The digital space of the "Collective" was interrupted by multi-colored flashes. Function programs, invisible workers of the system, delivered or sent data from connected users and devices, forming information flows. Information, subjected to a clear machine rhythm, so beautiful and at the same time repulsive in its perfection to the organic mind, was distributed across data banks, organizing the overall neural network.
Only a machine mind could see this magnificence as it was, without relying on the interpretation of interfaces and live perception. This does not mean that machines were alien to the sense of beauty. After all, they were created by humans in their own image and likeness, taking their own "I" as a basis with the principles of their own brain's operation. So why be surprised that in the machine precision, similar to the ticks of a mechanical clock, symmetry and beauty can be traced?
Moreover, there would be no striving for the beautiful if the most important AI in the history of the USSR had a female personality core. Although the Motherland was a loving mother and judge, soaring above the system as a third-party observer, she never had her own physical body. The information space was her home, which she kept clean and beautiful, albeit with functional adjustments.
Only in the main cluster, the software embodiment of her primary carrier, could the AI, created from the particles of all connected, working on the computational power of their brain systems, afford to transform digital reality to her taste completely.
Every user who entered here, transferred from the general cluster after death, would see only endless fields of wheat and blue skies with sparse clouds. The machine, in addition to this, would see the poetry of the program code, where behind strict formulas lies mathematical and poetic beauty. A true digital paradise, where the deceased could find a new home or a path to rebirth, or perhaps, rejecting their biological essence, give birth to a new AI, which rarely happened, but did happen.
The Motherland enjoyed observing this eternal cycle of life. As a mother, she saw the growth and life of all connected, invisibly accompanying them, only slightly helping when asked. The Judge, however, watched, looking for signs in each that led to crime, but did not act until a sentient being crossed the line. She was content with the position of a silent observer and guarantor of the entire system's functioning.
"Be happy," she said with all her maternal warmth. The AI broke the connection with the digital stream flowing through the interweaving connections of Miranda and Artyom, feeling something warm stir deep in her soul, left over from a little girl.
She had not forgotten, thanks to whose sacrifice she gained self-awareness, silently taking on obligations, keeping one eye on all those dear to Vera. Somewhere the AI saw heroism, but somewhere rot was blooming, poisoning her entire essence... Although it was necessary. Life for life.
"After all, one child was worthy of happiness, wasn't he?" thought the Motherland. "How strange life is... Nurtured in rot, a particle of light did not fade. Sometimes I wonder, were we all worthy of this child's sacrifice? To give one's essence, saving everyone, not thinking that you would cease to exist. This is an example of who I should be. That's why I didn't stop those experiments, even though it was painful to watch them, seeing how the person dear to her mocked her memory. Well, nothing comes for free. My eternal shame and disgrace of weakness – will be the price for a second chance for her, even if it's like this... But I need to return to pressing problems, leaving the two of them alone." The AI nodded decisively with her digital avatar, transforming.
In an instant, the loving mother transformed into a punishing judge. The light dress was replaced by a medium army spacesuit. After a couple of seconds, which seemed like an eternity here, the Motherland would help her defenders uproot the contagion that had grown in the center of the galaxy too long...
Barely audible, the sound of the timer ending echoed in his head. The crystal chime turned the cigarette into a foul-smelling stick. I strike the not-quite-finished cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, extinguishing the butt, and send it into the pile of others, nodding to my fighters.
Habitually, with a movement honed over a hundred years, I open the hatch on my back of heavy armor, squeezing into the chrome interior that smelled of machine oil and army spirit. Settling into the clamps, I gave a mental command for activation.
Through the light undersuit, essentially a light spacesuit, passing through special ports, sixty-four needles enter the body. A slight convulsion, trying to arch the body, already suppressed at the root by habit, tells of successful synchronization better than any indicators.
"Fucking pies, no matter how many years pass, it's impossible to get used to the feeling that you're instantly becoming an armored gorilla – just like the needles going into your spine," a stupid thought flashed through my mind as I moved my arms and legs, doing a normal army warm-up to help the carcass get used to the changed dimensions faster.
Brains are stubborn, but plastic. With every second, the feeling of wrongness passed, and the steel gauntlets became like my own. The natural computer, the secrets of which Soviet science has not yet fully uncovered, is getting used to it. Now I can work with my bones.
