Section 05 / 39

its "smell of money." It's a special atmosphere. Not luxury, not deliberate demonstration of wealth, no. It's an atmosphere you feel in companies where they don't think about whether something could be done cheaper. Why cheaper? It's the best floor covering, the best furniture, the best design... The reception area looked like the captain's bridge of a space liner as depicted in movies. That is—huge, radiant, all so... cosmic!

The real liner bridge is different—small, uncomfortable, thoroughly metal, cut by yellow demarcation lines and warning signs... Do not cross, do not touch, do not handle... More likely, recruits like me found themselves in such luxury as here for the first time and last. And, in case of success, the grim reality of warships awaited them...

"Greetings! My name is Max, I'm the recruiting manager of the private military company 'Conquistador Corps.'"

I turned around in surprise at the voice: to hear such pure English in Japan is rare. Max was European. A pleasant young man, my peer by the looks of it, in blue pants and a white shirt, with a tablet in his hand. He extended his hand to me.

"Gil," I said, shaking it.

"Gil, now we'll head to the test zone, where you'll pass several uncomplicated trials. In some cases you'll receive specific tasks, and sometimes we'll expect your reaction to a situation without giving any instructions. After testing, a small interview awaits you, based on the results of which we'll either confirm our invitation to the Corps or not. All this will take no more than three hours. Are you ready?"

"Uncomplicated tests," "small interview," "either confirm or not"—such a feeling that I need to find out what I am according to my horoscope... On the other hand, he probably has a dozen like me per day...

"Do I... Need anything else? To..."

"Empty out your phone and everything metal or macromolecular... And—good mood!" he poked a special plastic locked container at me and smiled widely, like a real salesman from a boutique.

Good mood? It seemed like all this wasn't real. Somehow too... frivolous or what. I mentally mimicked his inappropriate

manner of expression: "If you don't pass the selection, you'll have the opportunity to jump from the skyscraper roof this very evening! And if you pass, you'll go to a planet where they'll skin you, and you might even manage to record it on your gadget!" Interesting, is this strange cheerfulness a feature of this specific manager or their policy?

I laid out everything he said.

"May I?" a portable metal detector beeped in Max's hand.

I obediently spread my arms to the sides.

He most thoroughly set about checking, starting with the shoulders. As soon as he brought the device to my right side, it beeped worriedly.

"What do you have there?" Max asked in surprise.

"An implant. I'll show you the certificate."

I took the wallet from the container and handed him the card. He just as carefully studied it and even wrote down the serial number.

"Thank you," Max nodded. "No problems."

Then he just as thoroughly finished the inspection, but the metal detector didn't make another sound. Next Max as if casually pushed a pile of papers at me warning that the private military company "Conquistador Corps" is not responsible for any consequences of future tests. I—just as casually—signed, without reading too carefully.

And then I felt Vira's hand take my wrist and lightly squeeze—phone neuro-call. I recorded it when we were just dating. Characteristic Vira manner—to hold you by the hand, looking into your eyes, and if you delay, impatiently squeeze your wrist. A gesture meaning: "Well—make up your mind!"

"Excuse me," I muttered to Max. Had to take the phone from the container. "Hello!"

"Hi! So what, Gil, did you pass?" Virka's voice was everyday, the tone you ask what subway station you're at.

"Virunka, would I really not have called you?! I just arrived."

"Well, okay, when you pass, call! Get some document from them right away for the bank, okay? We still have a ton of stuff to buy for the trip. And by the way, we don't even know the departure date."

"Vira..." I wanted to say something like "They haven't taken me anywhere yet," but glancing at Max, I changed my mind. "I'll call. Wish

me luck!"

"Good luck, Gil!" and she disconnected. Before I could thank her.

I stood for a second, collecting my thoughts. Then I turned off the phone and put it back in the container. It seems that's all. I decisively slammed the lid and put my finger to the fingerprint scanner.

"Ready?" Max beamed like a souvenir thousand hryvnia note.

If only I knew for what...

"Ready," I answered seriously.

