads, and while they were climbing onto the ignition platform, their lips chanted:

"Have mercy, Lord! Our fates cannot break off in this darkness; it has been leading us along its inscrutable roads for too long, just to end up here, on the loop of the enemy"s optical device!

Lord, were we detected? Shall we run, using the last chance, hiding in the reactor shaft, in the Abaddon of radioactive disintegration?

Or shall we shoot the scout and escape in the bot?

Shall we execute the last prayer? "

-It left - leaning toward Whitehouse said Berserk, pointing at the closing hatch of standby pumps, where the black body of the scout slid in.

Their arm-displays showed that "Kon Drerh" was quickly filling with alien gases.

This could only mean one thing - Swers entered their ship.

The winners did not want to burden themselves with spacesuits.

The better for them!

Having left Von Conrad, yagd Slepeh and Garedda in the waste bin compartment, five swift shadows glided through the central duct directly to the air locks.

Having knocked out the air outlet, they fell right onto the flat robot, which was pulling some barrel-shaped objects to "Con Drerh".

Mackliff chopped his body with rivets-cutting scissors and triumphantly shouted:

- Take by storm! Fall aboard! Hand to hand!

-Natote! - responded commander and Krozzeh, rushing to a hole of the mooring gallery.

"Krovur" welcomed them with jets of white gas, which came from wall, floor and ceiling openings, and corroded the protective layer of the overalls, and a flow of rarefied plasma.

But it was too late!

They have already slipped into the raider"s internal halls and began a rapid advance toward the center.

Everything was different around them, but still these were machines which had the same functional task, as elsewhere.

Here they saw automatic, controlling and calculating devices, communications and alert systems.

All this was immediately destroyed with primitive assault weapons.

After they have passed several dark rooms filled with heaps of unknown components and tangles of pipes and cables, they jumped onto a spacious gallery that stretched in a ring from left to right.

- Swers - Berserk managed to cry out, clutching his breast, which was pierced with several long metal plates.

Mountain-like swers, swaying like gray sour jellies, moved from both sides of the gallery.

Their huge heads covered with rare bristle, angrily stared at the strangers with sunken yellow eyes.

- You should have put your spacesuits on, guys! - roared Whitehouse and brought down the crowbar on the head of one of the gray beings, and the pink brain was splashed in all directions.

The collision was short and furious.

Either swers did not know or want to use their laser weapons, but they did not shoot; in the deathly silence their carcasses got laid under the blows of the assaulters, like grass under the strokes of the scythe.

Having pierced the last swer body with a sharpened tip, ripped and splashed its corrugated, purple innards over the floor, yagd Tskugol tore its ragged claw from his arm and threw it onto the corpse of the owner, exclaiming in a muffled voice:

- We did it - "Krovur" is ours!

Echoing him, Whitehouse howled in a primeval way, shaking the crimson with blood crowbar over his head; and Mackliff and Krozzeh shouted frantically in responce.

Only Berserk quietly dropped into a slimy puddle of someone's innards:

- Seems that I"m expiring, fellows...

Mackliff, throwing the scissors away, rushed to him, but it was too late, the atmosphere of "Krovur" has penetrated Berserk"s overalls.

He was dying.

Suddenly they heard the rattle of shots in the depths of the ship, and Von Conrad"s voice sounded in the headsets:

-Hey, where are you, the swers are here! They are going to leave in the capsule!

-Manfred where are you, answer - Whitehouse darted, not knowing where to run.

-Almost in the center. Go along a radial corridor.

They all lead to the booth - said the colonel, and sounds of his creaking jaws and faltering breathing were heard in the headsets" speakers.

Having left Krozzeh to guard Berserk, the astronauts ran through a suite of rooms, filled with transparent cylinders in which swarmed sickening purple organisms.

Either these were the swers" embryos or their food.

They writhed in oily, bubbling fluid, constantly devouring with their mouths the unsightly mess, which was floating around them, and stared with their small yellow eyes at the running people.


At that, Mackliff vomited right on the glass of his pressurized helmet, and not being able to see anything, stumbled upon some pipe at full speed.

He fell down, cursing, got up trying to blow his helmet with a strong jet of breathing mix.

Whitehouse grabbed his arm and dragged him along:

- Sloppy creature! I would smash your face, but the helmet is in the way...

