The gray cliffs were approaching with increasing speed. The only thought in his brain was a frightened lump: "Why? - and the body was already acting, clinging to the ephemeral possibility of escape. A piece of rags, which the man had not had time to get rid of, managed to pull over his chest. His hands grasped the corners hastily wound around his palms, and "Carlos" bent over, letting the oncoming headwind cling to the makeshift parachute. His clenched fingers stabbed, and his legs jerked above his head, but by some miracle, the cloth held, slowing his fall a little. Floundering under the rattling cloth, the figure in gray camouflage fell lower and lower, and then a sharp gust of wind tossed the poor fellow closer to the steep edge of the canyon, turning his fall into a vertical slip. A series of somersaults and a surprisingly soft finish in a battered pile of snow between tall boulders. That was it; the last member of the dropped search party had arrived at the drop-off point.
With great difficulty, the man lifted his head, trying to catch his breath. His limbs, bruised from the fall, hurt, but at least they were moving. There was no acute pain, which was good. The bruises would pass, but no fractures. All he had to do was catch her breath and pull herself together. Just another minute. One more. Another...
The thin crust sank beneath his feet with every step, but ‘Carlos’ stubbornly avoided the crash site. First, he managed to get to the weapons box. He slipped on his off-load with spare clips, ensured his rifle was in good working order and moved on. A radio, a tiny radiation unit, a navigator with a map. With every passing moment, the man transformed from trash into a fighter. Were you sharing your gear? Thank you. Everything will come in handy. Something you can stash, something you can take with you. The ‘weakly specialized model’ had no intention of dying. On the contrary, the man, who was wheezing in the cold air, wanted very much to live. If a miracle happens and you are not lying with your head on the rocks, you should thank the heavens covered with a gray pallor and use your chance.
Minutes passed, and it was still quiet in the canyon. No one shouted, ‘drop your weapon’, no one attacked the sole survivor. Only the same dull whistling of the wind and the occasional snowflake falling from above. Calmly, ‘Carlos’ threw the machine gun behind his back and began to examine the area in detail.
The bodies of the soldiers and the corporal lay fifteen meters apart. The guys were unlucky - they had fallen on large boulders clustered in one big pile. Maybe a spring flood had brought them here. Or perhaps it was just rock that crumbled from the high wall, and then the water washed the land away, leaving only pieces of stone. But what was left of the former escorts looked more like twisted and broken dolls than people. The man didn't even take off his bloody clothes; he just rummaged through his pockets for five lighters, a folding knife, and a pack of cigarettes. He neatly piled the ammunition and weapons into one of the crates, ruthlessly dumping out the equipment blocks.
After another half hour, ‘Carlos’ was ready to move out. Wearing a warm jacket from the issued supplies and a backpack behind his back, he checked his gear and twiddled the scanner box in his hands. There was no signal yet, and judging by the markings on the electronic map, there were at least twenty kilometers to go through foreign territory. Though the ‘benefactors’ were trying to drop the group as close as possible to the place where the senator's son had landed, but either poorly mastered alien technology, or malicious intent prevented them from doing so. In any case, the lone rescuer packed for the journey, trying to account for the possible problems of the unknown world. He carefully stashed everything of value in a hole dug under the side of one of the boulders. Buried useful boxes neatly mined, leaving himself only a few grenades and two anti-personnel directional mines. He wanted very much to believe that the cargo would wait for its owner and no one would disturb the camouflaged planting. Was anybody interested in iron? There, take as much as you can carry: racks of wires, heaps of broken equipment and crates of papers and technological junk scattered all over the place.
After deciding on a direction, the man crouched down on a nearby rock and sighed:
“Damn, what's making my head hurt so bad? It would be a shame if this were permanent now... All right, the radiation on the sensor was expected, the background slightly elevated. We'll see how it's higher; maybe it's the rocks on the walls... The water here, dry food, ammunition for three minutes of fighting at most. But I saved my mobility. So we sneak like a mouse and do no heroic deeds. What was it in the orientation? ‘Locate, protect and evacuate.’ Let's try to find it first.”