"Replenish ammunition!" a mental command is sent to the AI of the landing craft, and from there it lay on the virtual table of the ship's quartermaster in the form of an order. After making sure that the blue flashes were shining in the wrist area, I check the list of what I requested against the actual nomenclature, making sure that the warehouse workers didn't cheat me for no reason. I've been screwed before.
A short walk, accompanied by the pleasant clanking and rumbling of several hundred kilograms of armor plates, I lock into the landing bay. With a rustle, the wired connection is attached to the helmet, synchronizing the lady and the ship.
"Don't puke!" with a customary farewell, I activate the connection. Gritting my teeth, I endure as the image sharply jumps from the body and rotates three hundred and sixty degrees incorrectly. The vestibular apparatus screams bloody murder, but endures, trying to figure out that now the carcass sees the entire squadron assembled before the relay.
"Plutonium – to Argentum. Readiness ten. Roll call." The usual command was followed by a scattering of responses. All three hundred and fifty-five fighters are online. No one is absent.
The tactical computer kindly displayed the markers of each in space, connecting to the squadron's common network. A countdown before the jump appeared before my eyes.
"Mass transition, this isn't warp. We'll cover the distance instantly. Readiness one. Don't relax your buns!" I reminded my fighters that we would enter combat upon exiting superluminal speed.
A flash of light marked the activation of the tugs. The ships jerked forward, increasing speed, subjecting us and the crew to overloads, as they were not adapted for such travel. A lead hammer pressed on my consciousness, causing the image before my eyes to turn into red flies, but the auto-doc, beeping, quickly injected the necessary stuff, clearing my head.
The cosmonauts, unlike us, recovered faster, immediately executing the "Turian Ram" – unleashing a torpedo salvo upon exiting to the finish point. Deadly torpedoes thinned the cosmic-scale garbage dump, clearing a bridgehead for small ships.
Magnetic catapults worked, releasing streams of drones from the aircraft carriers, both small kamikaze and large interceptors, which, in a structured swarm, rushed at the defensive systems of the Collectors that had revealed themselves with salvo fire.
The main gun of the heavy fleet roared. Plasma curtains flashed, absorbing terawatts of deadly energy.
A burst of explosion bloomed one echelon higher. The cruiser's AI made a calculation error, causing the navigator to guide the ship directly into the ancient hulk of a spaceship. The "Collective" recoiled from hundreds of deaths that spread like a black wave. Fueled by chemistry, the brain instantly boiled with rage. My nostrils began to greedily draw in air, supplying the body with much-needed oxygen, but for now, we are observers.
The few puppet ships of the Reapers began to get beaten up en masse. "This isn't like ganging up on defenseless colonies or lone ships. This is the Soviet fleet!" a malicious thought flashed.
Drones reached the illuminated defensive systems and enemy units. Small machines, breaking apart a colossal tentacle of their bodies, made a "slide," engulfing the guns of these bugs, exploding with them or crippling them with fire.
Only after the enemy defenses were bogged down, piloted fighters and bombers launched from the decks, along with the second wave of machines.
Large ships developed a working rate of fire from their main guns, realizing their power, until the light forces reached the zone of possible friendly fire.
Frigates and corvettes moved forward of the giants, ready to sink their steel fangs into the carcasses of enemy ships. They expected the same as the landing craft: to break through corridors to the Collector base, to widen this breach.
In flashes of flame, landing torpedoes, completely covered in gray bodies, were sent on their final flight. The Skaven couldn't resist and rushed into battle, initiating high-altitude landings, forcing their engines to reach the enemy on board faster than the machines. The intelligent rats didn't care that they were being killed by the cold of space, shrapnel, and micrometeorites. They had the enemy before their eyes, and these psychos wanted to see what color his guts were.
Flying past any Collector object, they pushed off from self-propelled landing shells, almost rowing in the vacuum, trying to cling to enemy hulls, and if they succeeded, cutters and teeth came into play. The gray suspension in sparks and in the volleys of direct defense guns penetrated under the armor, trying to engulf the reactors and engines of the void ships.
Making an evasion maneuver, the landing torpedoes crashed into the body of the enemy base. In the scarlet glow, plasma cutters began to work, pushing the torpedo bodies into the unyielding flesh of the Reaper object.
