Section 30 / 39

...would have taken more than one from the infected planet. Irma decided that I should live!

I was stunned. And not so much by what I heard as by Vandlyk's intonation. It sounded like the truth. Like the holiest truth in her life.

"Wait a minute... Irma was in the infirmary, why would the 'Artillerist' contact a person who's dying?"

"Who's dying?" Vandlyk didn't understand. "Irma?"

"She had cancer, stage four!"

"Irma?!"

"Who else!"

"She didn't have any cancer!"

"I saw the scans! And she told me herself. She started having headaches and vomiting, they shoved her into the medical unit..." I recalled her story there, at site "Two Zeros." "Put a hospital nightgown on her..."

"A fucking one," Vandlyk suddenly corrected.

"What?"

She had an impassive look.

"In the original, 'fucking,'" Vandlyk raised her eyes as if remembering. "'Three months after arrival came the headaches, vomiting and other shit; they shoved me into the medical unit, put this fucking hospital nightgown on me, like "ready to meet the pathologist"'... Blah-blah-blah, I don't remember the rest... Our favorite movie."

"In what sense?"

"In the literal sense: it's a quote from a film. And Irma didn't spend a single day in the medical unit."

A smirk flashed in Vandlyk's eyes.

"No..." I shook my head, as if hoping this would help keep reality from falling apart. "You're confusing... She wasn't talking about a film, but about what actually happened... Irma was lying in the medical unit, heard gunfire and..."

"That's all correct," Vandlyk interrupted. "Only not Irma, but the film's heroine. It's called 'The Fifth Stage.' One woman arrives on Mars with her husband and little daughter and learns she has cancer. There's no point flying to Earth, the flight will only finish her off. The suffering begins, the whole set of denial, bargaining, anger, and whatever else..." Vandlyk had a completely carefree look, as if we were sitting in some café sipping lemonade. "Then..."

"...a riot breaks out in the Martian prison, the inmates break through into the underground town and seize it. Our heroine is completely helpless at this time. But at some point she realizes that the terminal illness is her strength, and there's no other way to save her family. She takes a full backpack of mining explosives and goes to the bandits. Before arranging a mass grave for them, she records a message to her little daughter, whom she'll never see again. It began with the words 'If you're listening to this, it means you and dad escaped, returned to Earth, and you're already eighteen...' And closer to the end, that's where it talks about the fucking nightgown and the shooting. And Irma and I always cried at that part. We watched it a hundred times."

I sat completely bewildered. I would never have believed Vandlyk... But she quoted word for word what Irma had told me... "She's lying," pounded in my head. "This can't be true. Shouldn't be true. I don't want this to be true..."

"Why? Why would she make up a whole story?"

"Irma? I don't know, Gileleh. She changed a lot. Nothing remained of the Irma I knew from the first arrival."

"Wait-wait-wait..." one thought flashed in my head, and I grabbed it with both hands. "If there's one quarantine spot on the ship, and Irma decides who will live... Then why doesn't she fly herself? You'll say she loved you more than life?"

"Nathan," Vandlyk answered sadly. "She didn't want to live without him..."

"Nathan Gog?"

"They had an affair. After all, two years of flight. She didn't tell you? We miscalculated the exit point... And then Nathan became the first to transform. First he disappeared somewhere... We found the cocoon... And three days later Gog returned. At night. Burst into the soldiers' quarters and attacked the sleeping people. Managed to kill four before someone finally shot him in the head. And two days later, from the medical unit where the bodies lay, those four who died in the fight with Gog broke out. Well, and so on... 'Artillerist Gans' was silent. Earth didn't respond. And then Rosalyn came up with this whole mutagen story."

"Why 'came up with'?"

"Because there was no mutagen. Rosalyn hoped to force them to send shuttles. And she died... And so on..."

"Wait-wait... There was a mutagen!"

"In the excited imagination of the mission leader who was on the 'Artillerist'! And Irma just poured coffee into that thermos. Coffee waste from the machine, diluted with water to the state of a mysterious dark sludge... She knew no one would open it until we returned to Earth."

My head spun sickeningly from the fact that each of her words turned everything upside down.

"I don't understand..." I tried to somehow comprehend it all, but couldn't. "The mutagen exists... And it works!"

I almost mentioned the reapers but bit my tongue in time.

"Works?" Vandlyk even chuckled. "Did Irma tell you that?"

"Why would she drag me to the research station then? For coffee grounds?"

"So the two of you were there? Or was there someone else?"

I flinched, suddenly remembering that this was an interrogation, and I was a detainee.