The man pulled his knit cap deeper and stood up. The habit of talking to himself seemed to have been inherited from the former owner of an unawakened memory. It was unlikely that the chips of cloned soldiers had been implanted with the rudiments of personality. The only thing that bothered the survivor was the complete uncertainty of the landing. What was it? A deliberate attempt to destroy the crew, or a tragic accident after all? So the round metal beacon took its place in his backpack but remained turned off. Who knows, maybe it was still sending a signal, or maybe it was really silent. But ‘Carlos’ did not give up the vanishingly small chance of evacuation. Neither did he give up his new name. It seemed that the ability to call himself as a human being and not as an abstract unit with an inventory number drew a line between the past and the unknown future.
“A one-way road, then? Well, well, well, you kids don't know me yet. That's okay; Carlos will let you cough it up. My gut tells me I've been through worse than this. So I'll see you soon. As soon as I get things sorted out, I'll check in on you...”
Dusk, which was fast approaching, concealed a blurred silhouette that left a trail of footprints. The same cold wind was slowly twisting the light snow, shifting the white streaks on the hard ice. Another day, two at most, and the empty expanse would erase the stranger's memory. The dead planet will return the silence lost for a second. It is so easy for the dead to turn the living into their likeness...
***
“Hut! Hut, you bastard, where the hell have you been!”
The shrieks overpowered the usual noise, erupting into the dimly lit corridor between the maintenance hangar and the living quarters.
The squatting older man stood still for a moment, gauging the level of fury in the shout, then he grimaced unhappily and shoved the remains of the food crumbs into his mouth. He gathered the crumbs into the center of his palm and sent it after his meager breakfast.
“Hut!!!”
The man slowly rose, straightening up like a compressed spring, and silently moved toward the brightly lit exit to the workshops. It seemed as if a combat cyborg in mimicry paint moved past the gray-painted walls, a silent, faded blur with sparing gestures. But any colony resident would have easily recognized in the gliding shadow of a neighbor - the deputy commander of the Alarm Group. True, the older man definitely would not stay in the way - lousy character and dirty past was also known to everyone.
“Where ... Ah, there he is! How many times do I have to call you?” The dwarf in the black overalls was pacing the workbench, stripped of all its hardware. “My throat is not official!”
“Your predecessor invented the panic button," the old man in the light gray plastic armor said in a low voice as he sat beside him. “The button is the perfect excuse to get me out of my day off.”
“Oh, yeah? And get the whole colony on my ass? No, thanks... All right, look here, Hut. And don't play dead rat with your brains," a tiny finger tapped the murky plastic, "Here's the edge of the heath. A caravan returned from the Northmen, and there was a beasts trail.”
“Mut or Wild?” Hut asked.
“Wild ones. Bunch of four to ten, you couldn't tell for sure from the trail. Two rovers took off on the trail as soon as they got the caravan to a stationary point. One was one of Lurgh's boys. The second was under Kairi and a couple of his bodyguards.”
The older man grimaced a little but remained silent. The cold and judicious killer didn't like the fussy nineteen-year-old boy. Kairi's father had been a very serious man in his day; not for nothing had the Council used him for various things outside the law. It's a pity the poor guy got eaten during the attack on the food caravan. The son could never replace his daddy, though he tried his best. But he was weak, fussy, and unable to calculate the situation even a couple of steps ahead.
“Hey, can you hear me?” Too got mad. “Or are you daydreaming again?”
“I hear you. ‘Both rovers made contact twice...’ If you're repeating Lurg's favorite phrases, something unusual has happened.”
“It's happened. There's Rotten Beam. Kairi managed to get through on an open channel ten minutes ago. They were fired upon. They managed to get the car back here, but he can't get back on his own. The leaders ordered the first rover to take up the position in the hills, five kilometers south. They're gathering people for the raid and sending us to find out what happened.”
“Who better to send than an advance party?” the news seemed to bring a look of surprise to Hut's face. “What kind of fire did the jerk not bother to tell us? Hardened spears or napalm or something?”
“No. He's not talking yet, and won't get back to me until he's attacked again. Grab your three, the squad car, and let's go. The chairman will hold the men off until we have some clear information. And please, this is not a scalp hunt. We only need to figure out what we've run into, whether we've clashed with the Wild Ones' scouts before the raid or simply pinched the tails of strangers.”
“You ought to be saving your resources,” the old man tried to reserve the last word for himself as he came down from the workbench. “We'll end up with this unwarranted greed.”
