Hut had no time to deploy the thrower before the second rover when a gray ghost-like man suddenly jumped out of the ruins and hurled a black ribbed ball into the open hatch, following the cyborg. A thunderclap rumbled inside, and a crimson puff of smoke spat upward. In a second or two more, bent metal claws appeared, and the smoking body of the robot protruded outward. Sharra jerked his levers back to the left, and the first of his throwers struck the foe, crushing its plastic body and ripping its legs off.
But the cyborg was unwilling to die so needlessly. The K2024 somersaulted downward and ducked under the belly of the forward rover in a single leap. It didn't give the men time to recover; rolled forward as a crippled cuttlefish, and swung its sharp tail. A spring snapped, flinging the spearhead forward, and Vogli collapsed, clutching his hands to his pierced chest.
A new shot struck the robot in the side, but it was already racing toward the firing Droi. And, before Hut could do anything, it lunged at the man, slicing through the fat man with its twisted claws.
“Tong-tong-tong-tong!” There was a short rumble from the rubble, then a spear flashed, snapping its iron tip at the cyborg's back and flying off to the side. K2024 jumped aside, trying to hide under the car again, but the shooter anticipated his movement, and the next long burst ripped through the plastic like a tin can. The armor-piercing bullets shattered the robot's guts, interrupting its swift run. The gray camouflage-clad fighter came a little closer, changed the clip, and finished the twitching remnants with short bursts. Then pointed his gun sharply at the frozen Hut and commanded:
“You! Over here! Run!”
“What?” The older man was shaking and could hardly keep his eyes off the carnage in front of him.
“Over here! Hands to see! Run, I say!”
“He's gone stupid,” sighed the shattered bandleader, glancing over at the two more Wildlings who had come out of the rubble. The young lad with the knife didn't count. The other with a crossbow, he could risk a dive. By the time the arrow gets there, you'll have time to slam the lid and lock it. But the armored rover is burning out behind me, and his memory is laced with images of the holes in Kairi's old car. It looks like that's the shooter who left his marks. And the search rover's sides are much thinner than the convoy vehicles. It'll drill holes in a heartbeat.
“I'm coming out. Don't yell. Don't shoot for nothing,” the old man muttered. Then he showed his empty palms to the rag-tagged Wild Man with the crossbow and shouted: - “Hold your smart-ass, he's a little twitchy.”
“Move it, shit. You'll talk when you're dead,” Stump replied, catching the armor-clad figure with an arrowhead. The ranger was shaking, more than most, aware of just how close to death his group was.
Hut only had time to jump down when strong arms turned him around and smashed his chest against the body of the rover. A few jerks and a belt and scabbard flew aside; the stranger pulled a shortened rifle from the side. Last from the right shin cleaver was taken - and Hut has torn again, turned to face a slow-talking shooter.
“Could you be more careful?” the older man snarled, barely suppressing the urge to kick the insolent in the teeth. But when he looked into the cheerful madness in his eyes, he restrained his impulse. He could easily have caught a bullet now, just for the crooked smile. The stranger would have readily snapped his neck; the fight wasn't over for him yet.
“That way to go. Hands to see. On your knees. Hands-on your head. Quickly!”
Slowly stepping under the crossbowman's aim, Hut heard a heavy palm tap the side of the rover from behind:
“Hey! Driver! Are you going to be long? Get out. Now. Or eat a grenade, burn fast...”
Ten minutes later, Sharra and Hut were in a snowdrift, with their hands clasped behind their backs. Nearby lay unconscious the swaddled Kayri, apparently unharmed by the cyborg, but the young man had never recovered from the blow. A little to the side was Puppy, holding the spear he had picked up tightly in his hands. The older Wildling, who appeared beside him, asked, throwing his crossbow behind his back:
“"You got the cyborg, you freak?”
“Are you as stupid as that one?” The older man had no desire to quarrel. He was aware that he was living out his last moments on this earth. “If I'd known I could run a mech, I'd have sent him out to gut the wreckage. I wouldn't have put myself in such a shameful position.”
