Beta-Testers
by Prizrak ("Ghost")
Episode 9: Protectors of Fatherland
first published in "Best Computer Games" magazine №1 (50) Jan. 2006, №2 (51) Feb 2006, №3 (52) Mar 2006, №4 (53) Apr 2006
Mission 01: Baptism of Fire.
Testers' den.
November 12, 10:34 real time.
"So?"
"Soon..."
"So?"
"Banzai, go wash yourself!"
"Xen, launch it already, you bastard!"
"Wait a bit... Wait a bit... I'll check the textures..."
"Check them from the inside. Launch it already! I'm dying here..."
The overall atmosphere in the computer hall resembled something between mass psychosis and fan crowd of a random rock group before a concert. The programmer Xenobyte — a pale lean lanky guy with unevenly cut unkempt long black hair, long fingers seemingly having a life of their own and wearing sun pince-nez — was frantically thumping on the keyboard, occasionally making belly groans. The "walkers" McMad and Mahmud — two strapping guys with crew-cuts, wearing military camouflage — nervously consumed coffee, now and then exchanging phrases like "And plasma pistol, actually, sucks", "Sure, should take heavy plasma from the start". The stealth and puzzle specialist Melissa — a girl in her twenties, with long black hair, wearing leather vest, short skirt and very tall jackboots — like an orchestra conductor waved a manipulator, wandering the net. And only the gaming journalist Granddaughter — a girl with pigtails in her late teens, wearing sneakers, worn jeans and striped T-shirt (and who wouldn't look out of place in anime) — stood in the middle of this chaos, staring at her friends gloomily. [Translator's note: I added character descriptions from earlier stories.]
"Banzai," she pulled the sleeve of bored Grandfather Banzai (no relation) — a sixty-something man with long gray hair braided in the Viking fashion. "While others are going mad... Could at least you explain, why the panic?! Just another game... Polikarpych also was jumpy, when he gave me the disks..."
Banzai looked at Granddaughter with fear, like a medieval peasant, who was asked "what is this barn?" pointing at a church.
"Granddaughter," he moaned with pain. "I thought Xenobyte was our backwoodsman. But you?!"
"What about me?!" Granddaughter asked gloomily. "Well... let me think... Last time you were crazy like this when I brought 'Star Convoy'. What is it, some other legend of old?! Right?"
Banzai thought deeply.
"Well, sorta — yes."
"Spill out," Granddaughter sighed, making herself comfortable.
Banzai smoothed his mustache. His stare went blank; Granddaughter shuddered: the old tester started to look like a shaman, ready to tell the tribe some scary legend.
"The history of Protector of Fatherland is rooted in the mists of old," he started like a chant. "In the era, when RAM was measured with megabytes, 5-inch disk surprised nobody and comrade Kimersen[sic] was still alive..."
Granddaughter had trouble remembering who, this Kimersen was, but the mention of 5-inch disk suggested appropriate respect.
"In that era few had heard of 3D acceleration, much less VR. So, there was a game called 'UFO: An Unknown Aggressor', or something like that..."
The old man's voice fell to a mystic whisper, after which he seemed to exit to astral completely. His eyes watered, his fingers and mustache moved mysteriously.
"And was the game good?" Granddaughter pulled Banzai's sleeve impatiently.
"Good? Hmm... It wasn't just good. Though nobody figured where was the trick. The graphics seemed to be — for its day — quite decent, but not really outstanding. Ditto the music. The plot — there'd been more elaborate ones. But all that put together... In short, people were binge playing it. The whole generation. And then weirdness started. The company that released the game decided to release a sequel too. And so they did. Fans, of course bought everything, but... But it didn't make such a furor. And everything seemed to be the same. But many turned away: something was insincere there. A few years later another sequel appeared... And failed again... All in all, the pre-virtual era saw 5 installments of the legendary game. Each time employing the latest achievements of computer technology. The poor game had been a turn-based tactical simulator, a real-time tactical simulator, space fighter simulator and just a shooter. All in vain. The new generation turned away, the old fans wept, unearthed their old computers, late at night installed old DOS and ran the first, the legendary variant of the game."
"But today many old games are reworked for virt," Granddaughter remarked.
"Yeah," Banzai nodded, "and note that the legends like Doom, Quake, Dune — they all immediately found their virtual incarnations. But no less legendary Aggressor — no way. Despite all the years... Do you know why?"
"Why?"
"They are afraid. Still afraid, because they don't understand what in the first game touched the soul so much," mysteriously whispered Banzai.
"But somebody finally tried, didn't they?"
"They did. Samara Soft. Cunning guys, I respect that... But even they didn't dare to make a true remake, or what would you call it... They said 'inspired by...' And rightly so — remaking a legend is no use. Now, inspired by legendary images one can..."