“Talk to me again, smart-ass!” Too shouted again. The dwarf hated it when the helper showed an independent temper. The little lord of the rapid response group liked to amuse himself with the idea that he was in charge of his princedom. And it was unpleasant to feel that reach out and touch a man who could chew you up and not choke. The mutts would have killed the damned outlaw!
“Don't forget to put the decoder on,” Hut said nonchalantly. “If you're kicking out with unnecessary secrecy and haste, you'll be the only one to get a report.”
He glanced at the fighter, who peeked out of the open door in the back room, pointed his fingers out, twisted his palm over his head: ‘Five minutes, hurry up,’ and then leisurely moved to the lightly armored vehicle on wide wheels, which was standing in the corner. Just in time to settle in place of the patrol commander and check the systems. The usual operation, how many of them there were already. The only thing was the phrase about the firing that caused vague unease. If the Wild Ones used their weapons, they must have been pinned down. And cornered rats are very dangerous adversaries.
Too marched to the box hanging on the wall, tapped the membrane with his finger, and exhaled in a curt voice:
“Central? Central... Yes, yes, I'm that.”
Waiting until the rust brown box stopped wheezing, the dwarf scratched his stubble and muttered:
“Report to the Council: alert team advancing to impact site, report on standby. Do you hear that? Re-port on stand-by! That's it, over and out.”
And satisfied with himself, shorty opened a folding chair, settling right in the middle of the workbench. A wise chief ought to keep an eye on the freemen under him. Otherwise, they'll forget who's in charge and take their crap from Hut. That's what they do.
***
Kairi was scared. Very scared. She hadn't been this scared in a long time. Even in his last fight with the mutts, the horror hadn't overwhelmed him, piling up his thoughts and sending a cold sweat down his spine. If he'd had a chance to get back to base, he'd have been running for his life by now. But the punctured engine had already stopped steaming hot, cooling down. And the usual reliable rover was slowly turning into a cold tin can, unable to move.
“Hut is here; identify yourself!” The radio hissed.
“It's two, it's two!” Shea, snoozing beside him, immediately responded. “Three boulders to the side of the bushes, and we're behind them.”
“That's it, I see it. Keep your heads down, we're coming up.”
A minute later, the sand rustled on the side, and the radio came back on:
“How far to the firing point?”
“About a kilometer, straight north.”
“Not even a loop?” Hut wondered.
“Are you kidding me? It's a miracle they made it this far.”
“Yours is the left sector; keep your eyes open. I'm going to admire the way you were hooked.”
Shea smirked happily and jabbed his finger at the thrower turrets in the tiny turret above his head:
“Almo, keep an eye out for anyone to the left.”
“What am I, already demented or something?”
“Come on, don't pant... Now that Hut's here; we'll get out of this. The older man's got a nose for any trouble. He'll get us out.”
Shea didn't even look at Kairi. Though the pair of bodyguards were under his command, they had no respect for their young master. He feeds and that's fine. But as soon as they can find a better place - and goodbye, good lord. If not to kill, you will say thank you at least for this.
The rover of the alarming group shifted forward, covering the dusty cabin of the comrade-in-arms with its stern. While the machine gunners warily surveyed the desert around them, Hut slid out the rear hatch and came over to the downed vehicle. He peered closely at the tearing holes in the rear tires, then admired the cracks in the driver's armored narrow windows. He took out a knife and carefully nibbled on one of the chips. Then took out the gauge and looked at the readings. The front and battered plastic habitually faintly phoned, but the parameters were normal, as far as possible, for equipment that ran on the border of contaminated lands.
Returning to his rover, the commander of the alarm group quieted, then gestured to the chewed-looking morels repairman - eternally dissatisfied with life and the world around him:
“Put the repair kit in your teeth and join the guys. One of them will always have your back. Stand well - a stray shot will not catch, and here all as in the palm of his hand, not to get close. In an hour, you can shuffle on your own, understand?”
“Come on, Hut! It's a day's work, no less; look at the holes.”
“I said an hour. You can put a wrench in each of them if they don't move. You'll finish the engine at home. In the meantime, patch it up fast and get them ready to move it back. Thirty kilometers to home - it's not a camping trip to the neighbors. Understand?”
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Grumbling under his breath, the mechanic began to get ready, but the older man had already settled in his place and pulled his personal map from under his chair, dotted with a bunch of notes clear to him only.
