The Moon. A natural satellite of the Earth, transformed by the power of Soviet science and the labor of workers, met the alien guests with the radiance of a plasma curtain that held the atmosphere. Streams of an invisible rainbow film were projected from the orbital ring, firmly standing on four pillars of space elevators.
The mega-structure, covered with scaffolding and docking clamps, was the main base of the USSR's void fleet, where even the mobile fleet bases were built and repaired. It was in the dry docks of the ring that the punitive sword of the communist state was forged. But the Earth's satellite was not only famous for this.
The entire surface of the Moon was one large research institute, with many different test sites and laboratories, whose premises went deep beneath the surface of the celestial body. It was the natural satellite that became the scientific capital of the Soviet country. The satellite-science city was not only an embodiment of scientific power but also a place where innovations were born in such quantities that the creative conveyor never stopped.
Thanks to artificial natural balance and gravity generators, coupled with atmospheric shields, it was possible to simulate various natural zones. There were biomes where the surface of Venus was like hell before terraforming, there were icy deserts where an unmodified human would not survive for a second, and there were corners with eternal hurricanes.
All this allowed for a true test of strength for prototypes of mass-consumption products. Equipment and industrial products must have the qualities prescribed in GOSTs, even in an acid cauldron, because there are no such excuses for a worker…
The shuttle made a loop, allowing tourists to enjoy the views of the orbital behemoth. The ring seemed to float slowly, spewing a thin film from projectors, resembling the northern lights. As written in tourist brochures, this happened during solar storms, when the stellar wind reacted with the barrier.
In such moments, it seemed as if colored flame tried to break through the defense, shattering against it again and again, creating iridescent highlights. But today, the system's parent star did not show its character, which is why the shield was barely visible, which did not diminish the scale of the structure and its grandeur for the uninitiated eye.
The Quarian and the Turian gazed at this cosmic structure, amazed by its grandeur and scope, each thinking their own thoughts. If Lyra admired the technologies and the scale of scientific thought that allowed such a thing to be created, then Ferrion appreciated the hidden military power and potential, seeing the weapons installed on the ring, turning it into a fortress.
"Compared to it, the Citadel seems miniature…" whispered the girl, which did not go unheard by the sensitive hearing of the Hierarchy legionary.
"Compared to much of what is Soviet, what is familiar to us seems insignificant, but that does not mean it is ineffective. And we have things that are just as impressive as this ring. The eternal debate about impressiveness and effectiveness will soon have new food and reason when diplomatic relations between Space and the Union are finally established," the Turian shared his conclusions.
"You speak like a stereotypical militarist from Palaven," the young Quarian snorted.
"Which doesn't stop me from pointing out the essence," the legionary agreed with her. "It becomes more interesting what our friends want to show us."
"You know, I don't even want to guess anymore. Killas… they are as unpredictable as a worca with a grenade!" the girl exclaimed too impulsively. "It's unknown whether he will eat it, or blow himself up, or throw it at someone like a stone."
"You're exaggerating," Ferrion said, mandibles twitching, disliking bias, like any other Turian, which didn't stop them from being so. "They are not that stupid, these worca... But I agree. The Soviets are unpredictable, though they don't seem to strive for it. We can only accept it and wait."
The Quarian crossed her arms over her chest, casting a final glance as she turned away from her interlocutor:
"That's all that's left."
Ferrion just grunted at this remark. After all, this journey had left a strong imprint on him, eclipsing the trace of slave shackles. And most of the time in the Union was still ahead, and only the locals knew what would happen.
But even what had passed was enough to deepen and broaden his horizons, turning him from a mere good officer (if you don't praise yourself, no one will do it for you) into something more than someone living by regulations and honor. At least he started asking questions that would never have occurred to him before. This was both frightening and fascinating. Where this would lead him, one could only guess and rely on spirits and fate. Being in a cage had added fatalism to him. When you don't know if you'll live to see the evening, you start looking at many things differently…
Making another turn, the shuttle jumped to Mars. Unlike the Moon, it was not an object of the highest access category, and one could get to it with a social rating, which the space guests had.
