A face that looked like a rubber mask was crooked on the screen:
“I want to ask before I jump to conclusions... Back at the reserve bunker, did you really check all the drawers on the racks? Could you have missed anything?”
Sitting in the plastic chair, Carlos sighed:
“Analyst, before you started your manipulations, you'd been grating on our nerves for twenty-four hours with questions. How you got into The Spot, how you got out. What you saw, what you noticed. And about the bunker, I'll soon be writing reports without a hitch, literally with a second-by-second breakdown; so many times have I repeated... What's wrong?”
“Nothing much. Apart from the fact that you brought a decoy instead of a key. The control system doesn't work with it.”
“Is that so?” the earthling mimicked surprise on his face. Then he turned to the two nearest to him, Hut and Sharra, and shook his hands. “Our mechanical friends were browbeaten about the problem. Since their return, I have the feeling that some of them have lost all their ostensible friendliness and are more concerned with their own personal problems than repaying their debts. Where's Basil?
“In his room. As soon as we get the reactor up and running, you'll see him.”
“Really? You didn't say anything about starting reactor. You asked for a key. You left everything else neatly out of the picture. I wouldn't be surprised if you had a condition or two stashed away. Or am I wrong?”
The muzzle on the screen became a crooked abstraction, terrified by the sudden anger in the Analytic's voice:
“We gave you everything you asked for, Totem! Weapons, supplies! Spent an enormous amount of resources on a diversionary operation. You might say the city is on the brink of war with the Irreconcilables. The only thing holding them back is the threat of another nuclear strike; the cyborgs just don't know how many more charges we have. And the only thing you have to say about that is to make far-fetched claims!”
The man stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and answered with a slight pressure:
“My name is Carlos. That's the first thing. You promised to give me the boy back as soon as I got back. That's two. And now you're getting hysterical because you've run into some temporary difficulties.”
“Temporary? We're gonna get tunneled if we don't get power! We're sitting on the last crumbs in the cassettes of working reactors. Another month and...”
“Then what? Will your plants turn into pumpkins? The surface's full of Wildlings, even now, capable of kicking the crap out of any armed neighbor. There are wrecked ships in the spaceports. You can dig around and find spare parts or fuel for the old units. Thousands of possibilities, how to avoid a crisis and cope with problems. And you've hit the nearest obstacle and folded your paws... You know, with this kind of effort, one old iron can be renamed. What do you think of the name ‘Idiot’? Had I added ‘stubborn idiot’? Sounds good enough.”
Returning to his chair, Carlos briefly threw it at the screen:
“I hope your promise can be trusted, Analyst. Because if you think you're lying, the boys and I will find Basil myself. Of course, some cyborgs won't like the way we do it.”
“Don't threaten us,” the machine hissed back, but the man only held up a middle finger, utterly unconcerned about possible cultural differences and the intrinsic meaning of other people's gestures.
“When I threaten, it sounds different. I am merely reminding you that it is easier for you to fight the Irreconcilables than to piss off your allies. Allies so far... Do we understand each other?”
The screen went out. Ignoring the silence in the room, the man continued:
“When I examined the key, there was a piece of paper. Such a nice piece of paper, which has managed to survive all these years... By the way, thank you for laying the basics of old languages and writing to me. Very helpful.”
The silent speaker came to life again, though the screen was still cloudy gray:
“What did it say? The place where the real key lies? And what do you want for this information?”
“All I want is for someone to keep his word. So I will tell you what I read without any further conditions or trade. I did promise to bring you a much-needed piece of iron, after all, and I don't want to be seen as a liar. So let's get this reactor epic over with. And then you can let Basil go. As we agreed...”
Carlos pulled a food briquette from his pocket and rustled up the wrapper. He took a tiny bite, chewed it thoroughly, and spoke after a long pause:
“An additional emergency system has been installed in the reactor. There are several pumps in the external circuit, which must accelerate the cooling reagent to a rate of five hundred cubic meters per minute at the control sensor grid. Only after a minimum fluid flow has been created will the readiness signal be reset on the master key, and you can begin the start procedure. Yes, the same mechanism can also be used to emergency stop the system. If the reagent drops below the specified threshold, the feedback circuit will drop the brake rods into the core. Insurance in case the reactor's outer containment collapses.”
“And you read that in the accompanying memo? And you didn't say anything?”
“And who started pulling the cat by the tail and bleating about how we have to wait for a little; Basil is resting, for the time being, the meeting must be postponed? Be thankful that I am a patient man. Otherwise, I would have gutted your guards and solved problems as I know how - quickly and radically...”