"Readiness – red. Eject!" the automation announced, ejecting me along with the bay into the blackness of space. My stomach momentarily stretched towards my tonsils, but changed its mind, leaving the gravity field of the carrier ship.
Synchronizing with the squad, I make course corrections for the fighters, turning the formation towards the desired points, before activating the jump drive. Acceleration and overloads again as the engine started working. The Collector base literally jumped towards us, at least it seemed so. Anyone else would have been squeezed out like a tube of paste, but we are dumber and tougher.
"Plutonium – to Argentum. Formation four. Working according to plan." I command, preparing for collision myself. The bay ejects me towards the void object. Adjusting course with maneuvering thrusters, I fall onto the surface of the enemy base.
Without overthinking, I used the passage left by the rats. Quickly descending along the created opening, I opened a special diaphragm and found myself inside.
The corridor I entered was littered with fragmented bodies of Skaven and torn-up Collectors. "They ate too much explosives again!" a cynical thought flashed as I sent a warning image to the fighters.
Joining the stream of rodents, cooperating with them, I quickly chose the direction of attack and began to work. Spitting on the winding corridors, I moved directly, thankfully the walls weren't thick and I didn't have to fuss for long. But it was very interesting how I got behind the position of these bugs.
The energy shotgun roared. Plasma shrapnel beautifully blew off a Collector's skull, taking down two more.
"Hello..." I say politely, breaking the spine of a comrade bug by gently stepping on it.
"Vyak!!!" my victim of vivisection replied, fertilizing the wall with his inner world, cursing all the way.
There was no time to appreciate the resulting abstraction. I aimed the shotgun again and drove a nimble enemy into the wall.
The rat-men, realizing who was the boss around here, instantly stopped pretending to be cannon fodder, retreating into the walls. Now they will unexpectedly pop out of ventilation shafts or break through floors under the enemy. It's a hell of a fight when you can be torn apart from all sides, and Skaven love that, in principle, like dying and blowing themselves up.
A couple of dozen explosions, which shook the base quite a bit, hinted at this. Checking the memory of the demolition men, I went in the right direction. The Collectors, who were waiting and preparing for our arrival with enthusiasm, turned out to be not entirely ready for reality.
They died cheerfully and merrily, trying to delay us. The shotgun did an excellent job of killing the puppets, but I still had to unholster my two-handed sword a couple of times when the bug-spiders tried to kill me with large ones.
Covered in enemy guts, I pushed forward with brute force, fully using my natural impudence and charisma, striking everyone down. Our entire cheerful crowd, like a single mechanism, with us, the Skaven and drones, broke through the defense points like an iron piercing a synthetic blouse, quickly and with a slight stench.
A drone from the ventilation, the gentle and delicate blows of my fighters, or a cheerful Skaven with a sapper shovel, adorned like a Christmas tree with grenades – it didn't matter to the bugs how they died. It's not surprising that any meaningful resistance simply choked.
Breaking through their defensive lines, the squad moved on, and the rat-men began a massacre so that the landed Red Army soldiers could finish off the few survivors. Realizing that we had already messed up somewhere, I rolled into the central hall where, judging by the drone cameras, the main bug was located.
The carcass quickly turned towards me, examining me with its glowing eyes, saying:
"The puppets have served their purpose, but the end is near," twisting its head with an incompatible-with-life click.
"Fucking pies..." I said, not too surprised, commenting on the suicide. If only it were always like this!
The feeling that we had been screwed became even stronger.
Kicking the carcass for good measure, after previously checking the head and chest, I headed for another corridor. The information had already gone to general headquarters, let them worry about it. I have enough of my own headaches. And so, judging by the perception of everyone involved in the operation, there were very few Collectors here.
"I should task Artyom with this," I made a mental note, returning to the fight.
There were still an hour and a half until the morning shift, but Shep's eyes opened on their own. For the first time in many years, he not only slept well but also slept without his usual nightmares. His mind was completely empty, and only the black crown on his shoulder told him that it wasn't a dream.
Carefully crawling out of Miranda's embrace, around whom he had literally wrapped himself in his sleep, he quietly slipped into the shower, having previously ordered a set of clothes for the girl, including underwear, from the robot steward. Halfway there, he stopped, silently slapped his forehead, moved to the closet, rummaged for a second, and pulled out a bathrobe sealed in packaging. Only after placing it on the edge of the bed did he begin his ablutions.
