Chunk 33

I should probably tell Irma about this. But the realization that there's nothing I can do anyway made me just stand there, pressing my daughter to me, and wait. Whatever will be, will be. Irma took my arm and laid her head on my shoulder. Strange as it was, it felt cozy and good.

From the group of "black sleeves" a conquistador with a dog separated and walked our way. That woman—she stood right in front of me—started somehow strangely fidgeting and shuffling in place. The first thought was she needed a bathroom. Even thought—good thing we let her go ahead. The shepherd was concentratedly sniffing the air. They deliberately led it very close to the line. Then suddenly the dog raised its intelligent eyes and lunged forward not even with barking, but with some guttural howl. The conquistador pulled the leash so hard veins bulged on his neck. The woman recoiled and ran into me, hitting Elza with her elbow. She woke up and cried loudly. The dog snapped its teeth and raged furiously in our direction.

All this happened in one second. The conquistador grabbed the shepherd by the collar with both hands and barely dragged it back.

"For inspection!" he barked. "You four!"

He pointed at me and Irma, the woman and some man behind. Several "black sleeves" clicked their rifles and ran to us.

"Step aside!" the conquistador commanded. "Don't hold up the line!"

The woman fussed even more. As if her patience was running out. A tall guy with a suitcase ran up. I was surprised, recognizing our Anton. He opened the suitcase on his knee and pulled out several white "pen" testers. Suddenly I realized he'd inevitably recognize me and, at minimum, be surprised I'm not under arrest... For a second I was in stupor and, it seems, didn't breathe.

Then it dawned on me. Turning away from Anton, I approached the conquistador with the dog and showed him my index finger pad. On it was visible the mark from a puncture and characteristic bruise left by the tester.

"Here. Went through at night."

He examined the finger, doubtfully chewed his lips and, apparently, decided testers should be conserved.

"Go through," and impatiently shook his head. "Give the child to mom."

I involuntarily smiled that he called Irma that. She smiled too—a bit awkwardly. Trying not to betray my relief, I handed Elza to her. Walked along the line and started waiting.

Anton didn't look my way. Greeted Irma, did a test on the man who stood behind. And suddenly Irma anxiously turned to the strange woman.

"What's wrong with you? Are you ill?"

She was muttering something. Now, when attention was drawn to her, she fell silent in fright. Then suddenly said loudly, addressing no one:

"Capybara takes everything on himself!"

And immediately added, looking around absently:

"I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt!"

"Lady, raise your hands where I can see them!" barked the conquistador with the rifle, shouldering the sight.

The dog again went off in furious barking. The crowd recoiled in all directions. Irma, pressing Elza to herself, ran up to me.

"Chimera," she said in a whisper. "Do what I say. Plug your ears with fingers and open your mouth wide, like during an explosion! Do it! You'll really want to pull out your fingers. Pull them out—you'll die! You understood?!"

"God, but Elza!" I turned to my daughter, who also looked with surprise toward that woman. "Elza, come to daddy, sweetheart. I'll cover your little ears..."

"No!" Irma jerked my jacket. "I'll do it myself! Do what I say!"

"You've lost your mind!"

I squatted down before Elza.

"It'll be very loud, sweetheart," and covered her little ears with my thumbs, so as to manage to hold her head if she started struggling. If only I can endure myself...

"Gil! You can't! Irma sat down nearby, spoke hastily, constantly looking back to where the strange woman stood under rifle muzzles. "I took the powder for over a year. Remember? My body can take it. Yours can't. Plug your ears, and I'll take care of Elza."

She cast one more glance over her shoulder, but froze as if her neck jammed. Between the woman's lips appeared something resembling

the legs of a huge insect. Four, as thick as a pinky—they stretched her mouth like dental spreaders, baring teeth and pink gums. I expected now from her mouth would appear the cephalothorax of some creature, when I noticed her teeth were clenched, and the four "legs," actually, grew from her gums. They spread apart more and more and grew longer, stretching lips and cheeks to some incredible degree. I even winced, as if feeling the pain a person should be experiencing. But this woman wasn't a person.

"Why aren't they shooting..." I exhaled. "Why aren't they shooting!"

