Checking the interior of the rover once more, Sharra hooked the sack by the strap and climbed out from behind the driver's seat. The Wild Ones passed the second Totem from hand to hand and now waited in the distance for the cyborgs and the humans to go underground. The car would remain on the surface, watched over by a camouflaged machine gun point at the entrance to the dungeon.
But no sooner had the lame driver climbed out, than Hut descended like a predatory snake into the iron gut, and then Carlos slid down. Pulling a narrow key from the pocket of his dusty pants, the Earthman opened the wide drawer in the back of the rover and commanded:
“Take it apart. This one to the young man. Something serious I will not risk trust, and you - what managed to collect.”
Robust hands picked up the iron wrapped in rags and piled on the floor. Clad in someone else's threadbare coat, the old man got a short rifle and grunted like a contented prairie cat:
“That's nice! What about the ammunition?”
“Two boxes. Checked each one. That's from the stock that paid for Basil's head. I got some crumbs, too. Krap wasn't the last of the bastards. The best of the others know we don't have long to live, but it's fun.”
“What are these?”
“We call them grenades. Pull this pin out and throw it away. The steel balls will tear everything up.”
“That's funny, I've never seen one of those.”
Hut unsealed the box, rigged the rifle and slipped it behind his belt. The iron rounds hid in his pockets. Sharra slung the short, snub-nosed assault rifle over his shoulder, deftly hiding the rectangle of battery in the grip. He snapped on a box of armor-piercing needles and slid a spare clip onto his belt. After making sure the pair were armed, Carlos tapped his fist on the back of the seat and repeated:
“I'm needed for cyborgs. I don't know why, but they promised to pay the Wild Ones for me. So I might be able to jump around for a while in case of a scuffle. I don't think they'll kill me right away. There's no hope for you. So I repeat - if things go badly, throw everything you can at a breakthrough. Any way you can. True, the hope for the third is weak, he cares more about his own skin, will leave you at any time. But he's your fellow countryman, you know best. And another thing... I'm sorry about the car. I don't want to leave it for nothing. That's why I've made a little tab here. And when we lock the hatch, don't forget to unhook the steel cable from underneath. Anybody tries to get out of the way, we'll get a loud bada-boom.”
“How's that? - Sharra was curious about a word he'd never heard before.”
“It's a simple matter of putting the wheels on one side and the rest of the engine on the other. The rover's contents go around in a fine dust. You got it? Come on, then, because I can already hear Kairi's teeth clattering in fear.”
The numerous troops made their way down an endless series of stairs, lighting the way first with torches and then with hand-held lanterns. At one landing or another metal figures separated from the main group and took up positions in inconspicuous niches and back passages. At the bottom of the endless shaft only two guides remained with the men, who turned into one of the tunnels and rode their creaking wheels into the depths of the city. The young human, who was walking last, looked back with a wistful look and swallowed:
“Here we are. There's no turning back now.”
“Yeah. Can't get past the machine guns.”
“What machine guns?”
“Every post is a firing point. With armor and good firing sectors. They pull a lever and that's it, there's no way up or down.”
“I hadn't noticed,” Kairi said, sounding sad.
“Don't close your eyes for fear or you'll miss a lot,” Sharra chuckled as he touched the gray tunnel wall. “It's warm, you see. Or maybe there's a factory down there, or maybe they've got heat somewhere.”
Hut, who was following close behind, scratched his stubble and couldn't resist mentioning something:
“It's always hot in a deep mine. They say it's already warm from the center of the planet. You don't even have to heat your settlements in winter.”
“How do you know?”
“When I served my first term as a convict, I managed to dig ore. The colony still had mines back then. It was abandoned later. But at first it was a good life: convicts, own ore.”
Carlos, who had been silent all the way, became interested:
“And now, do you live badly? There: your own cars, your own weapons.”
“Guns? Have you seen our throwers? We can charge batteries, we have plenty of electricity. But instead of steel rounds, we have ice rounds. We'll freeze them, pile them in the outer bunker, and go. Up to a hundred meters it is still good, further it is already all, acceleration is not enough.”
“The crab was gnawed out by you in seconds!”
“You should have tied it to the barrels, we would have been happy... That's why you shot him, because you thrashed him at point-blank range. The beast would've run away, and all you'd have to do is beat the ice crumbs out of it. I've seen you shoot a rover with that thing of yours. Holes as big as your fist. We can't do that anymore.”
