Repin's painting "They Did Not Expect." Lieutenant Pastukhov was supposed to be in Leningrad, where I sent him on a mission. How the hell did the investigation into the disappearance of the iron citizen lead him to Moscow through roundabout ways?! How does he do it? Even I didn't pull such stunts when I was young, although I was quite a rascal back then!
And the fact that the road was very circuitous was evident from the still-laughing dolok. You just have to accept that for them, everything is a joke. Where did he find a space marine?! They are either messing around on the Lunar Ring or on ships. These guys love space so much that they only descend to the sinful earth to scratch their heads and leave offspring. For a dolok, which is by default an incredibly impressionable creature, space marines are a diagnosis!!! Like a stash of unclaimed explosives for a skaven!
Therefore, we sat at the table in silence, as if at a Gestapo interrogation.
"Dad, why was Auntie behaving so strangely?" Sasha asked, breaking the silence. He held out for a long time. My son is meticulous and active—like his grandmother and grandfather, with a thorough approach inherited from both parents.
The dolok shifted its gaze to me, while Pastukhov remained silent and unobtrusive, expectantly drilling me with its small eyes, not ceasing to chuckle. Only behind the ironic gaze lay the analytical mind of a predator and strategist. Intelligent killer whales are not only strong, bastards, but also smart, and they can come up with tactical schemes that have put opponents on their backs more than once—first from surprise, and then literally on their backs, trampled into the mud with their boots.
"Remember how Grandma's computer almost broke?" I answered my son with a question, starting from afar. I could have answered directly, but the child's talents need to be developed, and an answer found by oneself will be remembered for a long time.
"Yes. The power flickered, and the hardware firmware updated incorrectly," the child replied, demonstrating the achievement of the Soviet education system. At his age, I would have only picked my nose at such a question. The grandfather's influence is also evident here.
Sasha frowned amusingly. It was clear how the child's brain was trying to find a cause-and-effect relationship, giving an answer.
"And they already told you at school about knowledge bases and why they aren't uploaded to children?" I continued to guide the child towards the goal. It's good that children aren't babied now, not even at home! Society perceives them as full members, only less experienced. The last line of the collective's code, which says: "Every voice is important, because even a child can offer an idea or do something that will save us all." It's not just about respect for the girl who sacrificed herself for everyone, but a reminder not to forget...
"So that we can learn to learn, think for ourselves and find solutions, rather than using ready-made ideas like a consumer," the boy answered, almost by the textbook, adding. "And also, because the brain is sufficiently developed only by twelve years old for downloading bases..."
My son's face lit up as he found the answer, which he immediately voiced:
"Did Auntie's firmware crash?" he said quite loudly, causing the shark, who could hear us perfectly, to turn pale with embarrassment, tapping its tail against the leg of its monumental chair.
"More like an evolutionary bug," I corrected my son. "Our 'thinker' is an ordered but chaotic system. The brain is only similar to a computer, but it is not one. We have studied it sufficiently, even modernized it thanks to neuropolymer, but the basis remains the same. Therefore, the database provides knowledge and patterns for reflexes, which still need to be trained by oneself. We don't program the brain, we train it."
"Just as every grain of sand in the sea is unique, so is every brain unique and changes every second, like the ocean," the dolok supported me, uttering a profound thought in a slightly squeaky, clicking voice in general, speaking clearly, not nasally.
"To establish a base, the 'Collective' first scans the brain, extracting information from the neuro-polymer to ensure flawless knowledge transfer. It's possible without scanning, but then the assimilation won't be one hundred percent, even with time for comprehension. Our brains are too chaotic to create an averaged solution. Even if we know which part is responsible for what, their placement is slightly different in everyone. I won't even mention neurons. One neural connection can be responsible for both the feeling of fear and riding a bicycle, as an example. Therefore, you can't program a sentient being like a computer. Only train them," I stated.
"Biology can't be fooled. And to change the brain itself... you can, of course, but will we still be ourselves afterward – that's the question..." the dolok added again.