“Rotten Gully, Rotten Gully. There it is. Here we are. Here's a possible firing point... Looks like it. It's downhill; it's a good vantage point... And we'll go this way. No, better yet, here... Sharra, see? We'll go around the spit; there's a hollow; we'll roll out here. We'll take a look around; then we'll go this way. Come on, easy.”
The driver took his eyes off the map and revved the throttle, warming up the engine as it idled. The forty-five-year-old man had been in an ambush when he was young, and the leg he'd injured back then had never recovered. Sharra could no longer run or walk long distances, but there was no way the old Hut wanted to change his driver and second gunner. Two or three kms could be covered on foot, but no one would send a party on long runs without a car, which was tantamount to death in the badlands.
The rover rustled with sand and moved forward, slowly inching to the right. The scarred ‘sand wolf’ wanted to see the collision scene with his own eyes. Too much, he didn't like what he found. Too much.
***
The K2024 stopped, deploying a telescopic boom with a cluster of sensors. It looked like the enemy was approaching from the other side of the canyon. The sound of the engine sounded like something from the lightly armored category. But rover-throwers could turn a cyborg into a pile of useless metal, so the intelligent machine evaluated the nearest potential shelters and moved to the ditch, left by stormy streams after the fall rains. Tucking its jointed legs, the overgrown scorpion-like body hid from prying eyes, leaving only a protruding surveillance system on top.
The first two of the advance party crouched on either side of the halted rover. Hut slowly crept forward where he nestled between the piled stones. He peered up the Rotten Gully, a long ravine with precipitous edges and muck in its wake, as Sharra wheeled the throwing gun behind him in the turret.
Typically the Wild Ones rarely used such roads. Any mobile group would easily block outsiders in this kind of shelter, turning it into a trap. Take a point with a good view and shoot the enemy like a shooting gallery. But it's been long since the Wild Ones got this far. But to walk across the heathland, where you could be spotted at any moment, was no fun. It is quite possible that they walked in waves - reconnoitering ahead, surveying the area, then the rest of the group followed. Slowly, but at least with some chance of sneaking past the odd patrol.
“What's on the scanner?” Weary fingers touched the communications tanget.
“Clear. Both visually and on the rattle. Though, what's the use of it.”
“Anyway, look,” Hut continued to stare at the ravine and the opposite edge, overgrown with sparse grass. Yeah, it had been three years since the damned machines had started swapping iron armor for polymer plastic, abandoning protection in favor of ease of movement and surprise attacks. Scanners no longer caught the upgraded cyborgs, leaving only the hope of red eyes from sleep deprivation and a long life's worth of gut feeling. And this intuition said that the silence around - deceptive, though clearly no threat was felt. And so, whether you like it or not, it was necessary to go down. The unknown gunman had long since escaped, but Hut must look for traces. And he must see for sure, as much as he did not want to hide under the flimsy armor on wheels and scurry home.
“I'm down. Sharra, rotor to battle stations, Vogly and Droi to cover the sides and keep an eye on the back.”
Giving the order, the team leader hooked a thin strand of rope to the hook under the headlights, threw the box with the inertia reel down, and, hooked by the trigger ring from the off-load, stepped in after them. A short jog to the muddy crust below, followed by the click of the carbine and a step to the side: a hunched gray figure, wary of the snub-nosed barrel of a machine gun. From above, they could barely hear the whistle of the flailer's multi-barrelled box. At any second, Sharra was ready to unleash a furious swarm of icy projectiles that could rip any Wild One or cripple any hapless cyborg. But the familiar sound was not comforting. The silence at the bottom of the ravine was unnerving, making him nervous as he glanced behind him at the crumbling sand, the glint of the sun on the flanks of the solid rock.
In a quarter of an hour, Hut had time to walk several times along the bottom, stopping several times at one pile of low rocks and then another. He picked at a dried-up puddle, and wiggled his head. Then he returned quickly to the rope, hooked the off-load, pressed the button on the scratched mechanism, and climbed up, deftly pushing off the wall with his feet. Already in the rover, settling into a chair, he dropped a comment:
“We back up to fifty, then turn around and go. Vogli - on the machine gun, look around. I wouldn't say I like something, but I can't understand what.”
Hooked up a microphone on the radio, the commander of the alarm squad communicated with the crippled rover:
“What about the repairs? How much? And you do not want to stay alone until the evening? Ah, so still ten minutes, not ‘another hour, at least’ ... All right, rake it up; we're on our way. As soon as you start the engine, you move forward, and to the base, I'll cover you. And try to get without adventures, or I'll make an armor by hands to push boxes.”