“You never know. What if some machine is dead? You're a technology buff. A box for every sneeze.”
“Fuck you, stinker. Go tell a moral to somebody else...”
Stump stepped forward and lightly kicked the prisoner in the plastic sternum, knocking him down on the snow. But no sooner had he thought of a way to respond to the insult than Carlos stopped next to him and gibbered excitedly:
“No, can you see? What a... What a... A Puppy - what's its name? That thing right there, the big one? Well?”
“Rover,” Sharra said muffled, peering sideways at the adrenaline-rushing fighter. “It’s rover.”
“Rover? Good stuff. Hear that, Sharra? Rover. One, two, and be home.”
“What?” The tracker was surprised. “I'm not going in that cart. It's full of hiding places, I leave the driver unattended for a second, and that's it; you’re dead. And how long will it last? A day's ride, and then you're done. Or fight off the bastards who call in on the radio. I'd rather do it with my legs.”
“With your feet? Walk. I'll drive.” Carlos sat down next to the tied-up driver and asked: “Do you know how to drive? Yes? How far to go?”
“What do I get in return?” Sharra asked, careful not to sound too hopeful for a miracle.
“To live. To listen to me. To go as you say. Well?”
He sighed for a moment, then looked at the older man hunched over his shoulder:
“Deceive you, Wild ... You'd cheat, wouldn't you, Wild? Sorry, I'd rather go with Hut. We've been to the wastelands together, and we'll finish it together. You'll kill us anyway, you bastards.”
“Tell me, why the hell did you open the warehouse? Now that we're out of here, why the hell did we get into this mess?” Hut asked, unsuccessfully wringing his hands in a futile effort to break the bonds.
“The warehouse? What warehouse?” Stump was astonished.
“Well, where did your egghead get the guns from. You went there for him, didn't you?”
“Guns? Ha, you think we gutted the old stash...? Yeah, they really didn't add any brains upstairs. Look...”
Reaching out with his palm, the tracker pulled a thin plate of the detector from a patch pocket on his plastic armor and ran it along his body. Listening for the occasional click, he ran it over the prisoners similarly. Then he put the device to Carlos's chest. The detector was silent. Repeated his manipulation and returned the plate back to his pocket.
“Got it?”
“No one's been taken out of orbit,” Hut muttered, his eyebrows furrowed.
“The way the Precursors hung the stations, they started dumping the garbage. Did you know that?”
“Seen it. All kinds of junk, and it's got a lot of radiation.”
“Yeah. Waste, contaminants of all kinds. Sometimes it's live ones like this. I don't know what he did wrong. This one came out with the toys. For your enjoyment. They're not ours. Not even from orbit. They're from some foreign asshole.”
Chewing his lips, the older man muttered:
“I see. So there's no warehouse. Just bad luck. They put a sick man on his head with a functioning alien weapon. And we bought it. Well, it happens. It's a shame about what happened, of course. But at least I'm going to die, having quenched my idle curiosity.”
Stump nodded in satisfaction and looked at Puppy. A crossbow bolt was not a waste; a spear is much easier to use. But before the tracker could give an order, Carlos jammed the barrel of his pistol into his forehead:
“That's my man. Three men are mine. I catch them. I hold them.”
“Hey, man, you be careful with that gun!” Stump broke out in a cold sweat. How the sick bastard knew how to kill was anyone's guess. There, the remains of the cyborg before his eyes. You may have called each other friends this morning, but no one knows what goes on in the mind of an outsider.
“They do bad; I kill them. But they listen, and we go to town. To Krap.”
“We're friends,” Stump tried to smile.
“Yeah. And you take my man. And go with him, leaving me here.”
“You were lying there with a fever. You had no place to go, you know!”
Carlos smiled and slowly put the gun back in its place. Then he came close and whispered:
“We're friends, aren't we? Am I saying that right? Well... You get my Basil back, and we're best friends. And now - I got them. I speak for them.”