"Were where?" I belatedly tried to feign holy innocence.

"Too late, lieutenant, you let it slip. You were there together. So you hid the arsenal together too. These are links in one chain, right?"

"Think what you want."

"What's there to think! In the morning we'll bring her here, and I'll ask."

"Don't you dare touch her!" I blurted out unexpectedly, though honestly, I hadn't planned to. It just burst out. Because Vandlyk seemed to deliberately go after everything dear to me.

"Defending her? I understand you. She knows how to be pleasant, doesn't she? Smart, interesting. What did she tell you? What a bastard I am?"

I didn't know what to answer.

"And did she tell you why she wears a deserter's bracelet?"

"Isn't it because you decided so?"

"She tried to steal the 'Three Crowns of Cortez'!"

"Our battleship?" I asked incredulously. "When did she manage that?"

"During the mothballing of site 'Two Zeros,' the first wave reconnaissance group found Irma in the infirmary. Long-term freezing. They immediately lifted her aboard the 'Three Crowns.' We weren't at all sure she would survive. I went back down to the planet because they started deploying a new base here... Irma came to and, to everyone's surprise, felt quite well..."

"I remember how we first talked by video channel... She said then: 'Thank you for coming back for me.' And I broke down crying..."

Muscles unexpectedly played on Vandlyk's face. Her thin lips twisted and went white.

"Like a fool..." she spat out quietly. "And a few days later, Irma snuck onto the bridge and tried to activate the reverse jump mode. Such a turn of events, Gileleh! She simply decided to abandon all of us—and there were four hundred people here then—in this hell forever!"

"But you would have been picked up—two more ships jumped here..."

"But Irma didn't know about that! If the 'Three Crowns' had come alone, like the 'Artillerist Gans' once did, they wouldn't have come back for us for at least forty years! You think anyone would have survived? But she didn't care!"

She screamed this in my face, and her voice echoed off the walls with a short reverberation.

Tiny droplets of saliva sprinkled my cheeks. Vandlyk pressed her lips together again.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Why? Because it's not even your idea—to steal the arsenal! Now it's clear as day! And I couldn't understand how you could come up with such a thing! Turns out my friend tried hard here. Her roof is seriously gone, Gileleh. And you just ended up on the wrong team. But it's not too late to fix that!"

I was silent. Vandlyk walked to the window and slapped the sensor panel. The plastic shade on the mirror slid up with a clink.

"So," Vandlyk said tiredly, "where's the arsenal?"

"Alright..." I ventured. "But first I have one more question. Just give an honest answer, and I'll tell everything."

I expected her to get angry. But it seemed the story had taken all of Vandlyk's strength. She just nodded.

"What is factor 'B'?"

For a second she frowned in surprise.

"Is this so important?"

"Just tell me."

She nodded.

"'B' stands for security. Security of the 'Conquistador Corps' company. In each mission, it's different."

"And here?"

Vandlyk cast a quick glance at the mirror. Then nodded again.

"I understand what you're getting at," she finally said. "But since I promised to answer honestly... Factor 'B' for the Ix-Chel mission is the absence of capable relatives on Earth who could sue the Corps in forty years. Honest enough?"

"Because we might not return?"

"Yes. A civilian death on a mission is a catastrophe for a private company. And you had to be dragged here along with children. Understand?"

I nodded. Actually, this was a test. And not at all for honesty.

"Then it's your turn, Gileleh. Where's the arsenal?"

She even leaned forward, as if an extra twenty centimeters could prevent her from hearing.

"We didn't hide it," I spread my hands. "Didn't hide it in any special place. Just dragged it about a hundred meters from the entrance and stacked it on the cargo platform. It was snowing, remember? The crates are flat. In half an hour they were already covered. And now, probably about two meters of snow piled up..."

She threw me a triumphant look. Without saying anything, she suddenly stood up and swiftly left. Just like that—the door slammed, and I was left alone with her empty chair. I knew she'd rushed off to check my words. And I knew she'd be back soon. Because I lied. Her honesty about factor "B" meant only one thing—they really weren't planning to leave me alive.

For some time I enjoyed the light of my favorite flickering lamps and their disgusting hum. Then the lock clicked again. I shuddered. I thought it was too soon.

Four entered. Without suits, in uniform, with weapons. All unfamiliar.

"Here?" one asked uncertainly.

"No," answered the second and looked at me. "You'll come with us."

"Where?" foreboding unpleasantly squeezed my chest.

"Maybe inject him with something?" the first asked again.

The second waved it off.