The Red Planet greeted the small ship with a transport flow that was befitting one of the USSR's five factory planets. Mars was the largest production facility of the entire Soviet Union, concentrating a third of its industrial capacity.
It was also girdled by a ring, supported by eight orbital elevator towers, but unlike Earth's satellite, it was already a complete, separate world, with its own seas, forests, and cities on the surface. Twenty-three billion sentient beings and five times more machines, both sentient and ordinary service robots, worked and lived on it.
Raw materials brought from forty star systems disappeared in the converters and enrichers of this factory, and products of all possible nomenclature emerged. The planet itself was a giant assembly line, whose infrastructure went down to the planet's core, where artificial gravity generators stimulated the core to create a magnetic field.
Surprisingly, it was a green world that, if you disregard the ring, did not betray its industrial nature. The water from its reservoirs could be drunk without boiling, and what grew in its forests could be eaten without fear, except for the seas. There, the water, due to the planet's mineral composition, was too salty to be used and the fish caught from it consumed without processing.
The entire process in this world was monitored by a watchful eye, besides the sentient beings of flesh and blood, by a real AI, the oldest in the USSR. Eleonora Lebedeva was the soul of the entire production complex, helping it function with the greatest efficiency.
The small void ship, according to the designated corridor, made a dive and flew into the transport hangar. Hovering for a moment on a magnetic cushion, it gracefully descended onto the flight deck, swaying on three supports, gently compensating for the impact with shock absorbers. With a slight hiss, the landing ramp opened, extending a gangway.
"Cosmoflot" stewards quickly moved through the rows, unbuckling passengers' seat belts, allowing them to leave the scheduled flight. Only after that did passengers, mostly shift workers with a few tourists, emerge from the belly of the small machine.
The alien guests were not surprised by another hangar, unlike the welcoming escort. They had not yet had the chance to see such a cybernized sentient being. Although the black turtleneck and wide trousers with combat boots and the starched laboratory coat thrown over them concealed the figure well, the six flexible tentacles, very similar to an octopus's exoskeleton, were clearly an original addition to the image.
Hovering about ten centimeters above the floor, he slowly greeted the aliens and the Nechaev family, stroking his red hair as he spoke.
"Allow me to introduce Heinz Fufelshmertz. Doctor of Cybernetic Sciences. Well, it's obvious," Sergey added with a good dose of playful sarcasm. "Concurrently, deputy academician Lebedeva for logistics at the Academy of Consequences…"
"In the past," the scientist corrected him with a slight accent that the Turian had heard when he was in Berlin. "I now manage the logistics of the entire third segment of the Mars ring. Very pleased to meet you."
"I completed my doctoral work in cybernetics under his supervision," Sergey explained.
"Don't be modest, Sergey Alekseevich," Heinz said, blushing slightly. "You and your dear wife simply saved me… You know yourself, in our profession, it's hard not to get carried away…"
Katerina, who had been closely watching the children until then, greeted the doctor and remarked, "To be fair, obliterative disorder is quite common…"
"What disorder?" the Quarian asked, who, like all Quarians, was wary of illnesses.
"He just got too carried away with cybernizing himself," Sergey waved his hand. "At one point, his brain implant crashed, causing a panic attack. Not the most advanced case, but we had to run around before we caught him. I've had much worse cases…"
"Such beings are called obliterators," Katya added, completing Sergey's thought. "Some leave so little flesh that it's unclear whether they are robots or not, going mad. But you, Heinz, really got off lightly. Comrade Draken, after that incident, escaped from three operatives before we caught him. And this disorder isn't that scary… as long as they don't start upgrading others. Forcibly."
The woman coughed slightly. Smiling guiltily, she explained, "I've gotten too out of practice talking too much," she giggled. "It's much easier to communicate with images."