The woman's mouth transformed into a huge megaphone of stretched skin. Everyone stared at her dumbstruck. Instead of opening fire, the "black sleeves" with crazed faces lowered their weapons—just like those who met my double in the hospital.

Irma painfully kicked my ankle.

"Plug your ears! And give me your daughter!!!"

"It's a banshee!" suddenly with despair screamed the conquistador with the dog, as if coming to his senses. "Banshee! BA-A-A-AN-SHE-E-E-E!!!"

"Too late," Irma whispered with just her lips.

And immediately the chimera screamed.

It's as if at a concert you'd be standing right by the speaker wall and low frequencies made your teeth hum. Only a hundred times stronger. The pain that pierced me was so intense, as if someone stuck red-hot nails in my ears. All muscles seized up at once with a powerful painful spasm, my stomach twisted into a tight knot—I had to fall to my knees. My vision darkened. I was firmly covering Elza's ears with my fingers, but almost didn't feel my own body and didn't know how long I'd last.

Then I felt how the tips of Irma's cool fingers insistently and tightly plugged my ears and as if immediately cut off half the frequencies. The spasm stopped instantly, only a low nauseating vibration remained in the back of my head. Now I heard this sound mainly with "bones," and it no longer pierced my brain with fiery rods. I felt I was kneeling in icy snow slush, but my hands still embraced Elza's head, covering her little ears with fingers. She stood with eyes squinted and palms pressed firmly to my wrists.

(Section 3)

A sound sharp as the crack of a dry branch rang out, and in a moment everything fell silent. I opened my eyes. Right above us hovered a combat drone, raising a light breeze with its propellers. The muzzle of the suspended cannon anxiously turned here and there. The chimera sprawled her arms amid dirty snow in a large bloody stain. All around everyone lay. Someone was struggling, trying to get up, someone didn't move. Elza was frightened, but that's all. I jumped up and turned around. Irma was terrible to look at. Pale, she barely stood on her feet.

"How are you?" I picked her up under the arm, and she fell into my embrace.

"Fine," with one hand she touched her ear and looked at her fingers, as if expecting to see blood on them. "I told you, powder is the path to perfection... And you didn't believe."

"You can barely stand on your feet... Path to perfection..."

"But I'm alive. Give me about two minutes..."

I pressed her to me. From the side one could think we were simply embracing. Actually, she almost hung on me, heavily laying her head on my shoulder.

"Did they die?" I asked and looked around again.

Several had already managed to get up, but most still lay.

"Not all. About half. The rest are coming to. We need to go."

"Don't rush... You can barely stand."

"No. We have little time."

Irma indeed recovered quickly. And in five minutes, having surrendered weapons at the deserted checkpoint, we were at the entrance to the storage complex. Capybara and seven more gloomy guys were waiting for us there.

"No powder at all?" one of them asked instead of "hello." "Wouldn't hurt to pop some right now."

"None at all," Irma cut off. "And hasn't been for a while. Follow me."

"Aren't we waiting for anyone?" I was surprised.

"Everyone's here," and Irma plunged into the endless storage passages.

I caught up with her and took her elbow.

"We have fewer pilots than shuttles," I quietly told Irma. "And Alex is a pilot, and an excellent one at that. I was generally sure he's with us."

"Not with us," she only nervously shrugged her shoulders and walked ahead.

I caught up with her again.

"You didn't even propose it to him? Extra hands—an extra shuttle!"

"We'll manage."

"I thought Alex was your friend..."

"No. He's not with us anymore."

"Did you quarrel or what? Irma! What's with you?!"

She pretended not to hear.

Soon we found ourselves in the hangar with the yellow-black gates of the arsenal. Now everything inside was different. Four dozen tables, our serving line from the cafeteria, coffee and drink machines, stacks of trays. A lone visitor listlessly poked at his breakfast in the far corner. Capybara pushed me aside and went straight to his table. We passed through the hall to the arsenal gates. They were no longer locked, and the surveillance cameras, instead of turning their electronic faces in all directions, sadly drooped their heads.