Kairi, who'd been silent, stepped unceremoniously into the conversation, trying to shush their elders:
“Don't you have anything else to talk about? Affairs of the colony are internal affairs. Why the big mouth?”
“Oh, yes, clearances, secrecy, and heavenly penalties for not obeying orders. Look, do you really think they'll be expecting us back home?” The old man was delighted, unzipping his jacket and wiping the sweat from his neck. “I am in the colony almost since its foundation. I've been there... I've seen a lot of people over the years. All kinds: smart and stupid, sly and dumb as a mutt. But lately it's been no fun at all: no regular meals, no rest. Everything is on the run, everything is in a tailspin, everything is under the threat of immediate execution. Looks like the days of real heroes are over. Only the freaks left.”
“That's why he was in prison,” snapped the guard and shut up, out of harm's way. But the old man did not pay attention to the angry words. The past seemed dead to him, the resentment against the colony burned out, leaving only ashes inside.
“Here we are,” one of the guides suddenly halted, lighting the oval door in the wall. “You go this way, and the rest of you follow me.”
“The rest of you, upstairs,” Carlos grinned, touching the heavy wheel. “The boys are with me, I'm in charge.”
“My orders were to get them to the Resting Room,” the cyborg tried to argue, but the earthling had already twisted the lock and opened the door. “As you wish, though. Only one chair there.”
“Sit on the floor,” the man finished talking, fixing the gun hanging on his shoulder. “They'll be healthier. Hut, take a look, we'll be right behind you.”
Placing his sawn-off shotgun in front of him, the old man ducked nimbly into the ajar crack to holler at the others in a moment:
“Clear!”
Carlos sat on a chair bolted to the floor in the middle of the small room. His team was seated against the back wall, peering with interest at the faintly flickering square screen opposite. A caricatured face, more like a mask made of gray chunks of dough, moved its lips and hissed through the plastic membrane of the microphone:
“We didn't hurt your friend you call Basil. You can meet him. But we want to offer a deal.”
“A deal? I heard you bought my head from the Wild Ones. Strange that a slave bought in the market should be asked if he wants to bargain for his life.”
“You are not a slave. We only paid for your safety. Yours and Basil's. To get you here alive and well. The wastelands are not a pleasant place.”
“All right, then. We'll assume you gave the Wild Ones a mountain of weapons and equipment out of love for your neighbors. But how can a loner who knows more about the local realities than a baby help you?”
“That this baby can do the impossible,” grinned the electronic face. “We have long deliberated and decided to tell you the truth. The analysis shows that you can detect mumblings or lies. And that will have a negative effect on the task at hand. Conversely, if we are as helpful as we can be, you will help us. By yourself. Without coercion.”
Carlos grinned understandingly and then clarified:
“Coercion? So in addition to the carrot you have a stick. And what are you ready to push me in the right direction Blinders.”
“We have Basil,” said the unknown interlocutor. “You need him. Alive. We are no longer interested in the first Totem. He has served his purpose. You guarantee him a long and happy life now.”
“An indestructible argument,” the Earthling stroked his machine gun, assessing the cyborg's candor. “So you need me for some dangerous operation. And you're willing to give up Basil and help me get home in exchange for... In exchange for what? That I have to do something that an entire underground army can't do?”
“We want you to sneak into the capital of the Irreconcilables and get valuable equipment for us in a bunker that's been closed since the war. And then return with the loot. That's it.”
There was a murmur behind Carlos' back, then someone's muffled voice whispered:
“They're crazy!”
But the electronic image did not comment on the harsh retort, only inquired:
“What can we do to help prepare the operation? Any available resources will be at your disposal.”
The earthling suddenly smiled merrily and muttered a strange phrase:
“To love is a queen, and to steal is a million...”
“What?”
“Never mind... Do we have a week or two to prepare?”
“Three days at the most. But we'll try to get you as close to the coast as possible. You'll save time getting there.”
“I need to consult. Just a few minutes...”
Carlos turned around, looked at the gloomy men seated against the wall, and asked:
“Well, gentlemen losers, there is a proposal ... I will not force. But I can see my way, and I won't be sailing freely for a long time. I will not pull anybody behind me by force, though I would be glad, if you have my back. What do you think?”
