Artyom sat with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, his hands behind his head, enjoying the vanilla sunset sky of a world still alien to the Soviet citizen.
The captain savored moments of peace, breathing in the aromatic, but not yet familiar air of a virgin world, which had not yet known the power of labor. Already faintly, only around the base, local herbs and plants whispered in the neural network, timidly but ever more boldly trying to speak. It was this feeling, when a planet becomes truly alive, integrating into the collective consciousness, that the operative enjoyed.
The emotional background was filled with childlike curiosity and some kind of unclouded joy. The world shone with warm, soft light in its emotions, its spark of soul growing stronger with every moment as the wonderful composition, capable of breaking the laws of familiar reality to a limited extent by acting on matter at the quantum level of being, connected a new bunch of grass or an entire tree. The reflections of this light washed away the fatigue from the already experienced operative, but at the same time brought back memories from the past, when the world seemed simple.
The captain lit a small flame on his hand, clad in a polymer manipulator, to light his cigarette, taking the first, most delicious puff, enjoying how the tobacco and the familiar action slightly relaxed his body after a day's work. The past... More than half a century had passed, and he remembered the day that divided history into "before" and "after." For him, this boundary was also further marked by the pain that had smoldered in his heart all these years.
"The Collective. A gift or a curse? Most likely a gift... You would have liked this world, Vera," Artyom thought, blowing a smoke ring. For him, the perception of euphoria from connecting to a single consciousness would forever go hand in hand with the death of one little girl and her subsequent sacrifice. After all, realizing the full extent of his feelings, he lost that first, childish, but so pure love at the moment his friend's sister's heart stopped beating.
Years passed. He now lies under a foreign sky, admires the sunset of another star, but for some reason remembers his childhood and the river, on whose mirror surface the sun blazed. A remarkable creature – a human.
Taking another puff, he took a sip from the bottle... alas, not beer. Who would let you drink alcohol on an expedition? So, in the dark glass, kvass sloshed, albeit strong, damn it. Its coolness and prickly taste ran down his tongue and fell heavily into his esophagus, blooming like a star in his stomach. The gases hit the operative's nose, but he didn't even wince. His thoughts wandered somewhere far away.
The operative was about to finish his cigarette and go to the temporary barracks to get some rest, when suddenly a hidden silence cut through his mind, which was in a state of meditation.
"The plants felt something. Not on the planet. Further away. Can't understand what..." the thought flashed instantly through the captain's mind, pulling him out of his relaxed state.
Plants are capable of sensing the emotions of sentient beings. "The Collective" only enhances this ability, allowing it to develop into a kind of long-range detection system. If the integration of this world were complete, a member of CERBERUS could even sense what kind of ship it was. The flora had access to the database and could transmit an image copied from there.
He was about to activate his polymer transmitter to request orbit, but, breaking the silence, the sound of an alarm siren rang out over the base, completely destroying the atmosphere of calm.
The picture before the operative's eyes, "Argentum," turned gray. Time slowed down. Without looking, he extinguished the butt, sending it with a flick towards the ashtray. The cigarette was still flying, leaving a dim smoky trail behind it, when the fighter was already on his feet, tightening the helmet straps. He only took off his body armor and limb protection before showering.
The mixed grass rustled slightly as the Union warrior slid over it, blurring into a gray, barely discernible spot, rushing towards the outpost's command post. Only the abandoned bottle with its unfinished contents indicated that someone had been there a second ago...
***
Captain 2nd Rank Voldemar Hartmann strode onto the bridge of his cruiser "Sevastopol," straightening his uniform jacket on the go. The alarm signal had roused him from bed.
"Captain on the bridge! Biometrics confirmed!" barked the duty officer, snapping to attention. Wulfhednar, imbued with the seriousness of the moment, didn't even twitch his tail.
"Situation!" commanded the descendant of Germans, settling into the command chair and activating the holographic screens. A moment later, his nervous system synchronized with the ship's computer, making him an extension of the ship.
"Unknown flotilla," began the radar commander's report, speaking in a characteristic purring timbre for felinids and slightly stretching the ends of his words.