"Enough tall tales, Banzai. Let's go! Mount your machines, comrades!" — Mahmud joyfully roared from somewhere.
Chkalov Air Defense secret base.
November 12, 10:55 real time
Granddaughter found the intro somewhat boring. With Levitan-like narrator's voice solemnly telling the story how mean aliens started terrorizing Earth, over an incredibly beautiful snow-covered forest landscape a pancake-like vehicle floated by, mysteriously blinking its outlining lights. Suddenly the camera shifted. One snowbank stirred, an old man in ushanka and sheepskin coat emerged from it. With a disapproving glance at the vehicle the old man dramatically raised a Berdan rifle, aimed carefully and pulled the trigger. The vehicle shuddered, shook and, leaving a trail of smoke, dashed somewhere beyond the forest where it crashed, judging from the thunder. Around the geriatric sniper equally gloomy peasants started to gather, getting out of the thicket, armed with axes, forks and stakes. It looked like the troubles of the flying saucer pilots had just started.
[T.N.:
Yu.B.Levitan was the primary announcer of Soviet Radio in 1940-60s, an iconic voice of WW2 archive footage.
Berdan rifles are single-shot 10.75x58 or 7.62x54 mm rifles decommissioned in the 1890s. The name is used scornfully since mid-20th century.]
Meanwhile, the narrator explained in simple terms that although the government pretends that nothing extraordinary happens, the population resists the alien intervention the way it can. And now it's time to set about this task orderly, on an industrial scale. Which is what the players are suggested to do. To begin with, they get one Air Defense base and the task: stop the disorder.
Finally, the surrounding reality blinked. The testers found themselves in a grim bunker.
"Armory, armory!!! Where's the armory?!" Mahmud shouted immediately.
"Laboratory!" Xenobyte interjected.
"We should take the inventory!" suggested Melissa in a business-like manner.
"Shaddup!" proclaimed Banzai, taking the familiar coordinator's position. "Well, let's sort this out... Yeah... Well... From here it's just like the good old UFO, only with you being louses in there... Here's the base plan... Mahmud, McMad, dart to the barracks, take the corridor, then right. Xen, lab's on the second level, the lift's behind you. Melissa, dart to the command center. Check the base inventory, find how are the interceptors armed...
"And me?" asked Granddaughter resentfully.
"Walk around the base, look for picturesque angles..."
Testers ran in all directions. 15 minutes later hey gathered in the room marked as "VIP hall" for some reason. After a nervous glance at the fountain with a golden dolphin rising in the middle of the table and a monumental fax machine with "Sony" and "Xerox" stickers, everybody settled around the water-sprayed table. The testers' faces were long. They spent the next two minutes in silence. Finally, Mahmud very carefully said:
"Errrrr..."
Nobody followed his lead. The pause clearly stretched too long.
"OK, comrades, I looked after you..." Banzai made a sound. "Express yourself. Let's start with the laboratory. Xenobyte?"
"Odd," the programmer shrugged, "the finest device there is a moonshine still. The personnel gave me a painful impression. Out of seven employees there are four managers and a secretary. Nothing to develop yet."
"Hm... OK, I hope the first downed saucer will give them work. Go on. What's in the armory?"
"Banzai, I don't know yet what is the balance in this game," said McMad gloomily. "But the local defense doctrine seems to be based on AK-47, 3 Mosin rifles, 2 RPG-18 and 1 decent SVD rifle, which I take for myself. The latest in assault weaponry is Saiga carbine. Frankly, I'm slightly panicking."
"Don't worry," Banzai tried to calm him down. "We'll look at them in action, can't tell much before that. What about means of protection?"
"As you can guess, a standard issue army armored vest. That's all."
"Mahmud, did you check the barracks?"
"Boss," said the walker quietly. "If those rookies must repel the invasion... It's time to learn to speak Martian."
"That bad?"
"Even worse," said Mahmud with meaning. "We're saddled with 5 degenerates flunked out of colleges."
A minute of silence followed.
"You mean... Conscripts?"
"Exactly."
"And... Regular military?"
"That's us."
"OK," mumbled the coordinator with a slightly hoarse voice. "Melissa..."
"What's a 'Tunguska'?" the girl asked instead of an answer.
"How should I put it..." [T.N.: 2K22 Tunguska, NATO name SA-19 Grison — a tracked self-propelled twin anti-aircraft gun with SAMs.]
"We've got two. According to the inventory, they come with diesel fuel and ammo. Thus: we've got a bit of ammo."
"And what about early warning systems?"
"A sentry on a watchtower," Melissa replied caustically. "There's also a radar. The local McGyver is busy repairing it."
"And interceptors?"
"Two MiGs. Fuel for five missions, ten missiles. Thank god, at least enough cannon rounds. But no pilots at all. Some of us will have to recall air simulators."