The second call went already tired of waiting dwarf:
“The group was returning. The Wild Ones have gone farther north. I don't think they're coming back; you can call off the assembly.”
And without waiting for a hoarse response, Hut turned off the radio.
***
The cyborg didn't get out of the ditch until an hour later. He persistently surveyed the wasteland around him, looking for any sign of the enemy's presence. Very often, the men were cunning, pretending to retreat so they could return unnoticed and trap a careless machine. But it was quiet and deserted. After skipping to the ravine's edge, K2024 stood still for a moment, then turned and followed the tiny detachment that had risked sneaking past the colony of the Descendents of Heaven at night. The man who'd been picking at the dirt the other day was fortunate. A weakly armed group's odds of a successful attack were rated much higher than trying to hit an armored rover. So the K2024 did not destroy the lone man, giving the outsider an extra day to live. No pity or silly rules of warfare. Just math. And a plastic hull is much better at withstanding spear attacks than a barrage of throwers. So the scorpion-like Death marched northward instead of ambushing them in their colony. They'll catch some gaping idiot on wheels next time. Now he must hurry, while the trace they had left could still be counted on the dry ground and sparse patches of snow.
***
Carlos was dozing, leaning against the rubble of the concrete wall. Despite his buttoned-up jacket and warm hat on his head, the rescuer felt a slight chill. One could only trust that he was only freezing near the end of his short rest and not contracting some local contagion.
The man had learned two important things during the day. The first was that there was a population left on Dead End. Living people remained, which means there is an opportunity later to get together with someone closer and not survive alone. The second news - the locals shot at everything in sight. Apparently, peacefulness had been lost over the years on an alien planet.
At first, Carlos was lucky. He quickly managed to find where the group of ‘explorers’ fell out, along with the senator's son. It's unknown exactly what they got into their heads, but eight people did manage to sneak into the garbage dump area and were transported in a crumpled container full of groceries and disassembled buggies along with a mountain of other toxic waste. Judging by the tracks, the merry band gathered the scattered stuff for two days, assembled the vehicles, and then rolled north. They even managed to make it about ten kilometers without adventure until they ran into a local animal. Carlos couldn't even figure out what it was that attacked the tiny caravan of three light vehicles on blowing wheels. Judging by the remains in the cooled fireplace, a cross between an overgrown tiger and a porcupine had lunged at the students. The creature smashed the first buggy into splinters, then went through the second and came close to the third, getting the first shot from a machine gun at point-blank range. Only three of the eight wayfarers survived, and one was visibly wounded.
Having destroyed the beast, the survivors burned the corpses and continued on foot - the beast had damaged all the vehicles. At the temporary parking place, Carlos procured food rations and water and tossed them with excess luggage. After a brief examination of the remains, the man continued his pursuit. Unfortunately, none of the dead men matched the description of the target. And for two more twenty-four hours, the pursuer held out hope of a successful conclusion to the chase, until the day before yesterday, he stumbled upon a string of footprints left by strangers. Judging by the untangled prints of soft boots, the aliens tailed the Earthlings, managing to accurately capture the trio as they slept in the tiny tent. From there, the group moved together. And judging by the way the students were being chased, they were clearly not walking for hours at a time.
Carlos followed, rapidly catching up with the caravan on foot. But to guard against a possible ambush, the man chose a path just off the trail, only making a detour after a mile or two to ensure he wasn't going astray. If it hadn't been for the thin strip of broken snow, one would have thought the world around him was dead, obliterating all life: only the gray, low sky, the wind, and the snow flying in his face. Only more and more frequent sparsely covered with stones and sparse thorny bushes stretching upward with knotty branches.
The rescuer wanted to go around the ravine he encountered on the way but noticed something incomprehensible below and stopped. Looking for a long time at the dried mud below, Carlos could not figure out what it was that interested him. It was only later that he realized that the small pile of stones in the corner was obviously covered with snow. They must have been trying to camouflage a hiding place or the remains of a camp, hoping some unexpected passerby would pass by without paying attention. Though - another day or two, that would have worked. But now, the patch of fresh snow was a little different, drawing an attentive eye.