Already entering inside with the others, I saw how Capybara, approaching the lone visitor from behind, with lightning movement slammed the poor guy's forehead against the table. A rectangular

plastic plate clanked pitifully, splashing oatmeal. Capybara showed us an "okay" sign.

Inside was a food warehouse. And that's all. We climbed narrow utility stairs to the very ceiling and came out onto a platform. Everyone squinted from the glow of large lighting panels and looked under their feet. Up the stairs, catching up with us, Capybara thundered with his boots.

"So where?" he asked, having climbed up.

"Above the lamps," said Irma.

"Where? Just like that?"

It seemed the lights were attached to the ceiling. Actually, though, the panels hung on thin cables, and above them was about another half meter of empty space. The bright light perfectly masked this hiding place, and we glued the containers above the lamps—with ordinary molecular adhesive. That's the whole trick. Irma got out solvent, and in two minutes we opened the first box.

They looked like huge pods. Streamlined, matte black. A bright red spot on the safety lever and a large green key for automatic fire correction. "Shiva" synth-nuclear rifles. I lowered Elza to the floor and took one out. The ribbed handle, covered with some elastic material, was surprisingly comfortable. In hands the rifle seemed lighter than it looked. I inserted a battery, and the magnetic coil hummed barely audibly, gathering power. The automatic buttstock extended itself, pressed into my shoulder and locked.

"Holy shit," burst from Capybara. "Does it also open beer?"

Someone giggled. Elza hugged my leg, as if hiding.

"I want to be held," she said quietly.

"In a moment, sweetheart."

I unclipped the magazine. Gray pellets of lithium deuteride in a transparent plastic shell resembled toy balls for all those various colored children's "pistols"...

Capybara even grunted.

"I read about them! Only a paralytic would miss."

Yeah... I generally had a hard time imagining how you could miss shooting a thermonuclear charge... A meter this way or that didn't matter at all...

"Listen carefully," Irma was collected and serious. "We think there are many people on the cruiser, but all of them are scientists. Military—just a few, if any at all. But there are combat drones. They'll activate as soon as we dock unauthorized. Shoot carefully. Puncture the hull—we won't fly far."

She addressed everyone, but for some reason looked only at me. As if I was the main gunman here. I don't even know how to describe that look of hers. But I didn't like it. Really didn't like it.

Outside snow was falling. We quickly moved away from the warehouses. Nobody raised an alarm, and this was incredible success. Two guys pushed a levitation cart with aviation batteries. Elza sat on my back—just on the backpack, as if we were playing horseback riders. With her little hands she tightly gripped my neck, and her warm cheek pressed to my ear.

Ahead from the white haze already appeared the wire fencing of the temporary Perimeter. Someone came out to meet us with raised hand. I managed to notice how Capybara lazily raised "Shiva," not bothering to aim. And then the figure ahead drowned in a white-blue flash. An explosion, low and sharp as a thunderclap, made me draw my head into my shoulders.

We didn't even stop. A few more flashes consumed the gates and, chewing, spat them out as red-hot mangled fragments. I don't know if anyone else was hurt—no one else risked coming out to meet us. We ran between the melted doors as if we were a group of athletes on a jog.

About a hundred meters later Irma signaled to stop so we could catch our breath. The landing pad was within arm's reach.

"We'll take position at the very edge," she said, "and the reapers will come out themselves. Don't try to hit anyone specific, aim at the crowd so the charge hits concrete. Don't shoot toward the shuttles! Any questions?"

There were no questions.

We noticed the reapers from afar. They raised fountains of snow, resembling some crazed snow-clearing machines. The reapers were big. Maybe even bigger than those I'd seen in the hospital.

"On command," said Irma, kneeling and raising her rifle.

"Lower your head, like you're hiding, okay?" I addressed Elza. "And close your little eyes."

"Okay, daddy."

"And hold on tight, okay? Very tight."

Instead of answering she kissed me on the cheek. Never, in any most hellish nightmare, did I go into battle with my little daughter on my back.

Finally Irma commanded: "Fire!" A wall of blindingly bright fire rose ahead. The rumble seemed to shake even the concrete under us. I expected one of these creatures would burst from the snow right in front of us any moment. But no one broke through the wall of fire. When after half a minute of shooting we lowered our rifles, ahead was only a black strip of scorched concrete. Nothing more.