“I'll get back to you in ten minutes,” the Analyst passed out, leaving behind only the faintest hiss in the loudspeakers.
With great interest, Hut, who had been watching the argument, turned to Sharra and asked:
“Do you think I'll live to see the harem? Or will the good commander bury us here altogether?”
The driver looked thoughtfully at the dimly lit ceiling panel and muttered:
“I'm more interested in where they don't have cameras dotted around. If they're watching us all the time, I'll take a swim at the Wild Ones'. At least I wouldn't have to cover up.”
The operator checked the readings and reported back:
“The pumps are powered up; the reagent is pumping at six hundred cubic meters per minute in the control area. Initiating startup procedure.”
“You have my word that if the man lied, I...”
“Shut up,” the Analyst interrupted the Defender, tensely watching the chain of lights on the wide panels.
“Launch command, stand by. Stand by five seconds. Stand by for ten seconds. Stand by... Reactor area stats coming in, control circuit tests. Failures in two rods out of 700, requesting replacements... Replacements made, retests... Zone confirmed, control pumps run in fuel rods, cooling reagent on mode... Startup as per normal procedure, the first stage started, fuel cell loading...”
“Do you still want to nail him?” Asked the Analyst, leaving the picture from the control room active. “You know, I've been thinking about Totem's threat to take the boy myself. Of course, I don't know much about warfare, but I've a very bad suspicion he'd do the job. Not only that, he has the nerve to seize another tactical bomb and set up second ash here... So let's not settle any scores. Do you agree?”
The speakers stopped hissing and rattled, producing a strong voice:
“Carlos, my friend, wants to know what we would do if the Irreconcilables had bedded the group commander? What good would it do us to have a key that couldn't start the system?”
“You'd still get a box of iron. Then you'd lift the soft pad under the key and see if there's anything useful in there: some clue or something. And they'd run the reactor without my help... I play fair, Analyst. I brought you every last scrap of paper. It's right where I found it.”
“You peeked? Why would I do that?”
“Well, I did,” Carlos wondered. Then he looked incredulously at the membrane of the speaker and asked again: “Are you serious? You had a clue in your hands, and all you did was clean up my mess and didn't know what to do? Guys, but it does not happen...”
With a sad sigh, the Analyst commented:
“You know, I agree that my name needs a little adjustment. I guess I'm not a complete idiot, but there is some truth in what you said ... The rooms are ready for you; the surveillance is off. Basil will be here in half an hour; he was working in the library, which is another part of town. If you want to leave right now, no one will interfere. But I'll still risk asking you to stay at least in the morning; it's midnight outside. We'll provide breakfast and supplies for the journey. And we'll be happy to discuss a few things that might be of interest to some people other than the Wild Ones.”
Carlos reached up and winked at his comrades:
“Breakfast on the house, what's it like? And a picture from the shower on demand, Sharra. Don't you want it? Suit yourself. We agree. A vacation really wouldn't hurt...”
After making sure the channel with the Defender was safe from eavesdropping, the Analyst inquired:
“Do you want to change your point of view on the problem? The reactor is in the normal run-up, already thirty percent of nominal power... I wouldn't be surprised if Totem could help us again.”
“You're the only one who'll be communicating with him. Once again, I've learned that insolent types only irritate me. Especially when they're so lucky.”
“You said yourself luck is an unformalizable factor; it just doesn't exist.”
“And you said half an hour ago that we were left with a bare ass against the Irreconcilables... I'd better check the perimeter in the morning. Reports are already coming in that the rail guns are starting to feed. Looks like in two days, we'll finally be able to secure ourselves against any enemy.”
The Analyst only snorted as he imagined exactly how one single person could shake up the entire defense system:
“Let's talk to the guests first and escort them away.”
“I agree with that. If it were up to me, I would have said goodbye to them, out of harm's way...”
After a few minutes, the cyborg, who almost changed his name, summoned a brief decoded message from Big Mama from the archive and muttered, mapping out the possible scenarios of events:
“Yes, this is going to be interesting. I would even say VERY interesting...”
***
At lunch, Carlos finally met up with Basil, who had lost a lot of weight over the past few days and looked more like a pale office worm than a young heir to a large fortune on such a far away Earth.
“How was your trip?” asked the senator's son.
“Not bad. We lied a little, bluffed a little, and had to shoot a little. But on the whole, we turned round quickly and almost without losses.”