“They were ahead of me by at least twelve hours. So it's unlikely they've left an ambush. No, they are racing ahead, trying to get out of the steppe. Somewhere warmer, by all accounts. Where there's less snow, where it's easier to cover their tracks... I'll have to take my chances.”
Another earthling was found under the rubble. To all appearances, the hasty crossing finished off the wounded man. Or maybe the unknown beast had poisoned claws. In any case, the dead man was stripped naked and buried at the bottom of the ravine.
“Three of the punks ended up in the menagerie, one was grabbed by a bear, and the two of them were left... But, boys, you'll be dead before I can find the young idiot. I was hoping you could wait a little while; I almost caught up with you...”
After hiding the body under the stones, the man carefully covered the grave and the tracks around it with snow again and then moved on. Carlos managed to go almost a hundred meters when suddenly, to his right and slightly behind him on the edge of the cliff, an angular car stopped, heavily settling on the wide wheels. And no sooner had the solitary man given the strangers any sign than a bundle of thin stingers protruding from the turret unfurled with a nasty screech, and a vicious line struck down.
The rescuer did not know who had given him his new identity. No images from the past still appeared in his memory. But the fact that the man who had removed the mentogram many decades ago was a warrior was beyond doubt. And, to all appearances, he fought well. Because when the machine gun had just begun to find its target at the bottom of the ravine, Carlos had already moved out of the line of fire and fired back.
Short bursts whipped through the thin slots in the armor, spitting out sparks. One by one, the armor-piercing rounds in the clip gave Carlos a chance to at least blind the enemy and break his observation equipment. Finally, a grenade from an underbarrel launcher went off in the direction of the unknown vehicle. Frightened by the explosion that threw a pile of earth and snow upward, the enemy tried to turn around on the tiny spot where it had stopped and received several more bursts to the starboard side. Then the engine roared overhead, and the unit sped away, leaving only sand and pebbles in its wake. Carlos, meanwhile, ran as fast as he could down the ravine, keeping close to the right wall, trying to stay out of the machine gunner's blind spot. But fortunately, having received an unexpected rebuff, the strangers did not return to hurl grenades or once again test the strength of the hide with a large-caliber burst. Not only that, cautiously getting out a kilometer away from the place of the collision, the earthling still could not see the car. Where they had come from and where they had gone were unknown.
“Fre-e-eaks, only burnt ammunition on you!” The adrenaline was bubbling in his blood, but his hands did not tremble as quickly reloaded the empty cage. Once he was sure that the danger had receded, the man moved on, ducking and trying to use any ditches and ditches. The main task had not been canceled; the client had to be caught up as quickly as possible. And if it was necessary to speed up a little - so, hands in feet and run. Gently, as inconspicuously as possible. But without lingering. If guests are so kindly welcomed here, he must get away from the inhospitable steppe as quickly as possible. There's not enough ammunition for everybody, and he has to get into a quarrel with each other. They're too aggressive for their good. And I wanted to do it quietly...
***
Hut twirled the piece of delaminated plastic in his hands, tossed it onto the workbench, and grumbled unhappily:
“What makes you so sure there aren't more military bases in the South?”
“Because we would know. All the military installations are marked in the archive; the archive has been taken out completely. Where do you think we managed to get the equipment, the hydroponic greenhouses, and more than half of the equipment we still use? Not all the outlets were destroyed in the First and Second Wars. What survived, we shoveled out. We are not counting the central areas, of course.”
“So not everything,” the old man unfastened the side clasps and pulled the plastic frame off his torso. Settling the top of the light armor next to it, he scratched himself and sighed: “We didn't find everything, Too. Look at the rover; it's not the icy ammunition we use for lack of resources. And not the composites mastered by cyborgs. These are clearly weapons of very ancient times. And weapons in excellent condition.”
The dwarf sat in his chair, hunched over like a tired and resentful vulture. He kicked a broken piece of embrasure at the side of the stairs and asked:
“Let's go over it again, without any of your speculation, just the facts. So it was the Wild Ones?”
“Yes. A mobile group went through Rotten Gully, leaving one or two fighters to cover. That's who our idiot Kairi ran into.”
“He stopped at the ravine's edge, spotted the enemy, and opened fire?”
“He opened fire immediately. They were on the trail, the shooter was ready to fire at once. But after the first round, he got a response. The enemy blew up the front end, tried to blow it up, and made holes in the side. Although it was still a miracle that the engine was not permanently damaged, the guys managed to pull away to the wasteland.”