Hut gazed with interest at the stranger who had so abruptly sealed his fate and then turned to Sharra:
“I've grown sour in the colony. Sure, it's a bit of a gamble, but I've a funny feeling that if I go back, there'll be a third hard labor sentence I'm not likely to survive. What do you think?”
The driver patted the box of the rifle and held it out in response:
“If they give you something decent, you can go. The Wild Ones told me they had plenty of goodies in the ruins. Maybe we'll get something decent. If we go home, we'll not come home empty-handed. We'll have to pay off the Council.”
Kyrie gasped for air and hissed, spitting the words out in a hasty cough:
“What are you? Are you insane? They're releasing us, the boss said! We're going back now! The Rover's waiting upstairs, so we can get gas and get out of here. Careful, so the Wild ones don't intercept us. It's a two-week trip, that's all.”
“So go, what's the problem? We'll take a walk north. We've never been up there before.”
“What are you...? How could... I can't make it alone. It's two weeks, through the Wilderness!”
“You'll make it if you want to live,” said Hut. “Come on, give birth. I don't have to kick every word out of you.”
“No... I'm alone... I'm not going alone. No way... I'd rather go with you... Well, him...”
Carlos nodded contentedly and turned to the screen:
“I need information. All of it: brief, succinct, on the basic details of the operation and the world around it. A place where my team can prepare to leave and rest. And what resources are available. Perhaps something will seem unimportant to you, and I will be able to engage. If there are no objections, show me the barracks, where we'll eat and leave our stuff. And let us begin. Three days is not enough. It's gonna take a lot of hustling...”
***
Clay rustled, crumbling into a thin dusty stream in a ditch, and one of the watchers came down from above. Tirith stopped chewing for a moment and squinted his eyes in mute question.
“They're coming. Coming in a bunch. Close.”
The leader of the youngsters grinned. Turns out mutants aren't the only ones who are predictable. Humans, too, like to use old, familiar patterns. They like to run the pack like they did five, ten years ago. Don't change following the wastelands. And repetition leads to defeat. It's about time you learned that.
“You call me when the head has passed the old tower,” the scarred warleader commanded, clutching at the lump of charred meat again.
Good day. A lucky day. He managed to squeeze one gaping neighbor and keep Tirith's food fresh. Soon the men will crawl into the ruins - and the paddlers, sheltered from prying eyes, will set fire to the cooked garbage near the strangers' holes. The smoke will drive the foolish neighbors under the throwers, and the noise of the fight will rouse the cyborgs. Of course, the tin men are unlikely to cope with the enemy's squad, but they have time to gather their strength to repel the attack. And the intended beating would take an entirely different path. Half an hour away, there's a horde of scum piling up, picking up the leftovers from the table of the stronger clans. Send a messenger with news of a looted human caravan and watch the stupid-headed beasts kill the rest of the Downworlders. A mutant who smells blood is hard to stop. Especially when they don't attack alone, but in droves, capable of filling the ruins of an old settlement with their bodies. A few hundred crooked-headed freaks would crush any squad. All the more so if the cyborgs are shabby.
Crunching on the remains of bone, Tirith peeked out of his hiding place and burped loudly. Still, it was nice to feel smart. Smart and able to control others. All he had to do was throw a few words to some, whisper to others, and remain silent about the aliens he'd detected while reporting to a third. In a little while there would be a new chief on the wastelands. Cunning and cruel. Calculating and stubborn in achieving his goal. The one who will lead his securely concealed pack, striking the final blow at the last moment of the future battle. The one who will seize the weapons and put all the mutants of the southern wastelands under him. And it will be him - Tirith...
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
***
Blurred images on the hazy square projector succeeded one another, a wheezing microphone spoke in husky voice about the events of bygone days. A man sitting in a chair watched and listened, absorbing the information. Facts, assessments of events, forecasts - everything may come in handy in the upcoming adventure. No one knows what may be the straw that breaks the back of the cybernetic camel.
“Our city is located in a remote industrial area, almost midway between the south pole and the equator. Mines and laboratories have been laid at depths of three hundred to seven hundred meters. Potentially dangerous production was concentrated here: chemical, biological, experimental. Four reactors were erected to make the area fully self-sufficient. Three final cycle reactors, with non-recoverable fuel cassettes, as well as a fourth, reproducible cycle. Unfortunately, to start it up, we lack a master key. This is a special block with core operating parameters and special programs to control the cooling system. Without it, the entire industrial complex will soon come to a standstill.”