And turning to his prisoners, he mouthed:
“Listen to me and live. Don't listen - and,” Carlos gently stroked his thumb across his neck. “Think what?”
“There's nothing to think about,” Sharra snorted. “Either you live with me a while or go straight to the grave. I'll live. You all right, Hut? We'll keep bouncing.”
Carlos drew his knife and stepped behind them in the snow. Cutting the ropes, he repeated:
“Take the gun and die. At once. Listen to me - and live.”
Standing beside Stump, Puppy watched in amazement as the alien deftly collected the scattered iron around:
“What, are we going home together with the corrals now? They'll kill us on the way!”
“Get inside, do a good search. So they don't kill us... I'll ride on top, though. They'll kill you in a box, and you won't even notice.”
“Yeah? Well, I'll ride on top, too... But did you see the cyborg, huh? I didn't have time to get out on the road and already finished him off!”
“Mm-hmm. He's done. Our only hope is that we're his friends. So far... Goddamn it, Krup and his orders to bring the stranger in alive. I'd rather bury him here with the prisoners. There's no telling what's gonna hit him in his twisted skull...”
***
“Is it just me? Or has Stump been getting a little too much?”
One of the trackers turned to his squad leader and shook his head. Krap, who had been silent until then, cursed briefly.
Two rovers were perched on a small hill to the side of the tall bushes, roped together. On the back one, Puppy was dancing merrily, waving his arms as hard as he could. In the front sat an old friend hunched over, puffing smoke from a short pipe. As far as the pathfinder commander remembered, Stump pulled out his favorite pipe only when he returned home and considered himself quite safe. It was his personal symbol that he was finally back from the raid.
“Two pairs of guards. You're with me to check it out. Weapons at the ready. Let's go...”
Waiting twenty paces until Krap was within walking distance, the grim, crippled tracker stepped down from the high side of the rover and went forward. He embraced, held his friend a little and whispered in his ear:
“I swear, if you don't slap a stranger, I'll slap him myself. I wanted to kill him a hundred times on the way, I could hardly contain myself.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
“What happened? Oh, nothing much. He took down cyborg. Took the rangers prisoner. Three of the bastards... Well, we're hauling. One's driving the truck, the other's thinking about how to kill us. The third is barely alive, swearing at every bump; the robot beat his guts out. And Carlos is ready to take up arms on any occasion. He's our leader now. Not a bastard to waste, not a word against.”
A surprised Krap climbed on the rover and looked inside. Then he did not be lazy; he jumped on the second and poked his nose into the open hatch, which reeked of smoke. Then he went down and, picking up Stump by the elbow, steered him to the side:
“Okay. Again. Careful and detailed. With all the little details. Because I'm not going home with gifts like that. It's easy to go to the gutter with your throat cut. So from the moment, we left you...”
Late at night, in the tiny room creaked the door, and into the cell with a torch in his hands came Krap. He looked at the two sleeping prisoners, then turned to Hut, who was sitting on the edge of the bunk.
“I remember you, older man. You were in charge of the squad back then.”
“Eighteen years ago? Or was it nineteen? I get confused.”
“It was a long time ago. A long time ago... You came to cut us up. You and your friends.”
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“I did. Too bad I didn't make it. I got caught by the Sleepers.”
Krap grinned:
“It was the Intractables. Blinders don't fight people. Blinders are traders.”
“I don't care. Robots - they all look alike...”
“That's why you're losing, you damn orbiters. Everyone's the enemy to you. And we're forced to survive on your scorched planet. And negotiate with a devil, a cyborg, a mutant... But that's not what I came here to ask. I was just a kid, but I remember you threw me out the window, not killed me. Why?”
The old man was silent for a long time, rubbing the sleeve of the sackcloth he had been issued. He was silent, thinking about something of his own. But he decided to answer:
“I then asked myself - what is better, to spill the guts of one more Wild One, or run away with my feet, escaping from the cyborgs. The desire to live outweighed.”
“Liar. You ran into the Intractables later. After you left the house.”