At a dimly lit gallery crossroads, among a heap of broken devices, they saw Von Conrad.

He was kneeling and firing into the darkness from a powerful assault shtraler:

- Finally, guys! Here, Ronnie, take this thing - he cried, looking at the grenade launcher hanging behind him. - My hands are busy.

Be careful not to pop out of the corner.

Whitehouse grabbed the grenade launcher and fired the entire magazine into darkness, in the same direction where the colonel was shooting.

Powerful explosions thundered, illuminating a narrow corridor, covered with shiny gray bodies.

- They have something like a barracks over there! Go, I will handle the rest.

Enter that door, their main one is inside - shouted von Conrad.

Having forced the tiny door open, the astronauts burst into a large hall with a spherical ceiling. It was densely studded with various sensors, displays, panels and flashing lights and quickly changing writings.

A plain dwarf figure plunged away from a row of seats that looked like inflated baby bath toys.

- Do not shoot, he must be taken alive! - Shouted yagd Tskugol, noticing that Whitehouse got his "Viking combat" on the ready.

At this point, the creature hiding behind a floor ledge put up a short metal tube in front of it.

- Shtraler - yelled Whitehouse, falling face down.

There was a flash which hit hesitating Krozzeh right in his chest.

The tech fell on the row of chairs wrapped in blue flames.

His suit cringed like cellophane from an iron:

- How painful... I do not want to, no, I do not want to die!

Whitehouse quickly got up on his elbows and shot several times in the dwarf"s head.

Bullets scattered porous, spongy brain, and ricocheted around the room for some time, drowning out Commander"s desperate cry:

-You idiot, you shot a Swer! All the others - are shit, mercenaries from Fluiderra! Whitehouse squirmed, trying to get up, but Mackliff without much ado put him back on the stretcher.


-And this was probably the only Swer here...

He was interrupted by Von Conrad"s croaky voice:

-Ronnie! Do not sleep. They broke through to the upper floors. They are above you. I am wounded. I"m crawling to you...

Chaos filled the hall in an instant.

The floor shook from several explosions.

Mackliff randomly fired in all directions from the trophy shtraler, commander handled the pipe fragment and Von Conrad was shouting and shooting from somewhere above.

Whitehouse, mindlessly shooting out the last bullets, crawled on his belly to the shelter, where the swer-dwarf was lying crouched, when suddenly, something incredibly hard hit his back.

He choked, gasping for breath and lost consciousness.

His brain evoked vivid pictures from its depths, which intermingled with each other: a building of Communication Academy at West Springs, which was being turned inside out and twisted into a tube, like a photograph; a carved chair from his kitchen, jumping on an unmown meadow, and from a frayed seat of which, tiny horses with blazing manes flied out; a city with eggplant, cucumber, tomato, pumpkin - shaped houses; monuments in Arlington cemetery, black clouds, green suns, red, blue, azure waves of a raging sea...

***


Having opened his eyes, Whitehouse saw Mackliff without pressurized helmet, with disheveled hair, that stuck to his sweaty forehead, not quite gently slapping his hand on his cheeks:

-Time to get up, ma'am... Lunch-time. Or you will oversleep our great victory...

The central cockpit of "Krovur" was full of people.

Commandos in black suits with the "Skull" stripes removed suspicious devices from the walls that could have been processors of self-destruction systems, and carried out the corpses of Swer mercenaries from Fluiderra.

Doctors conjured over dwarf, blocking the room up with complex equipment and covering the dead gray body with countless sensors.

Pale Von Conrad sat next to Whitehouse, cradling a bandaged hand, and the bodies of Berserk and Krozzeh were wrapped like mummies in shiny fabric.

Yagd Tskugol was giving orders in a loud voice, his overalls looking like a burnt pine bark.

-Well, I had to tinker. Scrubbing you from the swer, who bore down on you. He was fat, and heavy as hell - sadly chuckled Mackliff, taking a sip from the bottle of the "Tote-brandy".

-You are a lucky loser Ronnie... You have missed the most interesting part. When the swers swooped down on us, and began firing like crazy, something fused, apparently in their wiring. And the central cabin separated from "Krovur" and started to fly away in an unknown direction from our chained ships...

That scared the hell out of us...

We didn"t know a shit on their control, all we knew was how to make holes in them...

Luckily vessels of the "Skull" division were close by.