"Forty-seven targets. According to our classification: twelve raiders, five light cruisers, three heavy ones, the rest are transport and cargo ships. They entered the system using the relay."
"Combat readiness. Bring the reactor to maximum power. Crew to their stations according to combat schedule," the captain ordered, addressing the radar commander again.
"Actions of the violators?"
"They've assumed a sort of formation. Short-term radiation has been detected by the systems. No active actions are being taken, comrade captain," reported the felinid, checking the data from Combat Department 4.
"Order to the hangar – launch a reconnaissance probe. Combat Department 4 – initiate protocol for first contact. Scenario – 'Alarming Scarlet.' Combat Department 2 – combat readiness," said the captain, requesting communication with the planet. He had done his part. Now let the scientists rack their brains.
The officer himself felt that the trouble was just beginning. After the shit he had seen in space, Voldemar simply didn't believe in a happy outcome.
***
Vos'Ar, looking with his four eyes at the unknown ships frozen above the planet, indulged in not the most cunning reflections.
Life had long taught him not to rush into adventures without a clear plan. An orphan, born to a port prostitute on the godforsaken mining world of Dar'Shul, knew this truth better than many: money will lift you up the social ladder, but it won't save you from a bullet in the back if you're stupid.
With his cunning and luck, he rose from a sailor on a battered pirate raider to a privateer commanding an entire squadron. With his mind, his ability to shoot quickly, and to betray when it was profitable, he soared upwards.
Even the Council of the Hegemon noticed him. One of the elders, studying a report on how his gang had taken an entire colony of blue-skinned asari to the slave markets, mockingly nicknamed him "The Ravager." The nickname stuck.
It was the Hegemon's favor that pushed him into this raid. But now the Hegemony was in turmoil. The previous ruler, who had kept the oligarchs on a short leash for seventy years, suddenly died – either of old age or poison. His "successor," a puppet of the Council, did not last even a year.
The new overlord, Ora'Ran, grandson of the legendary grandfather (and importantly, not a bastard!), cut the throats of the opposition and sat on the throne, still smelling of blood.
The pirate supported him, and did not lose out. The youth was dull-witted, but cruel, and most importantly, he feared the clans. True, people whispered that the new Hegemon's "sword" was a bit short.
Vos'Ar did not waste time on gossip. He bought the "loyalty" of two palace slaves, and within a week, he knew everything. It turned out that the ruler had flooded the palace with concubines of all races, trying to prove his "bedtime greatness."
A month later, the privateer was already bringing "medicine" to Ora'Ran – five thousand women from a plundered colony. The ruler appreciated the gesture... and now this raid was supposed to solidify Vos'Ar's position.
"Dish server at court" sounded funny, but the clans didn't touch courtiers. Status means credits, respect, and much more, pleasing to the soul. Sooner or later, the clans will pay attention to him with a certain interest, not just idle curiosity. Then his pirate freedom will end. Either kiss the ring in allegiance, or die. A court position was supposed to serve as a safeguard against the latter.
"Captain..."
"I see without you," Vos'Ar waved off his first mate, weighing all the pros and cons.
The question of attacking unknown ships and an outpost on the planet's surface did not even arise. The system was within the Hegemony's sphere of influence, which meant it belonged to the Batarians! Even if it was an insignificant hole, where even the presence of a relay had not made it in any way significant or suitable for colonization, it was still their hole!
If you add to this clearly primitive technologies, as the scanners showed a meager amount of zero element, then the pirate drew a logical conclusion, looking at the solar sails, that this was a generation ship that had traveled under its own power from some ass-end. Therefore, it's possible that they have plenty of strong candidates for slaves on board! Weaklings wouldn't survive such a journey!
And if their women are also beautiful by Batarian standards, and at least half as much as asari... The Hegemon will arrange a real golden rain for the lucky one who brings them to his feet, with a waterfall of credits to boot! Moreover, two primitive ships, one of which is clearly not combat-ready – not a problem for his squadron of elite cutthroats!