“Almost?”
“A good guy got shot while we were fighting off the cyborgs. Luckily we got him to a doctor in time; he'll still be running and embarrassing the girls with scars on his tanned chest... How are you?”
Lazily picking unintelligible morsels on his plate, Basil tried to answer as thoroughly:
“Read, parsed the archives. Read again, again parsed... It turned out that I have an analytical mind. I can make far-reaching conclusions if this information is laid out on the shelves and the answer to the problem under his nose ... Unfortunately, it was impossible to come any closer to the solution of our problem.”
“You mean the evacuation?”
“Yes... There are eight Precursor military bases currently circling the planet, the Outposts. They form a kind of cube that makes it impossible for the stalemate to reach outer space. But no one even knows whether these are the same military bases or different ones that change from time to time. In addition, large ships the size of former ore carriers have been spotted near the planet several times. Then again, no one knows what they are. Maybe the remnants of an asteroid colony have recovered rusty iron and are hanging around. Or maybe the Precursors or their automatics are repairing their systems. In short, space is full of questions and no answers in the archives.”
“And the base? The ground base that was so successfully bombed during Second War?”
“A ruin. There was used some kind of strong bomb, which qualitatively scorched everything around it. There is fragmentary information that part of the charge was absorbed by the protective field, but it was not able to cope completely, and the place of the former ground bastion of the Precursors is now just a hole in the molten ash. The remains of the laboratory complex were blown up during the evacuation by the guys from the breakout group. After them, the Irreconcilables tried to dig through the ashes, hoping to find weapons or technology of some kind. Alas, only fine radioactive dust. Maybe it was for the best that the cyborgs found nothing.”
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“But there was a portal, wasn't there, one group managed to get to Mars?” Carlos clarified.
“A portal is two mirrors synchronized with each other: a transmitter and a receiver. When they are in this state, they form a perfectly balanced channel through which you can drag cargoes in a continuous flow. If you really want to, you can engage one piece of the setup after a special setup and drop a one-time single parcel. When the mirror was brought from Mars to Earth, the setup could not be changed; only a tiny fraction of the inherent capabilities were used. So the system from the ground base of the Precursors worked once, sending our group home. And then we threw all sorts of junk to the planet through the Earth mirror, using alien space Outposts as additional energy accumulators and beacons, adjusting the exit point over the planet. Our scientists couldn't figure out exactly how to recalibrate the alien control units to achieve stability.”
“And they didn't drag it back to Mars.”
Basil irritably threw his fork on the table and became indignant:
“You know, a lot has happened since your conservation and revival! Several oil crises, a financial default on the entire planet, then the colonial wars spilled back over to the remnants of the Golden Billion. What about Mars, it's a miracle the Earth didn't slide back to coal and steam.”
Hut, who was slumbering on the side, perked up and carefully moved the plate to his side. The old man never turned down an opportunity to stuff his belly with extra food. A piece down the young librarian's throat? Not a problem; he'd be up to it in the morning.
Taking out his clipboard, Carlos began sketching crooked squares on it, strung together in a jumble of lines:
“Let's go in order. So, a group of well-trained soldiers broke into the Precursor base. Or rather, what was left of it. Found a teleportation mirror, a vaccine against the disease, and some records. Jumped to Mars with it.”
“Yeah. Made a huge boom in the end. What didn't burn in the atomic fire burned out beautifully when the self-destruct system was activated. They brought the local contagion with them and burned the Martian colony too, but that's ours.”
“Okay, that's understandable. If the cyborgs crawled there, it means they must have found something useful; otherwise, they would have been waving a newfangled cudgel a long time ago... Point number two: Outposts. Hanging over the planet, crushing anyone who dares to climb higher. But so far, it's the only option for us to get a hold of someone else's technology. It's the same owners, isn't it? So we need to make a connection to the lab that's hanging out there.”
“The lab... It's complicated.”
“What is?”
“Well, people were transferred to one of the alien bases with no chance of return. They send food, equipment... But we were hooked on someone else's living quarters, literally by accident. Apparently, some kind of mismatch on the main channel, so it fell out in someone else's plumbing. I mean, it's something like a toilet or a chemical treatment system for repairing robots with a minimum of intelligence. Anyway, as soon as the first time they managed to dump cargo and researchers there, the security system blocked the perimeter and closed off access to the other compartments. So there are eggheads sitting there, with no way to do anything at all. Sitting on everything imported: oxygen, water, food-all sent from Earth. All ten percent.”