Their raider "Brennets" caught us.

They could have shot us from shtralers, not even asking our names.

They didn"t get a response to the call sign...

-And where are we now? - Barely moving his parched tongue asked Whitehouse.

-What do you mean, where? We are on "Krovur", of course! We have put the cab back, pushed it into the slots with a tug. Command needs the whole raider. And not a meccano puzzle, - Mackliff handed over the bottle to his comrade, and he made a few invigorating gulps.

-Why won"t Stone take the commandos and go to Shlokrist?

-What Stone? - wondered Mackliff, - Ahhah... Clifford Stone, you mean? That is yagd Tskugol. You know, Colonel horribly lied to us. Krozzeh did not say anything to him.

Hey, Colonel, tell your fighting comrades of your shameless lie!

-I lied to you, fellows, to carry the job through. If you killed the commander, Natotevaal could have been over in swers" favor, - the colonel replied, wincing from the pain in his hand, and from a withering look of Whitehouse.

-Yeah, right. The Natotevaal has been going on for four thousand years. And it would not have ended because of us... utter nonsense... But we have a beautiful ship, though. We must go and help the riot - Whitehouse squirmed like a pig in the wolf pit.

-Hey, Earthlings! Commandos, we have to go to Shlokrist ASAP, to rescue the "Bull" division. We will dispel this land of Nod...

Mackliff unceremoniously put him back on the spot, on a stretcher:

-Stop brawling, we are going to Shlokrist by the way, there was no uprising in the "Bull" division. Manfred has also made it up. A storyteller.

-And then back home, to Earth - Whitehouse did not calm down.

-That's right we are going home after Shlokrist.

-Who said Manfred again?

-Yagd Tskugol said. He has a DT from yagd Yaschemgart. They congratulate us on behalf of all sorts of commands and offer us a choice of either commanding any warship or taking an indefinite leave home.


-Moreover, they have granted us with another star and gave us the "Commander" title.

Now our colonel is: Lieutenant-Commander yagd Manfred Maria von Conrad. Not bad, right? Well, yagd Manfred Maria, do you want to return to Raumvaffe?

- I'm staying here. I want to take the "Kon Drerh," said Von Konrad without a moment's hesitation. - I am a soldier, my job is war. Moreover, no one is waiting for me at home.

- Iron martinet. He made a career on poor swers, - now Mackliff laughed joyfully, clapping Von Conrad's back. - Okay, come to visit, after you crush the Empire.

Von Conrad smiled sadly:

-We do not say goodbye yet.

-First, we must bury Berserk and the remains of Al and Dick.

-And put up a monument to my guys: Eichberger, Hoffmann and Lasenheld.

-And Jean Dupouis, and George Fudzhieki, and those tankers that drove the "mole" on the emitters together with Al and Dick, - added Makliff.

-And to all the commandos who died on Terhoma.

-To all the commandos of Natotevaal - finished Whitehouse - two burly orderlies picked up his stretchers and carried them to the doors.

Yagd Tskugol appeared nearby and handed the gun to Whitehouse:

-You keep losing your piece of iron, Ronnie.

Goodbye, you were a good soldier of Natotevaal.

-I heard your conversation - Commander thought for a moment. - Maybe you would like to serve in our counter-intelligence on Earth?

-Thank you for the confidence yagd Commander, but I've had enough for now. I have died seven times for the last six months. Some other time - said Whitehouse, hiding the "Viking-combat" beneath his shirt, - Please come for a visit.

Commander indefinitely shrugged and waved his hand to the medics.

Whitehouse was carried through the corridors of "Krovur" and the halls of "Kon Drerh".

***

He noticed a crumpled piece of paper in a heap of trash by the airlocks and picked it up.

On the other side of the sheet with encoded text he recognized the clumsy Berserk"s handwriting:

Dear Martha!

I'm sorry that I haven"t written to you for ages.

But after this first letter, I will try to write more often.

I'm all right. I fully relax and go sunbathing.

The fruit, fish and tonic are very cheap here, and the sea is like fresh milk.

Warm and tender.

In general, I don"t think the trip will end soon although we don"t have much work to do.

This year it is hard to serve in Hawaii as it"s steaming hot here...

Whitehouse felt a bitter lump in his throat and his heart sank.

***


Digital Coded Telegram COV


Confidential level B


To: Highest Military Council of Natotevaal


Yagd Commanders!