The map of the area changed, shifted upward, showing the lines of roads and the outlines of the dead cities.
“Since the area was considered experimental, only chemical and biological strikes had been carried out on it during the First War. This wiped out most of the population, but left material resources intact. The main targets were located north of the City of Blinds, closer to the equator. In fact, it was a chain of megalopolis cities merged into one. City-states clashing with neighbors from the second continent. Two human monsters, unable to divide the planet and the entire star system among themselves.”
“Did the states have a specialty? Something special?”
“No. Twenty years before the war, the governments managed to intercept all promising developments from each other, and the information read from the mothballed Precursor base gave a major boost to bio-development and computer systems.”
“Precursors?”
“Yes. As far as we know, this race ruled a group of planets in this sector a long time ago. They mastered teleportation, controlled thermonuclear processes, began building giant space bases. But that was hundreds of thousands of years ago. What exactly happened to the Precursors, no one knows. All that's left after them are mothballed bases and automated control systems.”
“Right. So it was humans who started the war?”
“Yes. The new knowledge levelled the potential of the major players, making it impossible to win in the event of a surprise attack. And then one side decided to flee the planet, to settle on numerous ships in the asteroid belt. The second tried to burrow into the depths of the mountain ranges. But - no one tried to stop the flywheel of madness. No one tried to think about why the massacre was even being carried out in the first place.”
The outline of a nuclear mushroom froze on the slide. The narrator was silent for a second, then continued:
“Unfortunately, we don't have the full picture. We don't even know who started the orbital bombardment. All we know is that both nations attacked at the same time. They hit everything that could be of military and economic interest. And in spite of all the preparation, the First War began unexpectedly for both sides. Therefore the civilian population did not have time to be taken to the bunkers, even the troops were only partially sheltered. In fact, local humanity destroyed itself in two hours by dumping first a mountain of stockpiled nuclear charges and then detonating the bio- and chemical weapons tabs. Since no nation was able to hide from the blow, no one was spared.”
Once again the footage ran, showing the remnants of a once-blooming planet.
“When the short-lived First War ended, there were small groups of people left on the planet, huddled in bunkers. Somewhere it was the townspeople who had managed to reach the evacuation zones in time to be alerted. Somewhere it was the military shifts on duty. But as soon as the level of radiation decreased slightly and the fight in orbit ended, as the commanders who took over the leadership declared a battle to the final victory. And released all the accumulated mechanisms, removing any restrictions from the iron soldiers. And for nearly five more years the steel hunters crushed each other in the ruins of cities. The battle ended when the remnants of combat-ready resources came to an end. That is when the First War ended.”
“The First. Then there was a Second?”
“Yes. There was a part of the anti-space defense system near the North Pole. That's where they formed a strike force against the asteroid belt. And three years later, heavy rockets were launched toward new targets. The remnants of one of the governments that fled into space tried to create a new state on the site of the former mining stations. But after the raid, only the pitiful remnants on the ore settlements survived. The poorest miners, who had not managed to fit in next to the artificial domes of the cities, survived both their employers and the new rulers. But since the infrastructure was finally destroyed, all the survivors headed back to the planet. It was a grand exodus: on barely surviving ore carriers, space yachts, and any sucker capable of moving between planets. For nearly a year and a half this armada reached and clustered in the orbit of the Dead End. The rare scouting parties that came down died. From chemicals, from disease, from the attacks of still defeated mechanical detachments. Occasionally, some ship would be knocked off the planet by an anti-missile. After that, an unknown clever man decided to end the protracted Second War in one beautiful blow. And dropped the charges he brought with him from orbit. At the identified centers of potential resistance. The humans, the cyborgs. The Precursor Base.”
The screen went out. A mechanical voice finished the narration:
“The base explosion activated previously unknown Outposts of a vanished civilization. Orbital systems floated out of subspace and shut down the planet, obliterating most of the space vagrants in orbit. Having assessed the threat from the planet as a priority, the automatons still burn any high-altitude object. At the same time, they gutted all large human ships near them. This beating caused horror among the former miners and spawned a wave of those fleeing down to the Dead End. Those who were later called Downworlders. Who managed to steal a neighbor's lifeboat, a landing capsule, or a yacht adapted for atmospheric flight. Anyone who was fast and cruel enough to leave the others to die in steel coffins above...”