“And all - literally in seconds.”
The older man sniffed at the wet T-shirt and grimaced: he had to go to the shower, wasting time with the management, repeating the same thing repeatedly.
“You can interrogate yourself. But all three sang in the same voice - counterattacked them immediately, not giving them time to assess the situation. I wouldn't be surprised if they were waiting for the rover on purpose. In any case, the car should be parked, it will take a week, if not more, to repair.”
“And you checked the tracks.”
“Why the devil would you go down a ravine?” Hut got angry. “A squad of at least ten men, a few wearing stiff-soled shoes with a projector. Do you know where I've seen such footprints? When we tried to take the United City and ran into the Blinders. Fifty-eight people were killed in ten minutes; I miraculously got away with it. And I got a second term for abandoning my comrades in arms. So the damned mutts and cyborgs from the dungeons were wearing First War military gear. From the old warehouses.”
“You'd better shout loudly for the third accusation!” Too hissed angrily, looking back at the closed door. “I don't want you to panic!”
“Yeah, the Council would do that. It's their favorite pastime, scaring and labeling. But I'll tell you this: it was a reconnaissance mission. I'm guessing the Savages got wind of an unaccounted for or a relocation. They checked it out. Now we gotta wait for the big gang to get in there. They'll take any risk for a weapon like that. And once they've got it, they'll wring our necks. Three or four machine gunners can cut up any caravan or crush the base's strongholds. That's what you report upstairs. I'm going to take a bath. I've served it up....”
***
The snow creaked under his boots, and Krap, curled up in a ball, opened his eyes. Stump crouched down next to him, handing him a sublimate wrapped in a rag. But he did not want to eat because the hasty march had exhausted all his strength, leaving only a ringing in the ears and pain in the strained legs.
“Chew on that; it's a bit windy,” the mate put the bundle down beside his squad leader, eyeing his surroundings warily.
“Why so tense?” The older tracker sat up quietly, his friend's unease transmitted to him.
“Have you heard about the Puppy lately? He's always near somebody, chattering away as if he hadn't been walking all day. However, I also liked to scratch my tongue when I was his age.”
“Maybe he's on duty?”
“No, it's his shift at midnight. But I haven't heard him for five minutes. And that's...”
Krap drew his heavy knife, peering at the figures that had appeared between the house wreckage. The first was a young lad walking slowly in a tattered fur cape. He held his arms out to his sides and paced carefully, shifting his feet as best he could without slipping on the patches of snow.
He was followed by a stranger-a sturdily built man in obscure stained clothing and a furry short cap on his head. A black gun in his hands controlled Puppy, stomping dejectedly ahead of him.
The trackers moved cautiously to the edges of the resting ground, two of them disappearing in silent shadows into the gaps in the walls, clearly intent on going behind the stranger's back.
Highlighting Krapa with a glance, the man slowly hung an unknown weapon model on his shoulder and displayed his open, empty palms. Then he turned to the prisoners sitting in the corner and asked something. The youngest of the pair of tramps jumped up and quickly spoke in his language.
“Quiet, now!” Snape growled at him, shifting gently to his side. Though the Ranger had no left hand, he could easily tear open the belly of any enemy with his right hand, whether it be a Mutt or a stimulant-laden cyborg. But for some reason, it seemed to Krap that the intruder would wring the neck of his faithful friend in his endless wanderings. It felt like something on the edge of reality.
The stranger slowly took a few more steps forward and knelt down. He scooped up the snow, wiped his flushed face, and again showed his empty palms, spreading his hands apart.
The pathfinder commander put away his blade and moved closer. He looked intently into the pained eyes and muttered:
“Hey, boy, you've got a raging fever. I can't believe you got it; you usually get it when you're a kid...”
Krap looked at the frightened prisoner, then again looked at the alien soldier. Then, with a gesture, he stopped his friends, who had come up behind him:
“Don't touch him! I see. They're not Downworlders. They're not human at all. They came with the ejection. The aliens dumped the living along with the trash.”
“What are we supposed to do with them now? - Stump wondered, ready to lash out at the barely-living opponent on cue.”
“I don't know yet. But I think we're in luck. Look at their clothes, their gear. It's as good as the goddamn paddlers'. I think we can use them to our advantage. They can die without our help...”