"It happens," the scientist noted. "I train specifically. I want to teach the younger generation after the status penalty passes. Children, they are so cute, you know... Perhaps I'll get someone interested in cybernetics. And before all this story, I really wanted to dedicate about twenty years to this business..."
Heinz laughed, not very cheerfully, rubbing his neck with an organic hand, pulling his head into his shoulders.
"As they say in school, talking is good for brain development," said the younger daughter of the Nechaevs. The girl, who had firmly chosen the path of a doctor, like her grandfather, was excellent at psychology. Therefore, she timely extended a lifeline to the man who truly repented and strove to overcome his shortcomings, for which she received an approving look from her mother.
The Turian merely noted the scene played out before him in passing. Humans were somewhat disingenuous when they emphasized their dislike for long conversations. With their own kind, they successfully interspersed ordinary speech with imagery, while with strangers, they preferred to communicate through these images. Their micro-mimicry betrayed them at such moments, noticeable if you knew where to look.
Therefore, the legionary carefully remembered, and then weighed everything he heard, trying to understand at least approximately the conversation inaudible to him. Knowing his friends, he was sure he would fail.
"This way, one can easily become a xenophobe! I'm exaggerating too much. Probably..." the alien thought, not entirely sure of his own thoughts. Ferrion, as a good career officer, waged an eternal battle with the directness inherent in his species and sometimes won. At other times, he wanted to grumble, menacingly spreading his mandibles, standing half-sideways to the object of irritation...
Engaged in a casual conversation, the guests reached the maglev station, heading deep into the ring, clearly delving into industrial areas, which did not go unnoticed by the military man. Settling into a comfortable seat, he leaned against the carriage wall and fell asleep almost instantly, as only soldiers can...
"Finally!" exclaimed the salarian scientist, practically jumping to the black plastic bag thrown onto the prosector's table, on which frost clearly showed. "You could have been faster..."
The GOR fighters, who delivered such a valuable burden, only now allowed themselves to relax slightly.
"This dead man cost us too much," the squad commander grumbled irritably. "Forty... Forty groups were wiped out by their counterintelligence! Most by a single sentient being."
The scientist looked up from the opened bag, ceasing the initial examination of the body. His eyes burned with unhealthy enthusiasm. His hands were restless. His fingers constantly moved and trembled with anticipation.
"Even a hundred would have been worth it!!!" he hissed with admiring malice. "The fallen have served our people a great service! You simply cannot imagine, in your limited understanding, what advanced technologies this specimen hides!!!"
The scientist lifted the corpse of a man in a Red Army uniform by the hair, shaking his head to give weight to his words. In the bright light of the laboratory, the corpse, having spent a week in a special refrigerator, looked even more unnaturally pale. The chrome metal of the table and the illumination of the medical equipment control panels gave the shroud of death, frozen on the warrior's face, an even greater horror.
The cold air became even colder. The air conditioning systems, which could filter out dangerous biological compounds, were powerless against the ordinary sweetish smell of decomposition of a long-dead body, which had been thoroughly frozen in a vacuum and then lay in the hold of a smuggler's ship, thawing in the worst possible way.
"I hope you find what you need in this pile of frozen meat," the group commander retorted, spitting back, disregarding training and professionalism.
When a tracker is on your trail, fanatical in its pursuit to find and punish, having ruthlessly destroyed your acquaintances, it is difficult to remain indifferent even for a professional. Especially when unnecessary pronouncements are thrown directly in your face.
"Savages," the scientist muttered at the backs of the GOR agents, waving his hand, cutting through the black plastic that had wrapped the body to the end, paying no attention to the smell. A beam of scarlet laser, erupting from the handle of his scalpel, quickly dealt with the transport shell of the specimen.
At his command, the manipulators in the laboratory ceiling began to move, with a quiet hiss, preparing for the dissection of the representative of a new intelligent species that had intrigued the Salarian people. One thing saddened the fanatic of science: the specimen was already dead when it reached the table. Many nuances could have slipped away from his keen perception as a seasoned vivisector without this, irritating him even more.