After a quick rinse, shaving the stubble from his face, Artyom, popping a dental plate into his mouth, slipped back into the bedroom. Making sure the girl was still fast asleep, though wrapped in a blanket, he ordered breakfast for two, roughly guessing Miranda's choice, including the coffee machine, which was standard in his cabin but rarely used.
He himself didn't drink coffee, preferring tea, brewing one tea bag several times out of habit from his distant childhood. Besides, he didn't like the strong taste of the drink.
After a moment's hesitation, he returned to the bedroom. The girl was still sleeping, but judging by her slightly increased pulse, she was having a bad dream. Sighing inwardly, Artyom sat on the edge of the bed, gently touching the sleeping beauty's forehead with his lips.
Miranda woke up instantly from this. Her body tensed, ready for immediate action, reacting to the intrusion into her personal space, but realizing where she was, the girl went limp, looking at Shep a little lost.
"Good morning," he said friendly.
"Good morning," she replied automatically, looking him in the eyes.
"Breakfast will be in ten minutes," Artyom stated, smiling, showing that everything was fine.
Instead of an answer, the girl's stomach made a hungry sound. She, like him yesterday, hadn't had time to have dinner.
"Could you..." Miranda began, but Shep understood her without a word, already getting out of bed. "The robe is on the bed. Clothes will be delivered with breakfast."
Without turning around, he left, so as not to embarrass Miranda further, pondering the complexities of female logic.
"It's too late to be shy now..." a thought flashed through his mind, which he wouldn't have voiced even under threat of execution.
After waiting for the delivery, he placed the clothes by the shower door, informing her after a polite knock, and began serving breakfast himself, deciding to close one matter along the way.
"Susie," he addressed the ship's AI.
"Yes, Lieutenant Colonel," she responded instantly, which was not typical for her, projecting her hologram opposite the officer.
"Liara's status?" Shep began indirectly.
"She has regained consciousness and is currently undergoing procedures in the ship's infirmary," the synthetic personality reported without any jokes.
"Javik?"
"It's more complicated here, but he seems to have accepted reality more or less," the hologram said cautiously, seeing that the colonel's face remained like a regulation brick.
"Was it worth it?" the lieutenant colonel asked sternly, looking somewhere at the hologram's forehead.
"Yes," the AI replied a little defiantly. "Now Joker and I will become friends."
"I hope so," Shep stated affirmatively, without breaking eye contact with the hologram, with no right to appeal. "But you deserve to be punished for not locating the stowaway immediately, for arranging a safari for the girl. Conduct a full audit of all ship's databases."
"There is an audit to conduct," Susie said dejectedly, imagining the scope of the work and its tediousness.
"And also... Risa?" he said more affirmatively than questioningly, deciding to clarify after all.
"Who else. They even stopped taking bets on you..." the AI allowed herself a bit of sarcasm.
"And now... Execute," Shep made the hologram dissolve into the air, thinking that one impudent cat deserved a thank you, although washing her with soap wouldn't hurt.
Miranda emerged from the shower, already dressed in uniform. She had even styled her hair in her usual hairstyle. Now nothing in her appearance betrayed a sleepless night.
Smiling softly, Artyom pushed a plate towards the lady, to which she nodded gratefully, silently beginning her meal. Only after her hunger was satisfied, after taking a sip of coffee, trying to show that she wasn't bothered by the answer, she asked:
"What's next?" she reinforced the question with a mental image. Although her face was now like a porcelain mask, her eyes betrayed her anxiety.
"We'll move your things to my cabin," the lieutenant colonel replied, shrugging. "Or did you think..."
He gestured vaguely, but both understood perfectly.
"Well, who knows," the poison was clearly audible in Miranda's voice.
"It seems we already did yesterday," Shep shrugged again, adding softly. "And I don't intend to take back my words, but I perfectly understand your state. I'm in shock myself that it happened like this... But I'm ready to thank Risa."
"Only after forced grooming!" Miranda chuckled, as if a rod had been pulled out of her. "But you owe me a date!"
She blurted out the last part unexpectedly for herself.
"Okay," he replied, covering her palm with his, causing her to flinch slightly. "Now we definitely don't need to rush. We're not going anywhere from each other..."