"Follow my instructions, please. Let's go."

8

The elevator rapidly carried us somewhere down. Much lower than the first floor, as far as I could imagine. Max became focused. He was silent and didn't look at me. I tried not to think about testing. Even good if I don't pass. I'll try my luck at the dolphinarium... Now, of course, it'll be hard. I'll have to borrow money from someone. And the bank will take the apartment, so... But eventually everything will work out!

If you don't become a dancing fool. So I'm begging you, buddy, pass these damn tests! Then you'll at least have insurance...

The floor we got off at was not at all like the radiant company reception. Gray polished walls of something like composite plastic—smooth as glass. The Corps emblem on the wall right opposite the elevator: the fanged skull of some beast, half-burned by something like a thermal emitter, from this the edges have a characteristic melted form, and through the half-destroyed right eye socket you can see flame inside... All this in a wreath of stylized spacesuit life support tubes and barbed ribbon wire.

"We'll start with a medical examination and, if all goes well, move on to tests," Max said indifferently, and in my stomach a circus acrobat broke loose from his rope.

"Just now?" I asked stupidly.

"What exactly?"

I quickly corrected myself, afraid he'd notice my agitation:

"The medical exam results—so fast?"

"Of course. Without them there's no point tormenting you with tests."

I nodded gloomily.

The next doors slid aside in front of us. Right behind them was a short corridor, completely white and brightly lit. Waiting chairs along one wall, two doors with numbers "1" and "2" opposite and two bored men in chairs—both in the same white shirts as Max.

"Salut! You've been here long?" he asked cheerfully.

"Mine just went in," answered one.

"Five minutes," the second shrugged.

Max pressed a button in the wall, and a ticket with a number rode out from under it. We sat in the chairs. My heart pounded like crazy. The acrobat who broke loose from under the dome inside me was helplessly thrashing on the safety net. It's all fine, buddy. Whether you pass or not—they won't eat you there!

Mentally I kept returning either to the argument with Vira or to the conversation with Djokhar, trying to convince myself that failing everything would be for the best. You wanted an extension from the bank? Here you go! Blow everything here as quickly as possible, and you'll still have a month to look for work!

But my acrobat, bouncing on the net, whispered with just his lips: "If only I could pass! Lord, let me pass this cursed medical exam!"

One door opened. I barely flinched at the click of the lock and mentally cursed myself. A gloomy tall guy came out. It seemed to me he was upset, and I expected he'd say to his manager any moment: "Didn't pass." But then Max said: "Our turn," and the guy started looking at me with interest, never saying anything.

Max opened the door, letting me go first. I entered.

"Gilel Girshevich," Max said behind my back and loudly read my individual number, "sixteen zero twenty-four delta-bravo-bravo!"

"Bravo-bravo" echoed in my head, and I imagined they were shouting it to that acrobat who fell from the rope and is still trying to climb down from the net somewhere in the region of my stomach. And then I added "bis" from myself and smiled internally at this joke. Singularity to you all up your asses!

Max closed the door behind my back.

There were several people in white coats in the room, they sat facing projection monitors and didn't even turn their heads in my direction. The only one who looked at me was a gray-haired Japanese man about sixty in appearance.

"Stand here, please," he addressed me in English, pointing to a diagnostic box that resembled some futuristic time machine. "Take off your shoes, please. And your socks, please, remove them."

I took off my shoes and stood on the imprints of bare feet drawn on the floor of the box. Right in front of me on the wall were the same panels with handprints, and I pressed my palms to them.

"Please place your feet and palms on the diagnostic panels with the corresponding symbols," the Japanese man belatedly instructed and added another "please."

My heart was pounding somewhere in my throat. I expected that maybe something would beep or light up, but nothing happened. Silence fell. The Japanese man stepped back a few steps. Something beeped. The gray-haired man quietly spoke with someone in Japanese. A woman's voice answered him. Then the Japanese man addressed me again in English: "Do you suffer from heartburn?"

"Sometimes..." I said uncertainly.

Again a quiet exchange of phrases in Japanese.