Mechanical hands tore off the blood-soaked uniform, exposing the dead body, while the lab assistants collected samples from the skin, wiping the body of congealed blood. The body, delivered with difficulty, needed detailed analysis. Even a drop of foreign substance could distort the results.
Having waited for the recording to begin and uttered the almost ritualistic phrases, spoken by him more than once in his life, for the record, the pathologist gave the order:
"Now we will learn your secrets... Let's start with trepanation of the skull. Let's see what you think with."
With a disgusting screech, the bone saw turned on. The rotating blade touched the dead flesh, cutting through it with ease...
The hand of the dead man, who had been lying peacefully on the table until then, grabbed the vivisector's limb, breaking it in six places simultaneously, tying it into a knot with a flick of the wrist. Amidst the salarian's howl, the dead man hurled the still-working saw, which had opened his skull, at one of the hovering assistants, who had previously determined the approximate time of death.
"Even in death, I serve the USSR. For the Motherland!" the corpse gasped out in Salarian, filling its emptied lungs with air just to speak. It no longer needed oxygen, for it was dead.
Overcoming the resistance of rigor mortis, it leaped at a new victim, sinking its yellowish teeth into its neck, killing it instantly. The almost decapitated body fell to the floor with a dull thud.
The Red Army soldier, like a puppet in the hands of an inexperienced puppeteer, moved clumsily, but inexorably, towards a new victim, and, even worse, the dead worker of the secret complex, whom he had killed earlier, struggled to get up, trying to adjust his broken neck into a more comfortable position...
The GOR rapid response group that arrived at the scene earlier was annihilated in its entirety by the reanimated workers of the complex and its security, swelling the ranks of the living dead.
Four assault attempts undertaken to regain control of the facility failed. Having suffered heavy losses, the GOR command made a difficult decision. Twenty-four hours after the incident, the facility was subjected to orbital bombardment.
For another two days, a liquidation group burned out the remnants of the infected organic matter, which had begun to mutate actively, but the measures did not yield the desired result. Only a nuclear bombardment of the entire mainland island where the complex was located finally destroyed the pathogen.
The use of nuclear weapons did not go unnoticed by observers of other Citadel races. By government decree, this project had to be closed, and resources were redirected to other methods of obtaining information about USSR technologies.
Sechenov opened his eyes. The report received via "The Collective" evoked mixed feelings. The ideological enemy did not obtain the Union's technologies. Moreover, it accepted an unofficial ban on studying any dead bodies of the country's citizens, making the use of "Pathogen No. 7," also the result of project "Black Wing," justified...
Only the academician and the main figure of the country felt the weight on his soul, although it seemed so. Crossing another line turned out to be too easy.
"First, we changed ourselves, then we nurtured a new generation from the genetic material of the fallen, elevated other species to sentience, moved to the stars, gaining virtual immortality, and then we increasingly pushed the boundaries of what is permissible," Sechenov mused.
Only the metronome broke the silence of his office. Its rhythm, monumental and inevitable, evoked unpleasant associations.
"After the use of this substance, the cloning of a girl, attempting to grow a copy of the deceased from her, the chimera of her genes, thereby violating ideological norms and morality, no longer seems like something terrible. Where is the line that cannot be crossed, even in the pursuit of survival? We ourselves wanted to become monsters, but are there things that are too much even for them? Even if creating a flawed copy of the one who saved us was a crime... I want to believe that we will stop, and not plunge into the abyss."
The scientist poured himself a finger of cognac into a glass. Drinking the liquid in one gulp, the man felt neither taste nor alcohol. This returned his composure.
"Sergey was right... It's impossible to be pure. I don't like all this. Especially the movements around the girl. Some haven't calmed down even after a beating. And you can't apply 'Black Wing' here. They are our own, albeit fanatics. She bothers many, but that doesn't mean she should be killed. She's not to blame for being created like this."