"You can also calculate how all the brain's connections will work, training instantly, but it's a huge strain on it – one, and even the Motherland would find it difficult to pull off. Also, it's simply forbidden, and there's no such physical possibility. By programming, you can not only transfer knowledge but turn a sentient being into a bio-robot, destroying its 'self.' Just as you can't forcibly structure it so that a sentient being wakes up with a hundred percent guarantee after death, instead of becoming an archive. Forced structuring will simply lead to schizophrenia."
"And again, biology can't be fooled, little man," the infantryman puffed. "When you elevated us, you pushed us through evolution too quickly. Not all atavisms have disappeared. What helped us survive has now become our peculiarities. You seem too serious and sometimes funny to me, humans. You take everything too close to heart. You've invented many behavioral rituals when you could simply play or hunt together. You can talk a lot, but it's easier to understand another in battle. We like to act, but after thinking."
"And sharks react unevenly to small objects... Their vision is structured differently – they react primarily to movement. It's hard for them to notice small, stationary things. And with their eyes... They are predators. It's important for them to track the direction of gaze to feel calm. But due to this eye structure, it's difficult for them to concentrate on several objects at once," I finished the explanation.
"Well, I figured that out," the child nodded. "Our teacher only told us about neurons, but without visual examples, we had to figure it out ourselves. How did they live before without images?"
"Everyone lived without them," I said philosophically, trying to recall life before the 'Collective.' "But we were different then. Lonely."
"I pity them. Being alone must be scary," Sasha sniffled.
"It's their choice. You can also live like that if you want. Freedom of choice is something we must respect," I stated the obvious.
"No-no!" the child waved his hands. "I feel you now, Dad, Mom, and Grandma and Grandpa. I know everyone is okay. And you know it. That's cool!"
"Agreed."
Silence fell over the table again. The robot waiter took advantage of this. Judging by its standard chassis, it was a faceless hunk, but quite tactful. Yeah... You kick a bucket of bolts, and it turns out to be a full-fledged citizen. It's not written on them: 'I passed the Turing test!'
I didn't bother and ordered an omelet and a couple of hot sandwiches with chicken breast and vegetables, after first checking what the neural network recommended. It's convenient when you're offered several options but not forced to choose. And it's delicious. The neural network considers not only usefulness but also taste preferences.
Seeing the points credited to my balance for choosing healthy food, I turned to the unusually quiet Pastukhov and asked:
"Spill it, lieutenant, how did you manage to opt out of this?"
"Honestly, commander, nothing special," Artyom raised his hands in a playful gesture of surrender, relaxing a bit. "Nothing will spoil your vacation! I've already found the one who disassembled the metallic comrade into parts, and he received his punishment, but the criminal managed to partially dispose of the body. A citizen asked me to find his head, and I agreed within the scope of the assignment. Connections among sentient machines won't hurt us. Next time, we'll track down another fool faster."
"And the trail led you to Moscow," I stated affirmatively.
"And where else, in principle?" the lieutenant confirmed. "Smugglers love such things, even if they call themselves collectors. The criminal traded fragments of the victim for old projectile weapons, supposedly for his collection. He knew CERBERUS would come for him, but he expected ordinary investigators, not someone from us. Otherwise, he would have tried to escape. And, of course, hoping to 'lose' the exhibit, the collector sent the head here. He only risked a lower rating... or so he thought. I just dug up more on him, which led to the comrade going to be treated and re-educated. But the soup is really just a fanatical collector. I almost felt sorry for him."
"Sometimes I regret that the screws can't be tightened, but I perfectly understand that the lid will blow off if you do that," I nodded at his reasoning. "We are not perfect. Small things can be overlooked. Only the stupidity of sentient beings is disheartening. The fact that they weren't pursued doesn't mean the Motherland doesn't see it and won't send us if they cross the line."
"That's for sure," the guy remarked, proudly lifting his chin.
"Alright, we could talk about human stupidity for hours," I concluded. "I understand that the locals don't have a head, and you've already delivered this news to its owner, but he insisted?"