“Ten percent? How's that?”
“Like this. You count the channel, load the platform, and make the launch. Ten percent of the parcel falls out in the reception area; the rest is burned up in transit. In random order.”
“And people?”
“The channel doesn't care what's being relayed. People burn, equipment burns, too. The chance of not dying of asphyxiation or starvation is one in ten.”
Carlos stared at the gloomy interlocutor dumbfoundedly, trying to comprehend what he had heard. Basil continued:
“Only the latest news you have not heard. I asked for permission, rummaged through the gear you left behind. Found a beacon, a radio with access codes... The Blinders were interested, so they let me hook up to their transponder... We even managed to decode the residual signal, despite the interference. There's no more lab. It's been gone for two days.”
“What the hell?!” The man pushed his clipboard aside and leaned forward, straining to contain his anger. “We couldn't have tipped the Precursors off the lab!”
“What Precursors, you mean? There's nothing left for the automatics to do, just to clean up some nook and cranny. It gets worse, Carlos. The message said there was another transfer, but it didn't end well. The channel went out of sync and burned up the whole package. And some of the energy spilled out into the side branch. Only one of the lab technicians, who had been fiddling with corrosive reagents in a spacesuit in a special box, survived. There now, instead of the remains of the lab, is melted iron. And a piece from the spare communication kit, on which they managed to record a message and send it automatically into the air... It seems to me that they knew about our landing, had to monitor the current situation and reported back to Earth. So they tried to tell us what happened in orbit.”
“How much longer is he going to last?”
“Just a little bit of time. The dose he received was too much, so he only had time to assemble the repeater and run the automatic procedures for estimating the channel with the Earth. Then he recorded the message and put the transmitter on permanent call. By the way, the power is running out, the signal is getting weaker by the hour. Another day or two, and that's it... And the channel to Earth is gone. The disk on our side is no longer sending out special markers about its existence. It has to do it; the Outposts use it to track their equipment. And the marker is gone...”
“So, first they crashed the facility here at the fried Entity base. Then they screwed it up on Earth, killing the survivors in the ten percent lottery?”
“It turns out they did.”
Carlos blindly found his clipboard, pulled it up to him, and with measured stylus motions, began slowly erasing the squares, cursing silently. Then he stood up, walked over to the wall, and smacked the cracked plastic with all the rage inside:
“Freaks! What freaks they are!! Sending their own children with radioactive trash to an alien planet! Recruiting volunteers at gunpoint! And then stupidly pull the switch and blow the whole damn thing up! Well! What! Freaks! They! Are!”
Hut admired the empty plate and sighed:
“It seems to me that intelligent life in the universe is not much different from one another. Our hard-headed ones made a mess of it, and yours did the same. It's always the philistines who have to take the blame. Ordinary, innocent people... Although, if they chose these rulers, then they deserve them.”
***
Late that night, Carlos returned from the gym, where he'd unleashed a seething rage. Tired and gloomy, he asked Basil:
“What can you find for occupying yourself with? The Blinders say they don't mind continuing to use you to parse the accumulated data. The only thing is that I have arranged for a small room higher up in the mountains. There's an observation post there, with all sorts of sensors and security systems around; it should be safe. You can go up there and get some fresh air every day.”
“Something urgent again?”
“I need to see the rest of the Downworlders. I want to get all the information I can about what happened in orbit. No matter how you slice it, the Outposts are the most interesting option for us now. Who knows, maybe we'll get a lead.”
The young man shrugged, grinning sadly:
“Okay, don't worry. Even if you walk on empty, it's quite possible to settle on the wastelands with the Wild Ones. They'll still need to fix up some of the equipment the Blinders hand over. If I become a respectable man, I'll take half of Hut's harem away from him.”
“Just don't tell him beforehand, or the old man will have a stroke... Four weeks to one end. I'll be there, then back again. If I'm lucky, Krap's boys can fix up a new luger and get me back in a breeze. Anyway, don't be too bored. I'll try to get in touch in a day or two. They got good stations on the local rovers, so we should be able to get a signal. Do you agree?”
Basil held out his hand and whispered, squeezing the strong palm:
“Just please don't rot in there somewhere. I know you'll get us out. I believe that. Well, or we'll pair up and do something interesting. Just don't die on the badlands, okay?”
“Wise men used to say, ‘don't wait for that. So, study for now. The local beauties like the smart ones. They get bigger rations. If you do your best, you'll make your harem the envy of the natives...”