On this thought, Sechenov activated his "Thought" again, preparing to call an old comrade. It was time to stop asking and start demanding answers to questions.
The Academy of Consequences. Hidden beneath the thickness of the water, it held many secrets. Its permanent head, Academician Lebedev, gazed at the marine creatures swimming in the depths, attracted by the object's illumination, through the giant panoramic window of his office, separating him from the oppression of the element, pondering.
Just as there were no sounds underwater, this mysterious man kept many things to himself, trusting no one but his own mind. The academician had seen too much in the quantum madness of probabilities years ago. His memory was the personification of these dark depths of the sea. Only he knew what horrors dwelled within them...
The conversation with his old friend, his superior and colleague, left an unpleasant aftertaste, making him unlike the perpetually smiling, slightly naive scientist whose image he presented to the public. True horrors were hidden in the abyss of his knowledge. Who would have thought that a simple adjustment of the implants of two sick individuals would open the veil of the future too widely? The door to the future opened a too unambiguous view, and closing it without consequences, alas, was impossible. Not after what he saw just a step from the threshold!
Comrade Lebedev could not share this burden that weighed on him with anyone, but his duty to the people and the Motherland gave him the strength to move forward. The future was not predetermined. It was always possible to choose a different pattern of fate. The whole problem was having the strength to follow it. Knowing the landmarks, it was easy to do, but only for him. Alone. Any word he carelessly uttered could lead to tragedy, devaluing all the sacrifices paid by the country.
He could not allow that. He was not only an ideological communist but also a patriot of the Bolshevik cause. Therefore, the academician played his game, playing not only with words, with his knowledge, but with entire destinies, knowing perfectly well the price of his non-interference. The alternative reality he had seen, where the fundamental invention, a polymer, had not been discovered, was bleak, but it existed at least... Of all the options awaiting all living beings in the galaxy, only one out of thousands was favorable, the one the scientist had been following for years, gradually revealing the secrets of his memory to those around him.
There was, is, and will be only one way out, a positive one from a pleiad of a billion probabilities. His daughter's conversation with aliens was just one brick. Eleonora, the creation he had made, had fulfilled her role, without even knowing it. "Look! Look. Wander through the endless fields of Venus, where wheat ripens to the horizon, step onto Mercury and see those who have not connected to 'The Collective.' This will help you accept the truth you hear before you descend beneath the surface of Europe," he exclaimed in his mind.
Only a little remained. The future is not predetermined, nor is the path to it. To achieve the "correct" variant, he had to adjust the pattern leading to the desired bifurcation points. The clone of a girl, not quite human, but something criminally more, was one of the bricks on this path, as Stockhausen had been at one time, so...
"You know what to do," he said, turning away from the panorama of the depths to the visitors in his office.
In the bluish light of the sea depths, the visitors looked like nightmares.
"Holy cow, I like this," the mutant said, laughing unevenly and twitching. "There will be a lot, a lot of blood!"
The pathetic, maimed life form laughed with the mad laughter of an absolutely insane creature, stroking its jacket, tailored from the skin of its best friend, who had become its first victim.
"There will be so much blood! There will be so much blood!!!" echoed the lobotomized and cybernetized girl, sitting on the neck of a lifeless bear, in unison with the madman.
"I only need the result, the rest is up to you," Lebedev added dryly, pointing again at the photo of the black-haired girl.
A giant squid swam up to the office window, staring at the land dwellers behind the thick glass, casting a shadow that made the scientist's figure appear sinister. Only his glasses gleamed with reflections in the shadow.
Waving his hand, he dismissed the thawed individuals for a specific mission, returning to the recording of the conversation between the Quarian and the Turian with the AI, where a part of the truth was finally revealed to the poor aliens. Only a part, because only he knew the full backstory in the USSR. Today, he had only told Sechenov when the countdown would begin and where. After all, for him to see the future in the past, it had to happen in the future. The head of the coordination council would also play his role. The events on Eden Prime had to happen with the same figures he had seen. Then they would have a chance...