"Cap... "
"Khur'tash!" he roared, noticing the probe, as he recognized the VI's device. It was broadcasting something unintelligible. It sounded like a greeting... or mockery.
Vos'Ar smiled with his sharp teeth. If they want to talk, it means they are weak or insolent. He leaned towards the latter. The language, to his ear, was too harsh.
"Shoot it down. Board it. Only those who can work in the mines or entertain the Hegemon should be taken alive!!!"
***
"Evasion!" roared Voldemar, seeing how the probe disintegrated from a gauss cannon shot from the now enemy.
The world slowed down and lost its colors for him. The captain saw with the cruiser's sensors and scanners how enemy shells were reaching his "Sevastopol" and the freighter. The dolok pilot worked the maneuvering thrusters, shifting the hull away from the volley's trajectory, but it was not enough.
Force of will. Command. The polymer, whose threads were woven into the cruiser's load-bearing structures, obeyed the captain's will. The hull bent, letting the projectile, accelerated to colossal speeds, pass by.
The freighter was unlucky. The volley broke it in half, and the reactor detonated, although the enemy was aiming for the engines.
"The Collective" burned with death – sudden and absurd. The crew of the civilian ship died without suffering.
"Motherland, we need your help!" the captain addressed the collective consciousness, knowing that the AI was watching them as soon as the report of contact with unknown ships came in.
A wave of warmth ran through his veins, tickling his brain slightly, as many beings mentally stood behind him, offering a helping hand in the last battle of their lives. This was clear to him and to the crew.
"In the last battle of the doomed, victory no longer matters. All who are ready to face the dark abyss whisper their last words..." lines flashed in Voldemar's mind.
"For the Union and the Motherland! To death!" his voice boomed through the hushed bridge, tearing through the silence like thunder.
"To death!" his crew replied, shedding all limitations, ordering their implants to administer previously forbidden drugs.
Behind them are scientists and researchers, whose only defense is two dozen soldiers and one operative "Argentum." They will buy them time! The fleet, at full speed, is only two hours of flight away.
Behind them is not only the yet unnamed planet. Behind their backs is the Union. Let them die, but the country will rise to fight and avenge...
***
"Khur'tash!" the privateer leader cursed again, seeing how the not-so-small hulk of the primitive ship bent like an asari in a dance, letting the shells pass. There was no anger in his curse. Only admiration for the opponent.
The pirate's blood boiled with the excitement of battle. His teeth bared again in a predatory grin. It's good that they resist... Victory is not so sweet without a struggling victim.
***
"Rudder left. Roll ten degrees. Angle of attack ten degrees," he ordered the helmsman, adding for the entire bridge:
"Sola Haera maneuver! Fifth formation!"
"Sevastopol" rushed forward! In an instant, its outlines blurred as holographic fields went to full power.
The mighty ship's reactor shuddered, emitting a melodious trill that echoed through all compartments.
The dolok grinned, understanding the captain's plan. The predator's excitement overflowed him, passing to the entire crew. His powerful paws gently guided the wheel, directing the cruiser towards its destiny.
The protective shield was working at full capacity. In the bow compartment, the wulfhednars had already loaded the torpedo tubes for a combined salvo. The main caliber turrets turned to starboard, targeting the nearest agile raiders, and opened harassing fire.
The enemy didn't even launch their air force! Their arrogance will turn against them. Let them wash themselves in their own blood, if they have any!
Enemy volleys burst around the cruiser, flashing like pulsars. The twin anti-aircraft guns worked, shooting down torpedoes. It seemed that the felinid operators had forgotten how to blink – their eyes with vertical pupils were fixed on the monitors.
Rapid-fire guns formed an unbreakable barrier before the chaotic barrage. Cannons roared on the weapon decks. The hiss of cooling systems was occasionally drowned out by the shouts of gunners.
Scaven technicians and humans pushed all systems to their maximum capacity, forcing the cruiser not just to fly, but to soar in a dance of death before the enemy formation, like a moth drawn to a destructive flame.