Hut slowly lay down on his side, peering mockingly at the intruder. Then he threw on a patched, thin blanket and sighed:
“You're lucky, kid. Before I broke into your house, I saw the hospital. The barn that stood against the wall. Barbarians cannot have doctors and hospitals. Barbarians should be running around the bush with spears, scaring the beasts with their naked asses. If the Wild Ones have medicine and doctors, then I've been lied to about you. And I don't like being lied to. And now they hate me here and back home. For cutting you and stopping me from licking the bosses' asses back home. I've lived...”
As he took the door, Krap said pensively in response:
“It's funny. You kept me alive, and now I'm wondering if I should let Carlos spare an old slave... By the way, we have no slaves. You are the first in many years.”
“He's strange, this alien. But if you put him in hand-to-hand combat with any spawn of the wasteland, I'll bet on a human.”
“You bet. Tomorrow he has to prove to the leadership of the Anclaves that both he and his slaves are worthy to live another day.”
“Then, I am at peace. The overeager bastards in the Anclaves don't stand a chance...”
***
“I'm afraid you have no idea what you're asking. It's one thing to leak information and quite another to put your head on the block.”
“Stefan. No one is asking you to wage a personal war or a public vendetta. But if you can get Senator Liveshitz to go down, that would be a great gift to all of us.”
“Yeah. I get a posthumous thank you; you get all the perks. That's a good deal.”
“Oh, come on. You'd think we were offering something impossible. Especially with your talents. Nice job covering up ‘Shiva’. If someone had had access to the financial signatures, I wouldn't be talking right now.”
“Don't think that once you get lucky, you can repeat the old trick over and over again. Joe Swift got blown up on that one. And now it's very likely he'll be headed for the Dead End.”
The little fat man wiped his wet neck angrily and grimaced. Unfortunately, it wasn't his work contacts that connected him to the man on the other side of the table, but his personal ones. And when the interlocutor made an appointment, he had to put off any business. Because these people did not take ‘No’ for an answer. And behind polite words masked much more trouble than a walk to an alien planet.
“I am suspended from any work on the project. Not only that, I purposely made sure I wasn't anywhere near there. The senator has the appetite of an alligator; he takes in everything he can and cannot. I don't want to meet him.”
“Good. Livshitz is out of line. He is. His face is on the news channels so often that the public will soon be confused as to who is still in the presidential seat. And so now is the perfect opportunity to bring down the whole gang in one fell swoop.”
“How?”
“If the rescue campaign runs into trouble again or ends in failure altogether - the career of one brazen politician can be put to rest. So many people are literally waiting for an excuse to get at his throat. A tiny excuse. Give it to us; we are able to inflate to unbelievable proportions.”
Stefan was silent for a long time. He thought to himself, assessing the level of potential threat and possible benefit. Finally, he leaned forward and whispered:
“I want two percent of the voting shares in the company. And a position as an analyst in some closed structure. Of course, having left the secret service before, without any comment. With a pension and whatever crumbs I can squeeze out of the government.”
“Why two? You can ask for more.”
“Because I want to be a living analyst, not a rich dead man... And you'll have to withdraw all assets from Disposal Inc. in the next twenty-four hours.”
The interlocutor hummed surprised, in turn calculated the personal pluses and minuses, and then clarified:
“Can you frame Mr. Senator so radically?”
“I'm a master of shutting down burning projects. Who's stopping me from creating real problems for the transportation system?”
“But how? You just complained that you'd been removed from all leverage.”
The fat man smiled predatoryly but did not pause and stuff himself: his true employers knew perfectly well what Stefan Hite was capable of.
“The channel is counted, and the reactors have begun to be brought up to speed. The pickup is the day after tomorrow. Five or six armored cars, light drones, up to a company of infantry. A lot of people are involved, including South American soldiers, as formal hosts of the complex. Everyone pretends to be as cooperative as possible and dreams of getting a piece of the holiday pie after the rescue of the senator's son.”
“So the secrecy will be heightened. No strangers will be allowed near the range.”