"It's a damn shooting gallery!" Capybara exclaimed with delight.

Irma looked at him grimly but didn't answer.

Reapers attacked us three more times, but none could get closer than ten meters. Then it got quiet. In about five minutes we carefully moved on.

The burnt strip nearby resembled obsidian—the same smooth glassy surface. We, just in case, made a detour and went around it. Ahead in the snowy haze the contours of a large landing shuttle were already visible.

"Wait here," Irma commanded when about twenty meters remained to it. "Only the lieutenant with me."

Not sure this was a good idea. But Irma acted as if she knew what she was doing. She took the cart with batteries and went first. I rummaged with my eyes, looking out for new reapers. Irma, on the contrary, was calm. It seemed nothing interested her except the cart. Elza curled up on my back in a small warm lump. I don't know what she felt now. But if she was afraid, she didn't show it at all.

The shuttle's bulk already loomed over us. Only now did I realize this wasn't at all that landing boat I'd descended to the planet on, but a large assault module capable of taking a hundred people aboard. Then suddenly I was as if pierced by a thousand small needles.

"Irma... We have too few batteries! For such a hulk you need almost three times more, if not..."

"No," she waved off in her favorite manner, explaining nothing.

I was about to object. It seems I even remembered the exact number of standard aviation batteries on this type of boat. Sixteen, that's how many. But I didn't have time to say anything, because we approached close enough, and I made out the narrow windows of the pilot cabin on the shuttle's elongated wolf muzzle. They were broken. And tongues of snow, like tear tracks, descended down the metal cheeks...

"Irma... Irma!" I caught up with her. "It won't fly! The shuttle's broken!"

"I know."

And she quickened her pace, deftly weaving between the landing supports. We left the shuttle behind, and she didn't think of slowing down. At some moment Irma suddenly turned around, and I thought she'd explain something, but she only said "faster" and quickened her pace herself.

"Here," she abandoned the cart and rushed to a large snowdrift. "Help me."

Hastily throwing off snow, we dug out a narrow, bird-beak-like nose of a small speed boat. Very soon from under the snow appeared the pilot cabin doors. Irma opened the emergency access cover and pulled the lever. Something crunched inside, the doors jerked and opened.

"Get inside!" Irma shouted. "I'll put in the batteries! When the console turns on, activate facial recognition. Your license is in the database, automation will allow you to control. Docking is automatic, main thing—take off. Can you?"

"Why me? You have eight pilots."

"Why—because I say so... Get in the cabin, quick!" and, grabbing the cart, dragged it to the boat's tail.

This was a high-speed commander's boat. They kept one for senior officer staff. For emergency.

"Irma..."

"Wait!"

Some vague doubts stirred inside me, but they were shaky, like figures from tobacco smoke...

"Elza, stand for a second, okay?"

The child nodded—obediently and a bit frightened. Taking the rifle more comfortably, I carefully climbed onto the wing. Opened the doors, cautiously aiming into the gray twilight of the cabin. It smelled of dampness and stale air. Dusty. But quiet and empty. For some time I just waited and listened, examining every centimeter. No, reapers didn't get here—the console was intact. Every smallest sensor.

At this very moment Irma shouted: "Turning on!" and light came on in the cabin. Something squeaked thinly, the console lit up with LEDs, and on the main monitor came alive the animated emblem of the Conquistador Corps. I exhaled.

"It works!" I shouted and heavily tumbled inside.

And only here properly looked around everything and was dumbstruck. For some time I didn't even believe my eyes. My doubts were no longer figures from smoke. They became demons that came out of fire.

"Irma!"

I looked out. She was still struggling near the engine compartment. I jumped into the snow and went to her. Irma just slammed the cover and pushed away the cart with her foot. Swaying, it rolled lonely into the snowy haze.

"Done!"

"Irma!" I took her by the shoulders, because I wanted to see her eyes. "It's a two-seater! The boat's a two-seater!"

"You'll take her on your lap! Let's fly!"

"Irma, what does that have to do with it!" I even shook her a bit. "Who'll land the shuttles?!"