I bring to your attention that on Septa 14, year 4725 from the beginning of Natotevaal, the forces of a special commando group "Independence-VH-O", carried out capture of the Swer raider "Krovur".

After a preliminary examination at Shlokrist FB, experts came to a conclusion that it had no serious damages, and could be used as part of our CMF as an independent combat unit.

I propose that Fleet Commander yagd Audun Holnik Tskugol should be appointed its Commander.

After the loss of "Krovur", CMF of the Swertz Empire stopped its attacks on Stigmarkont FB and had noticeably reduced overall military activity in most areas.

This has enabled our strike forces to capture bases of Muoren, Lehts and Barra, in the Blue Plume system.

We have a good opportunity to inflict a blow on the shipyards of Dyulta and turn the war around.


Natote!


The Natotevaal SS Coordinator,

Marshal Commander

TOTE YASHEMGART.

***


Whitehouse woke up early that morning.

Dorothy smiled blissfully in her sleep, her chestnut hair scattered over the pillow. The blanket fell to the floor and its satin rocks loomed over a night table.

On the table, under the green lamp which was still on, lay an open book with its rootlet upwards.

He cast a glance and read the title "To distant worlds":

- Keeps reading some crap all night... - having put his feet on the mat, Whitehouse carefully covered his wife with a blanket, and, stretching out went to the veranda.

The morning breeze was soft and gentle like baby's breath.

Indiana"s blue sky bathed in rays of the rising sun, adorned by white clouds which airily floated over the Terre Haute town, lost among endless fields of corn and barley.

In the foliage of a grove, which separated their home from a quiet Sunday street, orioles sang and sparrows fluttered about.

Coke, their cat lazily crossed the yard, with feigned indifference looking at a couple of bred pigeons who sat on a bar of children" swing and were from a dovecote of their neighbor - Wallington.

The pigeons joined their beaks and beautifully cooed.

Sam Wallington strolled along the red-tiled roof of a neighboring house, visible through the old acacia bushes, in slippers and Boy-Scout shorts and a shiny metallic vane on a long pole.

He occasionally waved the pole, forcing the pigeon flock circle above the roofs.

Birds in flight first gathered into a compact group, then vigorously flapping the wings spread out one by one, forming a closed ring.

It was somewhat difficult to watch this realignment and Whitehouse closed his eyes.

- Hey, Ronald, how are you doing? - The neighbor noticed him, putting his hand to a baseball cap, with its visor back. - How are the kids?

- Everything"s fine, Sam. Come by in the evening, it is Arnie"s birthday today - Whitehouse waved his hand.

-How old did he get?

-Fourteen.

-Ooh, that"s an old chap!

Both burst up with laughter.

The gate slammed and Georgie ran in the yard.

Having scared the pigeons on the swing and the cat, who was preparing for his final jump, he hung on the bar and started to pull himself up.

This was the way he usually ended up his morning jog.

The swing lamentably creaked under the weight of his body.

- Do not do heavy exercise after a run or you will damage your heart. Catch your breath first - shouted Whitehouse. - You should pull up, exercise with the grips and then go jogging.

Georgie jumped off the improvised horizontal bar and started doing the breathing exercises:

-Do not worry, Dad, until you came I was gradually increasing the load. What"s more that "work through force" is your system for simultaneous hardening of the will and the body.

-So damn stubborn, exactly like your Mom! Okay. Do you remember that it"s Arnie"s birthday today? You should be home in the evening. Got it?

-I got you, Dad, but I do not see the point. I will definitely congratulate my bro, but he will be out himself.

- What do you mean- out?

-He and Emma are going to Erie and are going to spend the rest of the weekend on a yacht of Emma's mother. So much for the holiday.

I"m going to the athletic hall after breakfast, but if you insist, I"ll be back by five. We will play a game of chess, blow the candles...

-You should better get friends with some pretty girl and go to the Erie with your brother. It"s pointless to strain yourself with exercises.

-Have fun, while there is time, - said Whitehouse disappointedly as he totally couldn"t understand his sons: one leaves the family and goes on a picnic with his girlfriend in his birthday, and the other did stultifying exercises.

- They are so unlike me - Whitehouse grumbled and went back to the bedroom.

Dorothy was awake.

He heard her loud singing in the shower and sound of drops splashing on the plastic curtain.