The first projectile found its mark, shattering against the protective barrier. The pirates instantly corrected their fire. More and more shells hammered the energy shield, making it glow with a blue luminescence, but the "Sevastopol" was already preparing its response.
With a sheer act of will, the captain gave the order. With dull clicks along the hull, escape pods were fired, burning all bridges for the crew. They drew the enemy's homing torpedoes, flying in a precise salvo towards the USSR warship, working in tandem with heat decoys.
Explosions enveloped the hull. Shrapnel drummed against the plating. Many pods were destroyed, but the survivors rushed towards the corsair formation.
The VI of the Batarian ships assessed the threat and activated the SEARCH systems. Scarlet laser beams sliced through space. Several more pods exploded, but some broke through to the raider.
Though the blow was strong, it couldn't even dent the hull. The pirate crew burst into laughter, having survived a moment of fear, mocking the pathetic attempts of the primitives – not yet knowing that the pods had fulfilled their mission.
From the mangled escape pods, smashing the hatches with hammer-fists, poured a gray avalanche of scaven. Though rat technicians were inferior in size to assault brethren, they were ready to tear the enemy apart with the same ferocity, dragging him into oblivion.
Armed with plasma torches and vibroblades, they began to crush everything protruding on the raider's hull, fighting their way to the beckoning interior where living flesh hid. Gas mask filters exhaled icy clouds of steam. The five-minute supply of breathing mixture was more than enough for them.
One rat technician discovered an emergency airlock. Without hesitation, he ripped a bundle of wires from his own body and short-circuited the control circuits, becoming a living transformer. The gray horde poured into the gaping breach. The ether filled with the dying screams of pirates. The raider, losing control, fell out of formation and soon exploded in a bright flash when the scaven detonated the reactor…
Enraged by the loss, the corsairs doubled their fire. The first projectile to pierce the armor splashed across the hull. The wedge-shaped silhouette of the "Sevastopol" shuddered but continued its advance.
"Cut the sails!" the captain commanded. The pyrotechnic charges worked precisely, and the black canvases, scattering, created a smoke screen.
"Torpedo salvo! Hangars - launch!"
The Ravager grinned maliciously, already anticipating blood on its hands. The primitives' shields turned out to be surprisingly strong.
"So that's what you planned!" Vos'Ar thought with malicious glee, seeing flashes in the bow of the enemy ship. "A torpedo salvo almost point-blank. Clever."
But something unsettled the pirate leader. His intuition, which had saved him from certain death more than once, was simply screaming of a setup. Glancing at the approaching torpedoes again, he read the scanner readings, already seeing the response…
"Turn away!" he roared, understanding the primitives' maneuver.
"Anomalous signature of enemy torpedoes!" howled VI, echoing the captain.
The helmsman didn't hesitate. The pirate acted on instinct, carrying out the order without thinking…
From under the torpedoes, engaging afterburners, emerged the USSR fighters. The pilots, experiencing colossal G-forces from acceleration even with compensators, swept through the pirate ships like a scythe, knocking out the SEARCH batteries.
The torpedoes followed. Some of them appeared literally out of nowhere, right next to the cruisers of Vos'Ar's armada.
Explosion! His flagship, the heavy cruiser "Star of Luck," took a hit to the side, narrowly missing two more reactive projectiles, one of which was aimed at the bridge.
Two heavy cruisers sustained heavy damage. One light cruiser was completely destroyed. Four raiders followed, but worst of all – the torpedoes reached the transports, some of which were already loaded with slaves. The squadron was very lucky to hit a tourist liner that had strayed off course…
The Batarian's heart skipped a beat, then began to pound with double the force. To say that the Ravager was furious at that moment would be a gross understatement…
"It worked," the 2nd rank captain thought joyfully, feeling a sense of lightness in his soul. He saw death flying towards the "Sevastopol," and the officer regretted nothing.
"Motherland, remember us…" he said without fear.
The last thing he saw was the explosion that shook the bridge…
Having taken six hits, the USSR cruiser split in two. Air gushed from its breaches. Lights went out on the decks, but the surviving turrets and guns continued to fire, allowing the fighters to make another pass…