"Bring him out," and raised his rifle, aiming at me.

Two took me under the arms and put me on my feet.

"Guys, I can walk on my own... Tell me where..."

"Not far," someone threw out gloomily. "Don't jerk."

"Maybe it's better here after all?" the first asked again. He was clearly afraid.

"Shut up," the second said quietly.

And they dragged me to the door.

16

We found ourselves in a long bright corridor, and I realized with surprise that all this time I'd been in our hospital building.

The two holding me under the arms walked very briskly. Even hurriedly. I had no doubt that if I stumbled, they wouldn't even waste time letting me get up—they'd just drag me on.

There wasn't a soul around. We passed by dark windows of patient boxes, and then the corridor turned. Around the corner were several people in white coats; seeing us, they bustled and hurried away somewhere.

The window of the nearest box was lit, and I turned my head.

"Look ahead!" one of my escorts barked.

"Let him," the other said indifferently. "Who's he gonna tell..."

On the other side of the thick glass, a man in a hospital gown sat on the bed with his back to us. As soon as we drew level with the window, he started and suddenly jumped—like a cat, hands forward. And immediately jumped again, but now... It's hard to phrase it so it doesn't seem like delirium to me myself, but he landed on the wall. Didn't hit it, but simply stuck and sat there, like a fly. Like a gecko. And turned to us a surprised face... An ordinary, slightly anxious and very familiar human face.

"Corporal Okamura..." this name burst from me like a groan.

The escorts dragged me on. Ahead another window glowed. I didn't expect to see anyone there, but noticing a silhouette, I stared at it until my eyes burned. Behind the window, pressing his forehead to the glass, stood and watched us with an angry cold gaze...

"My God..."

Okamura number two saw us off with his gaze, comically pressing his nose to the glass. They drag me on without slowing down, and I keep looking back.

"There's two of them?" I say, half-stating, half-asking.

I see a third window and from afar fix my gaze into it. A few more steps... I can see that near the window itself there's no one. But then we draw level, and I can look inside... I'm not even surprised anymore: on the floor sits the third Corporal Okamura. Naked. Tattooed dragons play on his muscles, and in his hands he holds a gnawed pig's leg. Raw. And greedily devours it without looking our way.

"They eat raw meat?" I ask, but of course no one answers me.

The corridor turned once more, and we approached some doors. One of the guys applied his key card. When we crossed the threshold, I turned and managed to read the sign "infectious disease ward."

Elevator. We wait. Where are they taking me? And I know the answer, don't I? I'm just afraid to admit it to myself—because then I'll have to do something. I'll have to fight, and that's scary and probably painful... And most importantly—without a chance... But this doesn't change the truth: they're taking me to execute Vandlyk's words. "And then with him in any case—it's all over."

The elevator emitted a melodious "bam," and we entered.

"Guys, contact the control officer," I ventured. "Tell her I pointed to the wrong place."

"Shut your trap," one of them snapped and painfully jabbed me with his elbow under the ribs.

The cabin jerked and went down. Our hospital has only three floors. I didn't know which one we were on, but I easily guessed the destination by how long we descended. When the doors opened, I realized I'd guessed right. The basement.

To the right in the distance, stairs were visible, and I memorized this just in case. They dragged me to the left.

My heart rate pounded in my ears. A veil covered my eyes, as if I were looking through fine snow. And this snowy curtain also trembled in time with my pulse. I surreptitiously looked over the two who were dragging me. The guy on the left had a pistol on his belt. If I'm lucky, I could probably snatch it. But the one on the right... Though no, screw him. Two are walking behind with rifles—and that's the problem. They're keeping a competent distance of...

...five paces and are unlikely to give even one chance. Probably, if I weigh everything soberly, I don't have much to lose... But how scary it is to die...

"Guys, let me at least have a smoke," I said, because nothing else came to mind.

It came out as some kind of pitiful "have a smoke": the air in my lungs ran out on the second word, and I barely squeezed out two more.

For some reason they slowed down, and I immediately seized this opportunity.

"It's all the same to you anyway... It's only three minutes... And for me... You understand... I mean, I understand where you're taking me. I understand..."

My heart drummed as if I'd just broken my own hundred-meter sprint record, and I had to gasp for air every other word. "I understand where they're taking me. I understand..."

I still hoped that maybe they would somehow convince me that this wasn't an execution. The escorts exchanged glances. No one was convincing.

"Vape or tobacco?"

"Tobacco," I said for some reason, and inside me a black hole formed that sucked all my guts into a tight knot. So it's true.