"Along with giving a gentle warning to his comrades that they were carelessly playing with fire," Pastukhov replied ironically. "I didn't even have to show evidence from their memories. They confessed immediately. You could also track it by the inflow and outflow of social points. The system records everything. They threw the head away. That's why I decided to have breakfast before visiting the recycling plant. Such things aren't processed immediately there. And Hyu'ik-ki helped too."
"The funny lieutenant helped me find out exactly which hospital my mother is in. These fish don't like us, even though our ancestors didn't hunt them," the dolok replied, puffing diligently. "My family asked me to find her, and my mother is unconscious after surgery. I sent a request, but the delphinid returned it. I filled out the wrong form. I didn't want to wait, so I came straight to Moscow... I wanted to scare him a little. I'm not a shark, but I have teeth too. Your lieutenant saved me from trouble. If he hadn't spoken to me, I would have only understood what I'd done when I was in the brig."
The delphinid found something to joke about. For doloks, family is sacred. They are very close-knit... Although that's not something you can explain to a sentient dolphin. I bet the joking scoundrel twisted the form in such a way that the infantryman didn't immediately understand, and then didn't appreciate the joke – and the predator flared up. They are patient only up to a certain point. Where a human would remain silent, a dolok would strike, and you wouldn't be able to scrape them off.
"Well, yes. Delphinids would be ideal workers for all sorts of archives and reference services, if not for their jokes," I agreed with the dolok. "They're jerks."
"That's what I thought too. It cost me nothing to talk to the delphinid from Moscow's medical service. I just tossed the ball around, tried to explain that you don't do things like that and you might get 'incomplete' information, and tossed a couple of sardines when he did everything by the book. Although, formally, the delphinid was right. Hyu'ik-ki filled out the request incorrectly... Damn formalist. But you can understand him too. Disclosure of personal data without consent is a crime. It's just that you shouldn't forget about relatives, and don't substitute concepts," Artyom agreed with me.
"That's why I decided to help. It's more fun together. I managed to visit my mother, and I still have a couple of days of leave. It's boring to sit still, waiting by the sea for a school of fish or a whale. I can't just stare at octopods outside the ward door! And I only bother the overly serious doctors. They annoy me with their laughter. You humans don't see joy in the little things," the dolok finished reproachfully.
"We could make it simpler to get the head, since it's so dear to the comrade," I mused.
"Skavens?" Artyom asked. "I thought of that too, but do they..."
"Just trust me. They would have brought the head themselves once they figured it out," I stated the obvious.
"But where to find them?" the lieutenant asked.
"Youth," I couldn't help but be sarcastic. "Just because you don't see them doesn't mean they aren't here. Look..."
Why charge head-on when you can go around? After a minute of searching, I took a shiny wrapper from an army ration pack out of my spatial backpack and walked towards the trash can at the restaurant entrance, letting it gleam with polished metal, attracting attention. Three, two, one...
A small paw tugged at my pant leg, and a slightly stuttering voice came from below, which is a great achievement for grey comrades.
"Human-human, give me the shiny thing, huh?!" the rat with a grey muzzle squeaked excitedly. He's old. He's definitely passed ten. That's why he doesn't stutter. He's gotten used to talking to humans. Usually, their language is slower than their brain. What can you do, they don't live long, so they have to do it differently.
The cat-felinid sitting at a table near the exit, who had come in for a bite after her morning exercise, stared at us so hard that her pupils became round. Needless to say, she even forgot about the chicken sausages in sauce, freezing with a fork in her paws, looking from us to the inconspicuous ventilation grate under her hind legs, which dangled slightly off the chair. Apparently, the rat had come out from there.
Coming to her senses and giving us a contemptuous look, the cat, whose sporty uniform clearly indicated she was a senior kindergarten teacher, twitched her ear and returned to her meal, restraining herself from licking. That would have been impolite, but if asked, the cat would have said something like: "So the fur doesn't smell of sauce! You have to clean your fangs first!"
The dolok chuckled again, also a little surprised. The shark merely turned its head, reacting to the movement, continuing to absorb the essence, judging by the color, of tuna, while the humans paid almost no attention. Only Sasha, who a second ago had been enviously watching me rummage in my spatial backpack, smiled. The son knew that silence was important. His grandmother had taught him... If only she hadn't taught him to hack systems!