Dorothy has pinned a note to a chair, where lay his crumpled jeans and a T-shirt with silver "NASA" logo:

"Ronnie, while I tidy up myself and the house, deal with our taxes for this year and call the guests, please go to the supermarket on Morra Str. and buy the following things... "

There was a long list below.

In the end, it was pointed out that it was necessary to drive by to Stones" and give them gifts from ocean shells and a rare book "Reflections on the meaning of human evolution" by Mark Kronnerstern which they needed for writing a polemical article in the local "Times".

Whitehouse sighed, realizing that no one was going to serve breakfast today, put on his pants and T-shirt, thrust his feet in his favorite worn sandals, and moving his bare fingers with pleasure, went down to the garage.

He stopped in the kitchen along the way, cut some ham for his bread, sprinkled it with ketchup and grabbed a bag of yogurt.

The garage smelled of gasoline, lubricating oils and warm metal.

On the hood of a huge open-top "Jeep", sat Coke the cat looking wistfully into concrete floor, apparently hunting for non-existent mice.

Whitehouse sat on the bench, thoughtfully turned a vise of a small grip, ran his hand over rough bodies of files that hung in a row; looked into a tool-box.

Then he opened the yogurt and went for a sandwich, not paying attention to Coke"s addresses.

The last six months after he left the service at NASA, were quite difficult for him.

He felt that he was becoming apathetic.

That winter he went to Nevada, to the dry creek of Chiyaho, to a place with no visible evidence of human presence on Earth: even a track, paved in desert thorns, where stood a small black basalt stele, with letters, unclear to birds:

"Here rest:

Jean Batiste Dunois,

George Fudjieka,

Lauer Wolf Hoffmann,

Otto Franz Eichberger,

Mathias Layseheld

And soldiers of Natotevaal:

Richard Aydem,

Alexander Vladimirovitch Dybal.

O Lord, bless their souls,

And the souls of all the commandos from Earth

Who have fallen in Natotevaal."

He expected that it would shake him up, make his heart beat faster, but this trip brought him nothing but a black melancholy and sad memories.

He planted a few thorn bushes around the monument, painted the metal fence black and left to Central America.

Having found a guide with great difficulty, he traveled on his feet to the mountain of Buendia, and then to the mouth of Brazilera river.

From there he went down on an inflatable boat to the place where the mountains jutted far out into the sands of the Great Desert, forming a plateau.

He was looking for Magdalena village, for Saurno Santo the Indian; Aguilar, boy Ponce, Chabela, Manuela and Huanakava.

But he found no one, except for burnt houses of Magdalena.

Either all the Kichak were killed in a clash with Matilones or crossed the mountain pass and left to the ocean. He stayed in the devastated Magdalena for about a week; in a tent, listening to a distant roar from the Aborning Rocks Canyon at night.

There, at the base of Natotevaal "Ziem-002" the work was still going on.

But he did not want to go there.

He left to Terre Haute in an even more gloomy mood.

He tried to find Mackliff several times: called, wrote letters, and went to Iowa, where on the bank of Missouri, near Omaha was Mackliff"s house.

But Mackliff disappeared.

He had sold the house and left in an unknown destination.

Once, in a TV program dedicated to the attempted military coup in the Philippines, he saw a man in the shot who very much resembled Mackliff.

He sat on a squat tower of an armored car and shouted something to the Marines, who ran in the direction of the Presidential Palace.

He got a message from Manfred von Conrad only once.

The letter reminded of the grim anniversary of the collision of the shuttles "Independence" and "Das Rhein" and reported that he was assigned commander of a squadron...

Having dealt with a sandwich, Whitehouse sat in his "Jeep" and pressed the touch button of the gate opening.

The gate rumbled with hidden motors and rolled up.

Sunshine filled the garage.

Cat Coke angrily meowed, blinked its yellow eyes, and having jumped off the car, pretentiously walked to the canister shelves.

The "Jeep" made a deep grumbling sound and rolled out to the yard.

- Dad, where are you going? - Georgie, already dressed in tight jeans and the usual "leather jacket" was standing on the porch. - Can you drop me off at "McDonald's"?

Whitehouse nodded.

The boy ran to the car and jumped into the cabin right over the board:

- Let"s go, Pa!

- Where are you going? - Dorothy, combing her wet hair, appeared in the attic.