Carlos rubbed his face and asked himself:
“Why do I keep feeling like I can see our future? Anger, stubbornness, desire to grab at any cost... It is as if in a distorted mirror reflected all the worst accumulated by humanity. Are we really that hopeless?”
The invisible interlocutor coughed and muttered, evading an answer:
“You have been working very long today. I suggest you have dinner, look at the weapons laid out in the warehouse, and rest. Tomorrow morning we'll give an overview of the Irreconcilable clans, their locations, and possible ways to approach the base we need...”
***
The commander of the punitive operation checked the map and gestured to the driver of the heavy rover for a new direction. Unfortunately, as much as Lurg himself wasn't eager to lead the attack, he had to stay at the base. The Council had categorically forbidden the best military specialist to leave for the wastelands. So the genius of swift attacks and mutant menace personally instructed the selected team, forcing a hundred times the future maneuvers and show step by step on the map, how exactly they will destroy a nest of cyborgs.
The rovers pulled into the ruins, approaching the wasteland in the center. There the group was to turn in a chain and step into the line of fire. Two rocket launchers, assembled on former tractor frames, slowed and stopped. They were to be the first to strike a target a mile and a half to the north. The gray haze, hiding the patched wheels up to halfway, twitched under a sharp gust of wind, swirled around the supporting "legs" that slammed against the ground. And then it exploded with a scattering of purple bodies, darting toward the war machines.
The fight immediately turned into a skirmish, with each of the rovers fending off the horde of mutants that had blocked the street on their own. The rumble of gunfire, the screech of speeding throwers, the screams of the crew of one of the wheeled vehicles where the hatch hadn't been closed: everything was mixed together, filling the area with a cacophony of sounds. But although the attack was unexpected, the powerful weaponry played its part. A burst of ice shells thinned out the crowd that had been raging nearby, and then the lead vehicles managed to turn around and follow the frozen column, clearing the area. Five minutes later, the remnants of the mutants rolled back into the rubble, and the radio airwaves stopped being filled with screams of hatred and pain.
“Dots! Dots! What have you got?!” The voice of the squad leader cut through.
“Nothing,” the first missile launcher chief answered calmly. “What can they do to us with their claws? Well, they jumped around, so you ground them up. It's good, that none of them passed through the optics. Otherwise we'd have got some of our own.”
“Nothing? Well, that's all right, then. Then we should wrap it up.”
“At all? Or at least cover the nest from afar? Lurg won't be happy if we just leave.”
“What nest?! We won't find anyone after this! We've got to shut down, and fast!”
“With a cyborg tail? They'll brush us off in the wastelands. Let's at least give one volley for our own peace of mind. Whoever's out there will get hit. The more so, everything is ready, just press a button.”
The loudspeakers were silent, then spat out irritably:
“One volley, now! We cover! Then the ninth car to reconnoitre, rocket launchers follow and we go away. Now!”
The first missile-carrier opened the lid of the container and was enveloped in brown smoke, spitting forward a sharp-nosed missile pencil, which quickly flashed over the packed with machinery street. A second launch rang out next, adding to the trail of smoke. The scout had already begun to roll out of the ruins when a heavy thunderclap rumbled once and again in the distance, illuminating the low clouds with red-hot flashes. But before the rearguard rover could get out into the field, the pavement rattled under its wheels and the heavy vehicle took a hard hit, sinking heavily into a hole. The pavement beside it bulged, revealing a deep ditch that skirted the street. The prudent Tirith had not in vain forced the pack to dig and haul soil in the makeshift tunnel, temporarily reinforcing the upper slabs with shoring. The mutant leader wasn't about to lose his prey. The meat could go to others, but the machines and weapons belonged to him only.
Now the way out of the ruins was down the west street, which was relatively free of debris. But to reach it, one had to go back to the center. Within machine-gun fire distance of the flaming cyborg nest...
Probably the group would have made it out. At the very least, the twin missile blasts knocked out most of the robots that had rushed in. And the ironclad surge didn't end up destroying the heavy rovers. The Cyborgs knocked out two vehicles and crushed the clumsy rocket launchers, but the throwers wiped out most of the attackers, and then the counterattacking infantry drove the defeated enemy unit back into the rubble. It seemed as if the men had snatched victory, more than paid in blood. It seemed that another second or two and the mangled wheeled vehicles would break out of the trap. But these were just dreams.