"Mr. Girshevich," a woman's voice suddenly said loudly, "fifteen years ago you consulted a doctor..."

My heart clanked and seemed to stop beating.

Fourteen, to be precise. Until thirty-five there was still a whole eternity, but I decided I couldn't stand this uncertainty anymore. The Institute of Genetics was located on a huge territory planted with fir trees. From building to building neat asphalt paths ran. Once father underwent examination here. Back then it didn't occur to me that I'd come here soon too. Then for a long time there was no time for that.

And now, finally, I'm walking between ideally whitewashed curbs, heavily moving legs cotton from agitation. The disease either manifests spontaneously, at an undefined moment from thirty-five to forty-four, or—never manifests at all... An elderly professor reread father's medical history for a long time, and then opened great-grandfather's

file that I brought. And finally, removing, putting back on and removing his glasses again, in an apologetic tone he issued his verdict: I inherited the abnormal protein from my father. After thirty-five the probability of pathological changes is fifty percent.

"Yes, I consulted..." I answered the question and didn't recognize my voice: it came out so strained and pitiful, as if someone was squeezing out the remains of toothpaste from a tube that had emptied a week ago.

"Regarding an ankle fracture," the woman's voice continued.

"Ankle?" I turned around in surprise to see who was speaking.

"Please do not change body position," the gray-haired Japanese man immediately jerked me.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "Ankle, yes..."

My God, ankle! I didn't even remember right away. Well, of course! There was such a thing!

"Yes, I remember!" I repeated for certainty, and now it sounded more joyful, and therefore idiotic.

"Does this injury bother you today?" the woman's voice asked.

"Not at all!" I turned again and managed to see a large, human-height holographic image of my leg with bones and blood vessels visible inside.

"Please, do not change..." the gray-haired Japanese man started, but I immediately turned back to the previous position.

"Yes-yes, sorry," I said and scolded myself for the noticeable enthusiasm in my voice.

"Do you feel pain or discomfort in your leg with sharp weather changes, pressure or humidity fluctuations..."

"No, not at all."

"...with physical exertion..."

"No."

"...when you run, jump from a height..."

"No."

"...or with improper foot placement?"

"No, nothing like that. No."

Silence fell. They again quietly conversed in Japanese. I turned my head, squinting my eyes as much as possible. The gray-haired man stood with his

back to me next to some woman in a white coat, pointing with his hand at something on the volumetric hologram of my foot.

"Mr. Girshevich," the gray-haired man's voice sounded. "Did this injury bother you in any way during your service in the army?"

"No, not at all," I answered, as indifferently and clearly as possible.

"We're asking for your own safety," he continued, "since we want to help you avoid any health-related problems during your service in the Conquistador Corps."

"Of course, sir," I answered, trying to restrain my own breathing. "No problems with this leg, sir."

They whispered some more.

"Do you have any other problems or chronic diseases?" the woman's voice asked again.

"Well... I've had an artificial kidney since I was three..."

"Yes, it's indicated here. Does it bother you?"

"Not at all!"

"Has it ever bothered you after the end of the rehabilitation period?"

"Never," for persuasiveness (and unnecessarily) I shook my head.

"Get dressed, please."

I stumbled twice trying to get my foot, wooden from agitation, into my shoe. Finally, having somehow laced up my shoes, I went out.

Only outside the door did I realize I hadn't heard any answer.

"And when will we find out?" I asked Max.

I didn't specify what exactly, but he immediately understood. Smiling, he checked his tablet.

"Medical test passed! Congratulations. It'll be harder from here."

If only you knew, buddy... If only you knew...

We left the white corridor and soon found ourselves at smooth gray doors without symbols and markings. It seems it only now started to dawn on me what had happened. I passed the medical commission! I don't understand how, but I—passed...

"The test zone begins from here," Max said seriously, without his former enthusiasm. "You perform each task in a separate room. Try to spend minimum time, it affects the result."

He put his palm to the sensor, the lock clicked, and Max opened the door, letting me go first.