***
With a cringe of protest from the crashing noise, Krap ducked under the tattered flap of the little tent and almost stepped on the dwarf sitting on the floor:
“What are you doing here? Building a second underground city? Gray's been with the Clan leaders for days now, celebrating the great successes of the Wild Ones, making speeches in the stadium every night. His voice is broken, but he won't stop. You got endless construction. I've never seen so many machines in my life, and the Blinders didn't spare any expense.”
“Yeah,” Too said grimly, rustling over a pile of blueprints. “Storage tanks on the second level, workshops, assembly sheds, warehouses. At the hill, already leveled the future firing range, next to the barracks about to finish. Young people are completely insane, running from one construction site to another, pestered with questions worse than Puppy: when the camp on the Irreconcilable, when everyone will be given a machine gun when the new rovers will be allowed to touch and hunt for mutts to ride. And a thousand more ‘whens’.”
The ranger was about to sweep the pile of thin sheets from the nearest chair, but then he glanced at the tent master and carefully shifted the pile to another pile. He sat down, took a flask from his pocket, and searched his eyes for some kind of container. Shorty snorted, took the flask, took a few big gulps, and gave it back.
“You know, Puppy's the one that keeps asking questions; he'll be gnawing the collectors' brains out soon. I have only one question.”
“What is it?”
“What don't I know? Look around. They're preparing us for a big war. They're getting ready in a big hurry, arming us, building a strong defense of the city. They've already unloaded the second luger into the warehouse. We'll start flying the first one in a week, and today they're finishing assembling the skin. Do you understand anything about what is going on? For decades the Blinds have been ready to kill themselves for a rusty bolt. Now take as much as you can swallow; we'll pour more on top! It scares me...”
Krap took a flask, then thoughtfully shuffled, assessing the remainder of the burning drink, and prudently hid it back in his pocket, away from the little raking hands of the interlocutor. Then he reached for the automatic rifle against the wall, put it on his lap, and began to examine the ravenous, smoothed contours of the weapon:
“You were listening to what Carlos said, weren't you? The Irreconcilables have accumulated cyborgs for the Third War. The only mistake their crazy electronic brains made was relying on electricity. The robots are used to being able to recharge the power cells at any moment and send the drones on another raid. But the oil in the vaults is long gone, and mining almost everywhere has been destroyed. Only wreckage is left of the power plants. We're the ones who roam on our own, but we use dung or whatever has managed to grow on the wastelands. How much do the Wild Ones need? But the Irreconcilables have energy problems. Reactor cassettes are dying, and they can't get a new one up and running. That's why they couldn't nail us when they got back to the coast.”
“But they're going to start the reactor, right?”
“It's a rumor. You understand no one will tell us when they'll be able to charge the army and kick us in the neck.”
Too held out his hand, demanding, and waited until Krap sighed and drew out his flask again:
“So the meat grinder was about to begin. That's why the Blinders opened the vaults and started arming their neighbors. So you form a militia in a wild rush, build workshops, and begin assembling the iron sent. Rovers, lugers, automatic cannons. To burn beautifully and quickly in the Third War, throwing up an extra couple of months to the crafty bastards who've been hiding in the mines.”
Krap took the empty flask away, put the machine gun back in its place, and headed for the exit, patting the dwarf on the shoulder:
“I'd suggest replacing "you" with "we." You're Wild now, too. There's nowhere else to run... Though, as soon as you get the first luger in the air, we'll have to go to Stellar. Visit your relatives.”
“What's that for?”
“Big Momma decided not to mess with the mutants who gutted your base. So she took off down south and buried herself in the snow and ice. She will have that funny guy we pulled out last time.”
Too threw up his hands in a doleful gesture to the long-forgotten gods:
“Damn you! It means we'll have to shoot again. And it's a pity about the new luger; we'll ruin it.”
The laughing tracker fell out of the tent and continued outside:
“You wait; as soon as you will assemble the second one, it will be necessary to train the Puppy so that he could fly to ‘miners’. They already stack cargoes in their stacks too. You'll fly and shoot your way to the top... Yeah, I'm going to Stump. I need to fill a flask. How are you?”
Raising a piece of cloth, the dwarf showed a string of empty, muddy bottles:
“I went the other day. And I went today. So I don't want to hear him yell again. Though, if you get something, come in. It's always nice to talk to a good man. I can supply you with a container...”
***
“Session's in 15 minutes. Come on up.”
“You think they can't do it without me?”