A second wave of mutants struck from all sides. Three dozen scattered swarms, gathered by Tirith from all the nearby wastelands, flooded the narrow street. In half a minute the throwers ran out of ammunition. In another minute the occasional automatic rifle firing from the ajar loopholes was silenced. There were so many enemies that not even a napalm fire could destroy them. Half an hour later the last of the rovers was breached and the final moment of their vengeful campaign was sealed. The silence on the airwaves was unpleasant news for the colony's supreme commander. Lurg had lost two-thirds of his army, receiving, instead of a triumphant report, a frightening uncertainty.
But the resulting bloody battle created problems not only for the human colony. Tirith suddenly learned that even perfectly executed plans do not always lead to success. Sometimes elaborate combinations end up quite differently than their creator wanted. The weapons seized among the ruins were useless, because the slain soldiers had used up every ammunition, down to the last ice shell and cartridge. And the infuriated owners of the charred nest demanded an explanation as to why the mutant scouts had not reported the outsiders. And when the cyborgs asked questions, tearing out chunks of smoking flesh, they were told the truth. Both about the installed decoy transmitter and the prearranged attacks of the assembled mutants.
Tirith survived for one reason only. The robots were gathering a horde for a return raid. And they needed a smart and confident leader of the "chain dogs". The leader of the youngsters was the only leader who survived the massacre. So he was given a chance to heal the wounds he had received during the interrogation. And he was allowed to atone for the mistake he had made with his blood. Tirith led the rebuilt mutant army, as the mechanical masters of the wasteland had decided. All the more so because the missile strikes and the ensuing fight knocked out almost all of the iron and plastic warriors.
The cyborgs must have forgotten that the ancestors of the aggressive inhabitants of the basements and ruins were humans. Those who survived chemical and biological attacks. Who changed outwardly, but retained the desire to survive at any cost. Who spawned an army of intelligent machines, fell into its subordination, but did not lose their cunning and resourcefulness. Who did not forgive wrongs and learned much faster than could be expected. The appointed mutant leader had drawn conclusions from a battle lost to him personally and was about to take revenge. The captured colony of the Descent from Heaven was to give him the weapons and teachers that would allow him to throw off the mechanical yoke forever. A second time, Tirith would not be wrong. And when he won, he would remember all the grievances he had accumulated. Once and for all.
***
“Basil, is there something you want to tell me?”
The tiny group was at rest in the former Storage Hall, converted into a makeshift barracks. Sharra was still fiddling with the piles of sleeping bags to make a queen size bed. Hut was long asleep, exhausted from endless training with his firearms. Kairi was last seen in the kitchen, building another mountain of sandwiches to fill his bottomless belly. Only the squad leader took the senator's offspring into a corner and began asking uncomfortable questions:
“Tell me the truth about the Dead End landing adventure. How do you know the local language? Who gave the money for the equipment and gear? What tasks were you supposed to accomplish? And why do they keep telling me there's no way back, and instead of the boneheads Daddy sent you? Well?”
Basil tried to mumble something incomprehensible at first, but then he gave up and began to tell Carlos, occasionally distracted by attempts to justify himself:
“It wasn't my father's project; he would never let me go. He knew that the backward transfer system didn't work. And that all the ideas, the beautiful reports, the figures were all a myth. You see, Dad knew. He clearly had the results of the first throws. But it was classified information; I never got access to it. At the time they almost tried to send a battalion here. Everyone thought - to conduct deep reconnaissance, to assess the potential of the new world. To prepare a zone for the evacuation of high command personnel.”
“Like the locals did on the asteroid belt? Get away if things get hot on Earth?”
“Exactly. You know, it's not easy back home. We're on the edge too, crisis after crisis. It's not getting too hot because there are no space bases. That's why we were glad when they found a gate on Mars. We wasted more than thirty years in endless attempts to master new technologies.”
“But we mastered it - we regularly send garbage.”
“Garbage... You didn't read the final communiqué after which they started sending toxic waste. It's on every page: “The Dead End is not suitable for colonization.” Mutagens, warfare chemicals, general background radiation above normal. And only cyborgs still survive in the bombing zones.”
“And?”