"And what about the funds?"
"And what do you think?"
"I get it. But it's strange... Where did it all come from? I mean the fountains and other color music?"
"And this," Melissa replied gloomily, "is called realism. We live off state money and volunteer donations. And a sponsor will enjoy giving a fountain more than real money. Then again, maybe they have trouble selling those. And weapons are in demand..."
"Well," Xenobyte groaned sourly. "Maybe it isn't all that bad. Maybe..."
Suddenly an overly joyful march started.
It took the testers some time to find it was being produced by a mahogany end table, which on thorough investigation turned out to be a telephone.
"Post number 3 reporting," a cheerful voice sounded from an earpiece. "An unknown flying object detected!"
Air combat.
November 12, 11:23 real time
Banzai had no time to enter the game. Thus, it were McMad and Xenobyte who madly dashed to the interceptors. Mahmud rushed to prepare the landing party to the mission.
"Xenobyte, don't show off. The plan is: lure the saucer, start a dogfight and inconspicuously lure it toward Tunguskas."
"Let's fly... Damn, why so many buttons? Couldn't they install a proper keyboard?"
"By god, that's already a simplified simulator! McMad! Remember, the ammo is limited. Cause I know you, when you get a new gun... I wish I was in the cockpit..."
"Yeah, and who'd stay at the helm?"
"Xenobyte, go!"
"Giddyup, go, dear!" the programmer screamed, accelerating the airplane.
The plane thundered along the runway, rose its nose and lifted off.
"Xen!" Melissa remarked with worry. "Do you have any idea of the cost of such an airplane?"
"Better don't tell... But shouldn't they be replaced for free?"
"They should. If we file a convincing statement of fair wear-and-tear. Remember those 'puzzle-adventure elements'?"
"Belay talking!" Banzai interrupted them harshly. "Xen has trouble with controls as it is, and then you..."
The other plane hit the sky. Snow-covered taiga dragged below.
"Fifteen seconds, all systems go... Banzai, check the map, where to?!"
"Turn left, we'll approach from the sun side..."
"Who the hell cares? The sky is all clouded..."
"It's a tradition... OK, belay yammering. Eyes on radars, you should see it soon..."
"I see it!" declared McMad shortly after.
"Mine's empty," Xenobyte grumbled.
"McMad, take the lead, Xenobyte's radar looks dead."
"I knew they'd slip me a defective plane!"
"Better look out the window, you'll reach visual contact soon... Xen, what's that thunder from you?"
"I'm fixing the radar, somebody conveniently left a crowbar..."
"And?!"
"As usual... Here! Target's on the radar!"
"It's in sights already," McMad chuckled.
And truly, a classic "flying saucer" sailed leisurely under the low clouds.
According to the "lure the enemy to Tunguskas" plan, both interceptors started with sweeping past the enemy craft menacingly. But the UFO paid no heed to the hooligans and continued going about its business.
"The nerve," Xenobyte was outraged. "What should we do then?"
"McMad, fire!" Banzai ordered.
The walker must have waited long for this moment, because his interceptor made a gut roar and spit fire from all barrels and sent a missile from under its wing.
The missile drew a silver line in the sky and hit the saucer. An explosion thundered, the flying misconception shook. The lights contouring it started blinking perplexedly...
"At least I broke his headlight..."
"And that's all?" asked Xenobyte in surprise.
"McMad, retreat!!!" Banzai screamed with a mad voice.
The interceptor skyrocketed. Good timing: formerly phlegmatic flying object quickly released some sort of a proboscis and flung itself into dogfight. Xenobyte engaged the airbreaks, but was too slow: the glowing droplet spit by the disk slashed the base of a wing and the cockpit. The turbine started coughing in an asthmatic fit.
"Oy vey! I mean 'Mayday'!" the programmer screamed, spinning down.
"Straighten the machine, cretin!" Banzai replied. "McMad, distract the saucer!"
McMad made a loop-the-loop, showering the enemy with cannon fire and shooting two more missiles while at it. Before the object could turn its gun, he turned around and sped somewhere northeast.
"Yeah," he remarked several seconds later, "looks like we've got an ally here. I can see something like Xen's castle in Transylvania."
The building did resemble the vampire castle from "Epoch of Chimeras" MMORPG. Even the round window, from which Xenobyte usually flew to get breakfast, was in its proper place. Probably, it wasn't a coincidence — the same 3D artists were rumored to work on both games.
And the UFO suddenly, without warning or paying proper respect to inertia, rushed after him quickly closing the distance.
"Ayeee!" scared Melissa's voice sounded from speakers. "Draw it away from there! Away!"
"Melissa, what's with you?" Banzai replied "We should save money. If it's shot down without us, that's better."
"I told you — draw it away! Anywhere!"