Pastukhov froze with a surprised raised eyebrow, which caused new chuckles from the dolok.
"Compressor gaskets?" I asked the skaven.
"No-no," the rat shook his head too sharply, showing a clearly modified body beyond measure. "Technician-technician? Yes? No-no, not a compressor! Speaker casing. The foreman is complaining. It's rattling! Not right. It interferes with the junior shift! The deadline-deadline must be met!"
Wincing slightly at the image that flashed before my eyes of their foreman making new... workers, I replied:
"I'll give it to you, but I need help."
"I'll do everything the older children of the Great M-mother tell me to!" the little rat practically stood at attention, his fanatically red eyes gleaming. "We are merely the mechanism of her will! Our-our life is just a part..."
"I understand," I stopped the grey fanatic.
"I'll do everything in my power-power to help, comrade-comrade," the skaven replied normally now, but still giggling with excitement.
"Then share our meal with us. You're a storm-rat, aren't you?" I showed my knowledge of their etiquette.
"Yes-yes, human! A veteran. I was unlucky to give-give my life for the Motherland," the rat laughed madly again, quickly hiding the wrapper in his spatial backpack. A green flash momentarily illuminated his face, contorted with fanatical ecstasy. "Now I'm the foreman's assistant."
They have a thing about "giving their life." In essence, they are the dream of some generals of the past and the best illustration of the expression: "We'll overwhelm them with sheer numbers!" And "Women will give birth again." They don't value their own lives at all, plugging themselves into machine guns without hesitation and blowing themselves up, but the lives of other sentient beings who fight under the same scarlet banner with them are sacred. They will pay the price of a couple of hundred to save one human, dolok, shark... it doesn't matter who!
They also love explosives of all kinds. For them, it's not just a substance that goes "boom," but a delicacy! They go into ecstasy from artillery. For them, the 'Motherland's Hammer' guns are almost sacred.
And they also like to use combat poisons, and you'd be hard-pressed to find such engineers-optimizers. Even if their creations are crude, and sometimes just raw-looking, they are durable, practical, functional, and will work even after a nuclear explosion – up close.
It's impossible to describe in words when a grey avalanche charges at you, firing from heavy barrels across a field scorched by artillery. If doloks attack from all directions but try to flank, and sharks, if they choose military service, strike from the shadows, then these guys pour out from every crack!
Parachute? Ha! Gluing themselves to a rocket is their way! The enemy doesn't have time to recover from the artillery strike. Sometimes, not all shells have finished pounding the enemy positions when the ground beneath them crumbles, and millions of tiny paws drag them into darkness.
And then a grey avalanche erupts from the burrows, above which scarlet banners proudly fly, and the glass of gas masks gleams. And all this is accompanied by squeaking and mad laughter, under the clatter of heavy robots that cling to the grey bodies, serving as an additional layer of armor for the machines and simultaneously as firing points.
I shook my head, dispelling the vision. They say correctly – anyone who has seen a storm-rat attack once will remember it for life. It's not for nothing that the Twentieth Special Sabotage and Assault Army 'Grey Storm' is thrice decorated.
It's no wonder they don't have names. They consider themselves expendable! If one dies, another takes his place. Only they have the command: "Proceed with replenishment!" Once a week, two weeks. There were ten – now there are several hundred, damn it! When the rat said they were making a junior shift, they meant exactly that...
"Pastukhov, here's your skaven. You know what to do next. If you ruin my vacation..." I threatened the lieutenant with a fist.
"Commander, you know me, I'll be quiet..." Pastukhov began.
"Only your 'quiet' ends up in all the news," I interrupted Artyom. "The drunk, mine-explosive beef is still told like a joke."
"What's annoying is that I saved a lot of people back then," the soldier said grimly.
"No one disputes that, but you were rewarded... But these smartasses still bring up that bull at every convenient opportunity," I replied, no less grimly.
Sasha couldn't help but laugh. He was five years old and remembered this story perfectly. Sometimes a hyperactive child is not fun at all! I need to eat faster and get out of here...