A room. A high table (the kind you had to stand in front of) with a touch screen display. Max didn't say a word. On the display—rows of images, sequences of words. For several seconds I couldn't believe everything was really so easy—elementary logical sequences! One sequence needs to be continued, from another exclude the extra element. "Pear, apple, orange, monkey..." Cross out the monkey. Kindergarten. I answered 20 such tasks without wasting time on thinking.

Next room. Banal vision check.

Next. Reaction exercise.

Then more interesting. A table divided by an opaque partition, two chairs on different sides. A girl in a coat on one of them. I sat on the other. The partition turned out to be a touch screen monitor.

"Good afternoon," the girl greeted. "I'll choose pictograms on my monitor. You—on yours, and each time you must guess my symbol. For choosing the first you have a minute, for each next—20 seconds."

It was felt that she was speaking well-learned text.

"Can I ask a question?" I stood up to see her over the partition.

"Of course."

"Is this a telepathy test?"

"The essence of the test has been sufficiently revealed to you, sit down."

Well, thank you. I'm sitting down. The chair is hard. On the touch screen 32 pictograms. A tree, a boat, an atmospheric module—like in a children's book.

From the other side a melodious "bam" sounded.

"I've chosen the first symbol. Each time you hear such a signal, you must choose."

I tried to focus. "You must guess my symbol"—do they want telepathic abilities from me? Nonsense, nobody has even proven they exist. Some kind of intuition? Same thing... A minute

for the first symbol... Why more than for the others? Should I understand the principle? I closed my eyes for a few seconds. Yes. If it's telepathy or other nonsense—that's not for me. Everything will be off, I might as well not press anything. On the other hand, this isn't that kind of outfit. What do they need? To back me into a corner and see what I can do. What do they want? For me to choose the same symbol. How? They didn't specify.

I sharply opened my eyes. Exactly. "The essence of the test has been sufficiently revealed to you." That is, there are no other restrictions. 15 seconds left. 14...

I quickly stood up and walked around the table. Internally I even cringed, expecting to be told to sit back down, but nothing like that happened. I looked at the girl's monitor. Crescent. Quickly returned and, without sitting, pressed such a symbol on mine. "Bam"—she chose another symbol. I looked at her monitor again. Fish. Pressed mine.

After the fifth "bam" she said "enough."

"Does this count as cheating?" I couldn't help asking.

"You didn't break any rules and fit into the allotted time. But you could have been faster."

She smiled almost imperceptibly. Or did I imagine it?

"Faster? Figure it out sooner? Or run faster?"

"Ask me what I pressed."

"Damn! Really!"

Now she was definitely smiling:

"But your method has its own plus."

"What?"

"Answering, I could have told a lie."

This was getting interesting...

Another door closed behind me. An elongated room, like a corridor. At the opposite end—also a door. On a metal table—several weapon samples. The variety was impressive.

Here's a brand new induction pistol, next to it—a completely ancient laser, from those where the base is still an ethylene combustion reaction. And right away—a modern, terribly expensive solid-state pulse blaster. And here's a bulky "heat rifle"—a laser that generates an absolutely invisible beam that melts steel like plastic... And something else incredible that I didn't even identify.

In the room, besides Max and me, there was no one.

"If not for the ethylene laser, I would have thought you have an exhibition of weapons manufacturing achievements here," I said jokingly.

But the guide decided not to notice my witticism.

"So," Max's tone was absolutely serious, "if you need a weapon behind the next doors, which would you choose and why?"

"This one. The inductor."

Max looked at me expectantly.

"I have a decent shot record with such. Good thing. The heat rifle—also a familiar piece, but not very convenient indoors. The ethylene blaster—junk... From the solid-state I shot only once... The rest—I never even held in my hands."

"Good, answer accepted. Let's move on."