“That's why you'll sign my resignation papers retroactively. So they can't really get a hold of me. And I'm gonna use the backdoor in system. And the moment the portal is launched, the data from the test mode will be overwritten on the control controller. After that, the pickup won't happen. Or the cargo will fall out in the stratosphere, from where it'll tumble all the way to Dead End, picking up wild speeds.”
“Are you sure that's possible? And you're capable of disrupting the landing? Guaranteed to fail.”
“Quiet resignation. Let's say for health reasons. Two percent, as I requested. Analyst's seat. And you get a career as a senator on a platter. Guaranteed...”
***
“I don't understand,” the oldest head of the United Anclaves whispered. His true power was already so great that the new generation had forgotten the name he had received during the last war with the Muts. It had been a long time since the leader of the Seaside Clan had been called Gray. Or simply - Him. He is the one who said. He decreed. He - consulted and decided. And if Gray opened his mouth, it was only to pronounce a verdict. Or to decide the fate of a whole people. Gray did not change his mind about trifles.
And he also didn't like it when someone tried to confuse the obvious. To put a fog on it, to set up a rival in a murky haze, or to steal someone else's property. As Gray himself used to do. But - before, the most cunning and cruel leader fought to squeeze all available resources, gather the remaining forces in a fist and crush any real or potential opponents. He did not tolerate any attempts to do so in his territory. By mingling with his food, weapons or people. And the phrase "I don't understand" usually ended with a show execution. As an admonition to the idiots who have forgotten who here and now actually has the right to decide.
“You allowed an alien to come here with a weapon in his hand. As I just heard-no, one just risked disarming him. Allegedly the stranger is so wild that he does not understand the simple rules of the city. And you're not afraid he'll start shooting, thinking we're the enemy.”
A squeamish chuckle crossed his thin lips. Evil Gods of the Wastes, why are there only cowards and idiots around? You can demand that the prisoner be delivered as quickly as possible, regardless of any conventions, and then reproach your humble helpers with it, laying the blame on someone else's shoulders.
“All right, let him prove his worth and be willing to help us further. But - why should we accept it in violation of the law? Why make an exception for him, breaking the foundations of the United Anclaves? Weapons and equipment obtained in battle belong to the city where the ranger lives. The prisoners either work for the common good or are exchanged for the necessary resources from their neighbors. Instead, you left a working rover for an outsider. And three slaves to boot. Slaves... And there is no more slavery in the Anclaves. There never will be. Or am I wrong?”
Carlos had been listening to the argument for an hour, watching with interest the spectacle unfolding before the packed audience. The old laws allowed anyone who wished to be present during a public discussion of matters important to the colony. And the fate of the weird stranger interested many. It had been a long time since pathfinders brought such ridiculous characters. A grown man, hardly able to connect the simplest words with each other, not adapted to life neither in the city nor on the wastelands. A man who poked at every corner like a blind puppy, who played with kids in the dust with equal pleasure or hammered with a hammer in the forge. It seemed that the stranger was trying to find his place in an alien world, trying everything he could reach with his strong hands. And, after getting the first glimpse of a new piece of Wildlife, he ran on, in a hurry to see and try something else.
Krap intercepted his guest in the morning and explained exactly what would happen in the afternoon near the central square, where the ruins of the former stadium held all the official meetings of the city. And for the first ten minutes, Carlos was anxious, struggling to determine what exactly was in store for him. But then he managed to take a closer look at Gray and suddenly calmed down. Because he realized that the puppeteer was not going to destroy the unusual alien but would use him in his own cunning game. And if so, Carlos could bargain with a man who looked like a shark. Once upon a time long ago the master of the psycho-matrix was taught exactly how to build a conversation with the leaders of terrorists. And other tyrants used to playing with other people's lives. Strangely enough, the people of Dead End were not so different from the earthlings in psychological terms. The principles of governing other sentient beings seem to depend little on the color of their skin and the spectral composition of the star. Everyone wants to eat sweetly and sleep softly. That's something to play on.