Everyone looked at the broad-shouldered guy who was walking behind and was obviously in charge. He, as if hesitating, looked around, reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar.

"Will this do?"

"I doubt I'll ever smoke anything better!" I tried to joke, but they didn't appreciate it.

The two holding me positioned themselves so they wouldn't hit each other if they had to shoot. One pulled out and cocked his pistol, the other just put his hand on the holster.

"Just to smoke, remember?" and the leader pulled out a lighter.

Gas. Just what I need! I haven't figured out yet what I'll do next, but first I'll just smash it on the floor under the feet of the guy who pulled out the pistol. It'll explode and that will inevitably give me a priceless half-second. That'll be enough—I'm almost sure! Or they'll shoot me... The broad-shouldered one, hesitating, turned the lighter in his hands. It seemed he was thinking about the same thing I was. Then he suddenly pulled out a knife and cut the tip of the cigar himself. Yeah, it would be too much luxury to get a knife too... And then he stuck the cigar in his mouth and lit it himself. The lighter went back into his pocket...

After exhaling a cloud of smoke, he held the cigar out to me.

"No funny business, okay?" he said quietly. "We're treating you like a human being."

"Like a human being"... How damn offensive to hear that from executioners...

I took the cigar and lit up. What else was there. The place they're taking me is probably somewhere very close. A shower or something. Where it's easy to wash off blood. They'll shove me inside and shoot me in the back. And that's all... I desperately didn't want to go to slaughter like a sheep. But something else terrified me even more—to rush at them like this, without a plan and without a chance. It terrified me so much that I despised myself for it, couldn't pull myself together. I just took a full mouth of spicy smoke and closed my eyes.

I often imagined this. I don't know why, but the thought of the condemned who, contrary to the logic of the world order, walk to execution with their own feet, offering their neck to the executioner to make it more convenient for him, always amazed me. Try that with an ordinary house cat. It's not even about execution, but just about taking him to the vet and letting him smell a dozen frightened animals that were there before him. Oh, this guy won't offer you his neck, no! He won't sit in the electric chair so you can blindfold him. He'd rather claw your eyes out... But people behave differently. Our brain plays a cruel joke on us. It says: "You're already dead, boy, so let it be quick and painless. And at least a second later." Anyway, my brain was babbling exactly this. This and all sorts of nonsense like: "What if they're not taking you to execution." Yeah right. To a cartoon screening... I need to do something, buddy.

I opened my eyes. The guy with the pistol immediately gripped the handle more comfortably. They're on alert. I could try, but, damn... It's almost the same as shooting myself. Or isn't it?

"Maybe don't, guys?" saying this, I slowly started moving sideways, pretending to examine the tip of the cigar.

"Here we go," the guy with the pistol muttered and aimed the weapon at my chest. "Smoke and let's go."

"Aim for the head," the leader advised.

It seemed my brain was vibrating like a high-voltage transformer. I was forcing myself to think of something. I remembered how one doctor I knew was taken hostage. Long ago, before Vira. He worked on an ambulance, and they...

...were called to a police station where a detainee had taken ill. But he was faking. They took the medics hostage, seized the station. Everything as usual: give us a suitcase of money and a hovercraft. And so my acquaintance, along with others, found himself at gunpoint of guys who had nothing to lose. Not thinking of anything better, he started quoting Ecclesiastes to them. All that "a time to cast away stones and a time to gather." At first they paid no attention to him, then beat him up a bit to shut up. And then they grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him out onto the stairs right in front of the policemen who had come from all over Kyiv. Everyone thought they'd demonstratively shoot him now, like, look, we're not joking. But they just shoved the doctor out for free. He was still shouting after them that all this is vanity of vanities and everyone's end is the same... And by evening those guys surrendered to the police without killing anyone.

"Guys, maybe let's talk," I said, nervously taking a drag. "Remember from the Bible: 'All this is vanity and chasing after the wind.'"

They looked at me strangely and exchanged glances. Perhaps if I knew Ecclesiastes better, I would have quoted something more appropriate.

"And the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit..." I continued uncertainly.

The last two hundred years the Bible hasn't been very popular. But they were surprised, and that's the main thing. And I, as if accidentally, took another step to the left.

"Stop!" the commander caught on.

"To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven!" I even raised my voice and took another half-step. "A time to die and a time to be born! A time to cast away stones and..."

And here I swiftly moved behind the back of the nearest executioner, using him as a shield. The holster was right there. I threw my hand forward and almost felt the ribbed surface of the grip.