With these words he pressed his hand on the door, and it, instead of sliding aside like all normal doors, turned around its axis. A revolving door. But the point isn't that, but that Max simply—bam!—and found himself on the other side, and the door, having turned, was closed again. I didn't understand, is this test—over? Or were the words about weapons needed on the other side—not just like that? Should I take the pistol or not? And no one to ask. But the trick with guessing pictograms taught me a lot. I took the inductor, checked the coil charge level and ammunition, stuck it behind my belt and approached the door. Locked. I hesitantly stopped, but literally in a few seconds something clicked and the door lightly jerked. Open. Waiting another moment, I entered through the revolving door.

9

Darkness. Something unbearably clearly reminded me of Proxima. Jungle. Eternal, endless rain... I seemed to even smell the scents... Rain, withered leaves and tropical herbs... And the painfully familiar sour smell with notes of smoke... The memory was very vivid. My heart started pounding like crazy. I myself didn't understand why all this suddenly surfaced in my memory now. Apparently, I just haven't held weapons in my hands for a long time...

I squinted briefly, and then again started peering into the darkness. Black as pitch. Blood pulses in my temples. Unexpectedly for myself

I discovered that the pistol was already in my hand. So instincts are working.

And now what? They're probably watching me through night vision devices... What do they want to find out? How will I react in a dangerous situation? Is this the corner they've backed me into? And what if I start shooting? The inductor is combat, real, I just checked myself. So it turns out—I could kill someone? And considering that no one gave me an order to take weapons from the previous room... Nonsense, they wouldn't have laid out a loaded pistol if it wasn't intended for this room... Or—is that the point of the check? How should I act? Do nothing without an order or be ready for danger at any moment?

The first thing that happens in complete darkness—you stop feeling the flow of time. How long have I been here? Theoretically—about two minutes, no more... But I was already starting to doubt. Something clearly clicked several times somewhere ahead and to the right. I immediately crouched on one knee and aimed at the sound. What if there are people there? Instructors of this damned company who underestimated me? How to behave?

Or just call Max? After all, sometimes everything here is extremely simple... No, that's unreasonable. In a combat situation I would never do such a thing, I'd be afraid to reveal myself. So, not that. Stand up and try to find the exit? Not that... What in general can be in a dark room that you can fire at with an inductor without problems? A robot? Or will lit targets appear now?

And then I understood. Felt. Smelled it. Everything merged in my head into a single picture. That's why the darkness. That's what the pile of papers is for saying no one is responsible here for my life. That's where the memories of the disastrous swamps of Proxima come from. Sour smell with notes of smoke. I hadn't smelled it for almost ten years and thought—I won't smell it again. Damn, until this second I didn't even know I still remembered it! I froze, completely turning into hearing. Everything fits. Here's who you can fire at without problems, who sees in the dark and who will "test" you to the fullest!

Damn swamp spiders of Proxima.

Huge as a good calf, predatory arthropods. In Latin they're called "lycosa satanas," that is "satanic tarantula," and in my opinion that's too mild a name. To say I was very scared at that moment—that doesn't convey even a tenth of my horror. Physically felt a lump of pain and nausea somewhere in the solar plexus region.

My heart pounded like crazy. There wasn't enough air. My desperate attempts to quiet my breathing echoed with dull pain in my chest. With my own eyes I saw these creatures only once. From a platoon of fifteen fighters, two of us survived. Up to our ears smeared with someone else's blood, we ran, dragging on ourselves what remained of the third... Not understanding that this scrap of human body simply couldn't be alive...

I froze, almost stopped breathing.

The spider attacks its victim as soon as it moves—swiftly, faster than an earth snake. But freezing—that's also not the solution. The beast will approach close enough and still at some point in a matter of seconds will tear you to pieces with powerful chelicerae. So—need to shoot. And as quickly as possible.

True, after the very first shot the spider will rush at me like stung. The flash will illuminate the room only for a moment. I'll need to manage to see it and aim more precisely. And if I don't manage to finish it off in a second and a half—I'm done for.

So, need to manage.

I took three deep and slow breaths. Held my breath "on half-exhale." Aimed in the direction from which the clicking of the creature's paws had come before.

Let's hope there's only one spider here... And I smoothly pressed the trigger. Flash!

There were six spiders.

End of Chunk 05