Meanwhile, Gray was already finishing his boisterous sermon:
“We have worked hard all these years, fought the Raiders and mutts, crushed the cyborgs, and defended the hard-won borders! We have followed the precepts of our ancestors and have been rewarded! The Blinders have agreed to the demands of the United Anclaves! Trade caravans will come back to our cities! Better medicines, new machinery and desalters! Scanners and stimulants - every family will soon receive them all. Because they deserve it. Because we all deserve it!”
After waiting for the cheers to subside, the speaker carefully finished his speech:
“And for the sake of not violating our laws, our customs, I propose to allow the alien to leave the city. Take the rover and slaves taken in the battle, pay the toll with valuable information, and go to the Blinders. Both the alien and our trading partners agreed to cooperate. We, on the other hand, by assisting them, will receive a substantial discount for the summer fair.”
“If I were you, I'd act happy,” Krap whispered, trailing his guest behind him.
Carlos stood up and bowed profoundly in the direction of the Chieftain's pew, which made a cheering noise in the bleachers. The savages seemed to like the funny stranger. A funny beast, trained to walk on its hind legs and ready to jump for a tasty bone. I just wonder why no one talked to Stump. Perhaps the old tracker was frank only with the commander, preferring not to talk too much. And only Krap could imagine how easily an outsider could turn from a smiling underdog to a deadly machine. The older tracker always tried to keep an eye on those who alone was capable of destroying a combat cyborg.
“Let's go, warrior. Gray wants to talk to you tonight. In the meantime, it's best not to mess with things. I'd better introduce you to Sack of Tales. The older man's been asking to see him for a long time...”
***
“Why do you use strange names? Names that seem to have been picked up from the world around them? Krap, Stump, Gray. You're not a person at all; you're a job. Your vocation is to tell tales. To keep tales alive. To teach the young... Why?”
“What do your names mean?” Sitting on a tiny stool, the lord of the crooked hovel poured herb-scented boiling water into a clay cup and bowed his head slightly as he scrutinized his guest.
“Nothing. Our names, the names of the Huntsmen, they lost touch with the world long ago. Maybe because we have more faith in technology and in our own abilities than we do in the wind from the wastelands.”
“See, you answered the question you asked yourself. It's amazing, really. Amazing... How long has he been in town?” Sack of Tales turned to Krap.
“A week,” he said, sipping his spicy drink. “He's been walking the streets every day, pounding questions from Puppy in the evenings. He's already howling because Carlos has had enough of him.”
“But he's not leaving, is he?”
“No, he doesn't. Because Puppy gets kicked and punched in the face for answers. Our guest is teaching the kid how to use his knife and fist in a fight.”
“How's that going?”
“How much progress can you make in a week,” grinned the tracker. “I can easily kick the young idiot's ass. But if he likes it, let him learn.”
The old man nodded happily, then squinted slyly and asked again:
“And you? Can you handle our guest?”
Krap met his gaze with Carlos, who was seated next to him, and answered without the slightest twist of heart:
“I can hardly even scratch him. Neither could anyone else in the city. That's why our guest is going to visit the Blinders in five days. Following his young friend, whom he has promised to protect.”
“Just one friend? I heard you brought two.”
“The other got caught up in an old foggy spot somewhere. Or a bad squat or something. The Blinders rejected the guy. He'll live here. His seed is healthy; he'll make a good family. If he's lucky, he'll live another ten years before he gets the local ills.”
“How interesting!”
Pathfinder put his cup on the table and stood up:
“Sometimes, I think they called the wrong town resident Puppy. You have more curiosity than any kid on the streets and no judgment at all... I'll be back at sunset. Carlos will have to talk to Gray. See if you can teach him how to behave better with the old man. You know better than anyone what he doesn't like. And how best to answer the questions asked so that you can greet the dawn at home, in your bed, and not crucified at the gate... If Carlos can keep his mouth shut, you'll have four more days.”
“You said five.”
“The fifth day, I'll be glad to kick him in the ass, and my head will stop worrying about how to protect the foreigner from the temptations of the city. Or how to protect the city from his irrepressible curiosity...”