“The only time we managed to pull the remnants of the group that made it to the burned out Precursor base. There was a back channel. And a receiver assembled from alien parts on Mars. Five people came back, along with vaccines and record disks. After that, an epidemic in the Martian colony and orders to destroy the return gate... Now the road is only one way. By the way, no one goes to Mars anymore. Because the colony was also scorched with thermonuclear bomb. The loot was transported and the settlement was covered. To avoid it. On the other side of the planet is a tiny lab and a support ship in orbit. That's it.”
“And the language? Knowledge gained?”
“The language is what the lab on the Outpost collected. Are you aware, by the way, that there's been a permanent crew there for years? Science fanatics - going on an indefinite tour of duty. In a tightly sealed hangar, with a limit of water and oxygen sent from Earth. Trying to monitor Dead End, looking for ways to get further into the base. And all to no avail.”
Carlos grinned-apparently there are still enough idiots out there to go to another star system to catch their luck.
“Why did you have to go and do that?”
“The idea was that the Blinders were hiding a duplicate unit. Along with all the readings of the Precursors. And everything they've managed to accumulate over the years. Hidden here, on the lower levels. So my father's rival decided to take a risk, drop the group. Negotiate a mutually beneficial exchange with the local rulers. We send resources, they send knowledge. Or whatever... And I helped my acquaintances gain access to reports and transfer procedures. In the end - I gave a sleeping pill to one of the lab assistants, who was selected for the transfer and took his place.”
“When I got there, there was no gate back, no cartoons from the Precursors. Right?”
The young man was silent, hunched over in a stiff metal chair.
“Tell me, genius, how many of these theories have eggheads? About secret knowledge and stuff? Three? Four?”
“There are over a thousand officially registered promising ones. Some contradict each other on all counts.”
“And you went in hoping yours was the one that worked? Yeah, you weren't whipped enough as a kid. Critical oversight... What did you find in the end?”
“A bunker full of spare parts and a dead reactor. I help with the data processing, I have access to a large information archive. The Blinds are only focused on production. They solve survival problems. There's no super-technology here, it's all pre-First War. If anything has survived, it's only in the atom-bombed centers. It's where they developed new soldiers and created artificial intelligence units. There's a squeeze of what the Precursors had read... I read the analysis report, I was hoping... It was all so coherent, all the facts fit, all the ends tied up. It seemed like the breakthrough they'd dreamed of... But in the end - underground casemates with machinery dying without power. Splash...”
Stretching, Carlos stood up and patted Basil on the shoulder:
“Okay, don't bury yourself before your time. Since the court managed to make it, you're not hopeless. We'll get the master key, then we'll have time to figure out a way to get you home. If one group got through, it means the opportunity exists. All that's left to do is make it happen.”
The man strolled to the kitchen, drank some water, then looked at the crumb-strewn table. He scratched the back of his head and returned to the barracks and counted the weapons on the workbenches. He looked at the empty corner and swore:
“What an idiot! I see no one's restricting our movements, and they've got eyes on Basil. And I'm not going anywhere without him. But Kairi. Who needs him, moron. Nobody's gonna stop at the checkpoints. If you want to go home, get out! But how could he have missed the fact that no one had told him about the stretch.”
Two tiny satellites were mingling in the night shadows of the wasteland. One speck of gray came to life and moved cautiously toward the dust laden rover. The young guard peered back at the dark pits of footprints, wincing as the bloody machines lurked in the cliffs, ready to fire at any moment. But - stupid machines. Turns out it was possible to put their guard down. Pretend to be docile and obedient. And he could pack up his own provisions for the journey and fill his heavy backpack with scarce ammunition. As far as Kairi remembered, the Wild Ones had allowed him to fill the tanks to the brim at the last stop. If they moved sparingly, they should have enough to get them to the edge of the colony. He supposed... He wanted to believe it. Because the man was going home. With valuable information that would protect him from any charges and keep him alive. It would also give him a good position in the colony's management hierarchy... Let the others stick their heads in the mechanical jaws and crawl into the lair of the Irreconcilables. Kairi is no fool. He knows when to shout "On the attack," and when to wait behind someone else's back.
Tucking his burden near the front wheel, the gray ghost took another look around, and then nimbly climbed onto the roof of the rover. A lighter model, a slightly different layout - but this faithful "horse" would get him home. With victory. Then let others who had nothing better to do run off on their quests. He's had enough.
Oil-stained fingers grasped the handle firmly, opening the clanking lock with a practiced motion. Then the man pulled the hatch cover toward him. It was time to get out of here. As quickly as possible...