But he turned to me before the imaginary sensations became real. Quickly and jerkily. I didn't even notice the movement with which he hit me in the jaw. Someone just spun the corridor around an axis, and I sat on my ass, surprised by the unexpected ringing in my ears.

"What a little shit," the escort said without malice and rubbed his fist.

"Let's just do it here," the guy with the pistol took the weapon in both hands and looked at the commander.

Suddenly something unpleasantly scraped along the steel ventilation duct under the ceiling. As if a pack of rabid hedgehogs ran through inside. The one with the pistol instantly aimed somewhere upward, forgetting about me. The others snatched their weapons and crouched, pulling their heads into their shoulders. The scraping repeated three times louder.

Paint and dust rained down from above.

"Breach threat!!!" the broad-shouldered one suddenly screamed like mad. "Breach threat through hospital ventilation! Basement, south wing!!!!"

I didn't immediately understand that he was shouting this into the radio. A second later, an equally hysterical "Same here!" came from the speaker, followed by a firm "Don't shoot until breach! No one shoots until breach!" And immediately the hospital building filled with the sharp intermittent sound of a siren.

One of the escorts pulled a multivisor from his pouch and put it on. Another turned on the underbarrel flashlight on his rifle and aimed at the duct box. I realized serious trouble was starting. For about two seconds I still considered whether I should try to take the pistol from the nearest conquistador. But then I looked at the expression on their faces and realized that my execution was postponed. And maybe canceled.

"Guys, at least take off the handcuffs, huh?"

The broad-shouldered one waved it off without taking his eyes off the ceiling.

"Hey, what are you doing, take off the handcuffs! I'm unarmed anyway!!!" I shouted, suddenly clearly realizing: the execution is canceled, but not death.

"Generators!!!" the radio screeched. "Shutting down generators!!!"

And in a second the building plunged into darkness. Damn sticky darkness.

I immediately remembered Okamura's room, where the unexpected darkness stuck in my throat like a damp ball of cotton. It was as if I was there. And in a moment I was transported to the corridors of the research center at site "Two Zeros." Before my eyes appeared the chimera in the form of Granny Hunchback. I remembered how she amplified my terror a thousand times with infrasound inaudible to the ear... However, it wasn't so bad right now. I have to admit, not so bad yet... Grabbing onto this thought, I somehow miraculously suppressed the panic attack. The light from the flashlight of one of the rifles was generally enough. "This isn't darkness yet," I told myself, "just semi-gloom."

For a second a heavy silence hung. It felt like every person in the building froze.

"Guys, take off the handcuffs," I asked again, flicking the cigar onto the floor.

"Shut up," the broad-shouldered one hissed.

They were waiting for some disaster from the air duct, and you don't have to be a genius to understand—the danger is in that same invisible "pack of hedgehogs" that rattled through the duct two minutes ago. Something inside.

Reapers. If Irma hasn't bred something else under her bed, then it's reapers, of course.

Something scraped again. Shuffled, clicked in the air duct and suddenly—stopped... Seemingly right above us. The broad-shouldered one put his finger to his lips. I found the handcuff case on his belt with my eyes. The key should be there.

Suddenly the radio exploded with a frantic: "Breach-ch-ch!!!"—through the interference came the sound of a long hopeless burst from an induction rifle, and the transmission cut off. Throwing their heads back, the guys spun their barrels in all directions. Silence again. Deathly.

Then the one in the multivisor started shooting furiously with his pistol at the far end of the corridor. I pressed against the wall. The broad-shouldered one's induction rifle roared, illuminating the corridor with flashes of shots. I managed to make out some movement, but not clearly... Many... Too big for reapers... Avoiding the floor, moving along the walls and ceiling...

A scream! Wild, frenzied, panicked howling right next to me! Instinctively I jump back and turn. A conquistador is trying to shake off something from his shoulder the size of a German shepherd. In the semi-darkness, enormous claws flicker at hurricane speed... Crazed with fear or pain, the conquistador gives a continuous burst into the wall. Something, clinging to him, continues to hammer him with claws. Warm spray flies onto my face, and I instinctively turn away...

It's a reaper. Only some gigantic one.

"Get down," says the reasonable kid in my head whose advice I usually ignore. But not this time—this thought sounds too frightened in my head, and I immediately throw myself to the floor. Just in time: the guy with the giant reaper on his shoulder turns the rifle in my direction, and the barrel, spewing metal, passes over my head, deafening me painfully. I manage to notice how the burst cuts the broad-shouldered one in half, scattering charred scraps around. From out of nowhere another reaper jumps on the other escort. Lord, how huge it is!