- I am going to the store, and Georgie is going to the gym class. How did you sleep, dear?

- Great. Do not forget to take the book for Stones". Where is it? Did you take it?

- Yes, I did. It"s under my seat, in the glove compartment. Bye - lied Whitehouse and drove out to the quiet street.

The town was immersed in greenery, advertising signs and sunlight.

A strange old man was slowly driving along the sidewalk on a weathered bike.

Having seen Whitehouse he stopped and raised his hand:

- Good morning, sir. Good to see you. Whitehouse slowed down:

- Good morning. What is it?

- Are you Ronald Lewis Whitehouse, Maguak str., sixteen?

- Yes, it"s me.

- Sir, your son set my barn on fire yesterday. Approximate damage is about five hundred dollars, sir - the old man frowned slyly. - But if we come to an agreement, I will not report it to the police.

Georgie leaned over and whispered to his father:

-It's all lies, Dad, it wasn"t Arnie who burned the barn, but his great-nephew, Michael. While they were making pyrotechnic rockets for a school holiday. The old man wants to improve his business at our expense.

Whitehouse nodded and slowly pushed the gas pedal.

- I'll come to you in the evening, sir, and we will talk it over.

The old man shouted something after him, but the car has already turned to the central square, where Georgie"s friends were waiting.

They clamored with admiration, watching as Whitehouse sharply spun the heavy car in front of the gym.

The tires screeched, smelling of burning rubber.

-Bye, - Georgie waved to his Dad and fled through the glass doors with other kids.

Whitehouse slowly drove on.

He passed some "New age"-style church, a supermarket, in which he was supposed to shop, a police station, by the entrance of which two foreign blacks and a girl in tight jeans were lazily smoking.

He came to his senses only when he got to an abandoned slaughterhouse.

The street ended here with an advertising poster: "Join the Society for Environment Protection. Earth depends on you!"

Further followed straight as an arrow federal highway, leading north. Whitehouse drove to the highway and stopped.

He sat motionless for a few minutes, feeling the waves of anxious hunches and vague memories rush over him.

Finally, he slowly began to press in the gas pedal, opening up the engine.

A few minutes later the car was already racing along the deserted highway at 70 miles per hour, rapidly moving away from Terre Haute.

Engine switched to deep roar, as if glad to play its mechanical muscles.

Whitehouse loved this pointless race.

Only this crazy ride could lighten his gloomy mood for a while.

Howl of the headwind, sound of treads, tearing from the hot asphalt, like a sound of ripping fabric; grains of sand hitting against the windshield...

After half an hour of the race with no destination, ahead in the haze of hot air, floating over the road, he noticed a rapidly growing silver dot.

Soon the point turned into a huge steel-gray "Cadillac" which raced at high speed to meet the dividing strip.

Two cars drove toward each other for a while, head-on, and when there were a few feet left between their bumpers, the drivers abruptly drove them back to their lanes.

Shutting his eyes from dust raised by the car which sped by, Whitehouse abruptly halted.

The "Jeep" skidded, spun several times and the car slided into a ditch.

Whitehouse"s nose was bleeding and his knee was damaged.

He left his car lying on the side to roll its wheels, and limping ran back to the Cadillac.

A broad-tanned man in exotic uniform and dark glasses was running toward him.

It was Mackliff!

-Hey, old man! Damn kamikaze...

-Hell, John, is that you - Mackliff grabbed him with his powerful arms. - I was looking for you, daredevil!

-Wait, Ronnie, I have a question - Mackliff took a small metal plate with embossed mark "VH466589" from his pocket.

- This is my badge, Ronnie, last night a boy brought it to me in a pack.

This is a message from yagd Tskugol.

Just like in some cheap pirate movie.

The "Black Mark" and all that stuff...

- Well, what are you going to do?

- I have a feeling, Ronnie that your ID tag is already waiting for you in the mailbox. Or the postman has already come to you, while you are betting on your life here, dammit...- said Mackliff with excitement. - They're waiting for us. Probably, the swers came up with some dirty trick, like "Krovur". Huh? What do you think?

Whitehouse was silent.

He listened to himself.

Sensing that his body gradually filled with force.

As if becoming bigger.

Younger. Faded lines of hills got sharper, the blue sky turned dark blue.

-Do you remember the time at "Independence"... he said, smiling...