***
Late that night, the brooding earthling returned to the house he'd been assigned next to the warehouses. It was here that Hut, Sharra, and Kairi spent all their free time. The younger of the Downworlders were rapidly on the mend, but he was lying down rather than wandering around the tiny room with a groan. The former commander of the alarm squad and his driver were dozing, playing dice and chatting lazily about nothing, not even trying to get outdoors. Krap briefly and succinctly outlined their possible future if the enemies dared to catch any of the adults' eyes. There hadn't been a show execution in the city in a long time, and slave status was too fragile a convention to be neglected. Especially when your master is an alien on bird's-eye terms.
Once inside, Carlos closed the door behind him and fatiguingly commanded:
“Everybody rest, we have to get up very early tomorrow. The local chieftains have decided we're going to the Blinders, to follow Basil.”
“Shall we wait here?” Kairi asked longingly. The young caravan guard had no interest in visiting burrowing cyborgs.
“You can wait. I asked how long I could treat the wounded man. And I was kindly told that you could be left for good. There is always room in the nearest quarry... Any more questions about the trip?”
“Travel?” Sharra asked.
“Yes. In the morning we'll go to the warehouse at the end of the street. We'll be there. The rover has been moved to an enclosed courtyard nearby. We've got to get it ready to go; check everything we can. If we get stuck on the road, we're gonna have to leave the car, which I don't like...”
“Weapons? Supplies?” Hut asked.
“We'll get supplies. Weapons are mine alone. And you'd better pray Gray doesn't ask for shackles. Because the Blinders want me. You are nothing but fertilizer.”
“Pity,” the old man shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “I'd have had a chance to kill a cyborg when you were dead,” he shrugged indifferently. Pay my way to the other side.
“You sharpen your teeth; you always carry that weapon with you. That's it; I'm going to my place; I'll be back early in the morning. Breakfast in the new place.”
Already swinging the door open, Carlos froze for a second when he heard a snide retort from Kairi:
“He used to be funny. Couldn't talk much, but he was fun.”
The Earthling turned and replied, giving a sleepless night in response to the unfortunate joke:
“There is a cross at the gate. On it, at every opportunity, they try to crucify the Enchanter, if caught. The gray-haired man urged me to think which of you could be given to the city. The people want entertainment... I'm not sure I can keep all three of you alive. You might want to think about volunteering. I'll say thank you...”
***
“Countdown to start the procedure! Get ready to reset! Synchronization - plus one meter from zero, a little shake...! Ten! Nine!”
The circular hall was full of iron and people. Seven light armored vehicles, containers, and barrels of fuel. Racks of weapons and ammunition and soldiers tensely frozen beside them. A second rescue operation was to begin in seven seconds... Six...
“Beacons activated, scan tags dumped into the lab at the Outpost. Channel readiness readings are regular. Three to launch... Two... One... Activate circuit!”
The creators of the teleportation unit couldn't have guessed that someone would try to set the wrong travel vector on two of the nine navigational units. Instead, the Precursors would have tried to change the control program on all control rods. Or they would have done an emergency reset of the energy they had stored for the throw, ensuring the system was against abnormal behavior. Yes, even if such a thing happened on a full-fledged installation, the interlock would simply open the teleportation ring, burning out the redundant circuits with overload. But people had no idea about backup and safety circuits, having assembled someone else's equipment as it happened. With gross safety violations. They were using crumbs of decoded information. Creating a man-made shaitan machine to the delight of the bored horsemen of the Apocalypse.
In a nanosecond, the navigational blocks shredded the mouth of the punctured channel, collapsing space into an atomic point, crushing both the hall and its contents into a monstrously dense lump. And in the next instant, a thermonuclear explosion scattered the remains of the closed facility, vaporizing both the men and equipment and Joe Swift, the designated commander of the second rescue operation.
Stefan still managed to get even for the lost hundred credits, returning the joke to his buddy with interest. True, he hardly expected the payoff to be so all-consuming.