"Do you want to save your daughter or not?"

And I hoped she'd explain. Say that Capybara and the others are in the know. That this is part of some plan. Tell who'll lower the shuttles. But she shrugged her shoulders, throwing off my hands, and went to the cabin.

"No time! Let's fly."

"So you decided to run away? Just bolt, like that time when you tried to steal the cruiser! And leave a bunch of people here to die!"

Irma picked up Elza and surprisingly deftly climbed into the cabin.

"Get in! We'll talk later!"

"Irma, there are so many children here! People! We can't leave them!"

"Your daughter is here!" her eyes flashed. "Who else do you need?! Let's fly!"

"So Vandlik was telling the truth! You lied to me about everything!"

"What are you babbling!" fury flashed in her eyes. "For your daughter you killed a person! Forgot? So this is the last chance to save her! In a day everyone here will die!"

"Take not me! Take any pilot. He'll land one shuttle, we can raise the rest to the cruiser..."

"They're not pilots! None of them!"

It seems the next second I just silently ran through her answer in my head again and again. Large fluffy snowflakes fell slowly. Elza looked at me as if she understood everything and as if she too wanted me to fly. "They're not pilots. None of them."

"Is this your plan, Irma? You needed a guy with a license because the deserter's bracelet will block control as soon as you sit in the seat. You were waiting for me because of this?"

"Don't talk nonsense," she wasn't shouting anymore. "I wouldn't have left either you or her!"

"Don't lie! You lie all the time! About everything! God, you didn't even have cancer!"

"I did!" Irma flared up, as if I said something offensive.

"You were retelling a movie!"

"You would have thought I was crazy!" bitterness appeared in Irma's look. "Yes, I wasn't in the infirmary even one day. I was afraid they'd remove me from raids and make me spend the rest of my life in bed—on drugs that make you vomit your own guts, but there's no benefit anyway... Nobody knew about the disease. Not even my Natan. The diagnosis was given by an automatic module—I deliberately climbed in at night. Then hid the scans from Natan... When it became unbearable, I'd gorge on painkillers... Thank God, medications were also dispensed by automation... Remember, I told you about my mother? Most of all in the world I was afraid I'd someday repeat her fate. And so, when it happened, I wasn't ready. Not at all. I understood I was dying, and couldn't accept it. And then I started having a dream... The same one... Very strange... In it was a strawberry flower.

(Section 4)

The dream came every night with the same terrifying realism, leaving a strange, persistent aftertaste for the whole day. In it Irma went out the gates of the research complex and walked through a dead city. Wind threw itself at her feet in small whirlwinds of dry leaves—like a dog trying not to let its master into a dangerous place. Threw handfuls of dust in her face, shouted vague threats, tugged at her clothes, pushed at her chest. Irma squinted, tightly pressed her lips, but sand still gritted on her teeth. And she stubbornly walked forward—among combat machines that lost power, along streets that lost bustle. Walked confidently, like a person who knows the destination exactly, but at the same time is an indifferent passenger in her own body, not having the slightest idea about the goal.

She turned her head with all her might, greedily absorbing every image, every open vista, every new picture of life's decay. After all, she'd never had occasion to walk through a dead city. At most—drive a bit, hidden behind thick armor, then take a dozen careful steps in a combat spacesuit, cut off a plant leaf or take a soil sample and return again under protection of the impenetrable all-terrain vehicle body.

In the dream she walked in ordinary field uniform, without a helmet, inhaling such different and characteristic smells of an abandoned metropolis. A mix of taiga aromas and synthetic notes left here by a dead civilization.

Of course, in the dream Irma didn't realize she was seeing a dream, and waking up, never tired of marveling at its detail and realism.

The dream was long. She managed to walk about one and a half kilometers, living through every step of this strange walk, until finally she reached a notable tall building, which she mentally designated as "Central Department Store." Behind it began a narrow cluttered alley that incredibly attracted Irma with its half-dark path between elaborate heaps of broken mechanisms. Every time, having seen it, Irma acutely realized her goal—whatever it was—was somewhere there, in the depths, beyond mountains of mangled metal, in a large pile of something resembling construction debris that was barely visible