“You know him better than anyone. We may have to talk in innuendo again. No one's sure the encryption codes aren't broken, so why give the Irreconcilables any more leverage? And the Blinders are not to be trusted... I'll wait for you in the corridor.”
The frail, short woman shut the door and went to get ready. Baggy overalls with a lot of pockets, worn and scratched boots that do not fall off the foot if you screw the double windings. A bag of chemical protection and a pistol on her belt. Kind of packed. The rest is long gone in the hospital, where she spends most of her time. But now to the radio room, where they are waiting for her. Because no one in command believes the Blinders. And Burnt Man does not believe the command. That's how you survive, whatever you want.
“This is Runner, do you read me?” The speaker hissed.
“We hear well. Fifteen-seven for today.”
“Copy that. Confirmed. Thirty-one-four.”
“Copy that. How's it going?”
Every scout goes on a raid and remembers a few numbers and a simple addition-subtraction algorithm. A new session of communication, a new identification. And it goes round and round until you get home. No notes, all in your head. The death of a scout and the enemies would be much harder to draw the staff into the radio game. Because it's easy to fake a voice, but people try not to get captured. The dead are incapable of giving away the codes they receive.
“Not bad. My shadow is getting better; we'll both go home.”
A faint rustle blew across the room: the men behind the radio operator and the militia commander sighed and smiled. So Screamer made it. The best sniper and excellent warrior were not killed in a tough skirmish near the substation. The Irreconcilables were so enraged by the cheek on the nose they received that they shuffled artillery all over the valley, trying to cover the damn scouts. And how good to know it was all for nothing!
“What about the rest of the questions?”
“The fourth option the guest called.”
“The fourth?”
“Yes. Take the handwriting that was done at the meeting then. Then double the expenses. And get ready to meet me as you count on the optimistic option. I'll arrive empty and light.”
Vita tried to understand what she was talking about. She felt that the lion's share of information was hidden behind innocuous phrases, pre-agreed and approved before Burnt Man came out. But so far, the woman understood nothing and felt completely unnecessary. Suddenly the speaker came to life again, and the man sitting in the distant underground city said:
“Business - that's it. I'm going to sleep and eat my fill. The locals are just living compared to us; we must take advantage... One more thing. I was asked to say ‘hello’ to a man who was tired of burying friends. I was promised that at the earliest opportunity, our guest would do everything possible to ensure that such a thing does not happen again... Lights out.”
In the ensuing silence, someone chuckled and whispered:
“Well, if he nearly tore The Spot to pieces, I'd listen. They've been so brave with their scouting of the Irreconcilables. Let him come visit more often; he'll get along with the local daredevils for sure.”
“That's it, thank you all! Please clear the communications room; the show's over... Vita, hold on a second...”
Waiting when only the senior officers and the doctor remained in the room, the shaven-haired man asked, looking intently into the tired woman's eyes:
“Did you notice anything suspicious? The codes might have been intercepted, but the intonation, the demeanor was hard to fake.”
“It's Burnt Man,” Vita confirmed. “He is, no doubt. And he's very happy with his life, which is rare for him.”
“So, the fourth option ... The Blinders have started up the reactor and are ready to start supplying cassettes for our reactors in the Spaceport in a couple of months. Repair kits, medical kits, medicine... Neighbors have opened strategic stockpiles and are ready to share. How's it going? Double the cost? That means what's on the list will double at least. And the lugers are already being assembled for delivery. Our boys will be back with the first flight.”
“Why would the neighbors want that?”
“Because they're gonna run us over on their own. What did that... Carlos? He said the Northerners are banding together. The Wild Ones, the Blinders, will try to snag what's left of the Downworlders. Before the Intruders manage to disperse the forces they've accumulated, before they hit us, people have a chance. At the very least, the neighbors have one more nuke. It means, if not to destroy The Spot completely, then at least to weaken it and win another five to ten years. When we can all come together and finish off the damn cyborgs. Completely...”
“I suggest we discuss this at headquarters. Vita, you can go back to your room. We're going to do boring work: making plans on how to relocate to the Spaceport and what it will cost us.”
A small figure in a ridiculously tattered jumpsuit wandered slowly down a narrow corridor. The woman walked and quietly repeated to herself: “I promise I won't have to bury anyone else.” He - promises. What nonsense; how can you promise such a thing? And who? A stranger, falling on his head like dried plaster from the ceiling in a bunker... He's promising, isn't he? But how she want to believe it!