"Run for the clouds!" suggested Banzai.
The interceptor skyrocketed. The flying saucer, despite its absolutely improbable horizontal maneuverability, seemed to be weak at climbing. After "missing" by several meters the UFO stopped abruptly and started to "rise on edge", after which it continued its movement. This short delay let the plane disappear in the lead-gray clouds. Somehow, the saucer didn't want to follow it. It also became interested in the building with fancy towers...
"Listen," Melissa's vice sounded calm, but menacing, "don't let a single crock fall off these towers... I mean roof tile. Do anything. Up to ramming this flying bowl with your plane..."
"What the hell is that, anyway? A nuclear weapons storage?" McMad howled.
And then airwaves brought the wail of forgotten Xenobyte:
"My castle! It's shooting at it! I'll crush you-u-u-u-u!"
"What does he mean?"
While McMad was running away from the saucer (which took much shorter than retelling the events), the programmer managed to break out of the spin, missed the frozen ground by five meters and sent the interceptor up.
The object started jerking, torn between McMad and Xenobyte. The fatal hesitation... Xenobyte's fighter, wheezing strainedly and smoking, raced to ram it.
"Bail out, Xen!!!"
"No pas-sa-ran, motherfuckers!"
Four rockets, one after another, fell from under the fighter wings, and the fighter itself finally screamed like a wounded mammoth and drove its nose into the defenseless belly of the saucer.
That finally seemed to do it. The craft started shaking, spasmodically jerking to and fro and sped to the side, inexorably losing the altitude.
"Wounded beast," Banzai sighed. "McMad, after it! Xen, you were the real programmer! The people will never forget you..."
"Yeah," Melissa confirmed, almost weeping from disappointment. "Wasting the full load of ammo with an almost new interceptor! Losses, staggering material losses!"
"Shouldn't have given the idea."
"Who knew you'd take it all so literally..."
"OK, we'll have a debriefing later. Now Mahmudych's going to exact losses from those humanoids."
Mission 02: Big city lights
Chkalov Air Defense base
November 14, 10:02 real time
"You mean, that's that? I say, it doesn't look like what those bastards use at all."
"Would you rather wave those toilet brushes of theirs?"
"No, not really."
"That's it. In fact, we just picked their weapons apart and pulled out the energy source. And based on it pushed our own technology. You are holding a laser rifle."
"It doesn't look serious, somehow," noted Mahmud dismally.
His sniper friend obviously disagreed. He tenderly caressed the device resembling a Maxim machine gun built in rifle dimensions.
"Can we install sights on it?" he asked predatorily.
Xenobyte shrugged. Suddenly the "VIP hall" door opened revealing a very vexed Melissa. She scanned her colleagues and asked:
"What the cooking numismatist renamed the bots?!"
Testers looked at each other.
"What's wrong?" Xenobyte said with surprise. "We need to work with them, and painfully recalling who's called what is costly, especially in the heat of a battle. Let them call them however they please!"
Melissa locked her sight on suddenly very bored walkers and spoke through clenched teeth:
"Have you seen how they renamed them?"
Xenobyte raised his brow in surprise. Melissa waved her hand and all three followed her to barracks.
The testers' small army diminished significantly. Epic warrior Petrenko, as Mahmud promised, went to an officer school. Heroic Uzbek Tyndyrbiyev was taking a special forces course. The two rookies who didn't distinguish themselves in the first mission went to flight school: now they piloted the fighters. Thus, all operatives from the first "batch" were temporarily missing, but new people appeared.
This was a very difficult, but strategically justified decision. After long quarrels, threats, complains and a pile of reasons of varying degree of sanity, Melissa insisted on changing the "0" digit in the "rank and file wage" column to "more positive".
The same day the security chief of the unforgettable hunting lodge brought a square strongman as a humanitarian aid. A severe man with Berdan rifle came out of the taiga and proclaimed that he didn't like alien vermin anyway and would be exterminating them for "magarych". [T.N.: from Arab "living expenses", originally meant a feast to celebrate a deal; expanded to booze given as payment; today may mean any bribe or reward for services, especially paid off the books.] Another man out of taiga was a Yakut covered with chains and carrying a large tambourine; he proclaimed he was a shaman and for firewater would exterminate all evil spirits on the base.
They wanted to immediately catapult the shaman back to the snow, but Banzai providently checked his stats and screamed desperately to bring the psionic to the canteen, look after him with utmost care and never let him go.
"So, what's wrong with names?" Xenobyte raised his brow questioningly.
"Read it yourself!" Melissa gloomily poked her finger at the name stripe on the nearest operative's chest.
This was a Siberian old man. The stripe proudly said "Magarych".
"It's a typo. Probably Makarych?" the programmer inquired. [T.N.: a common shortened patronymic.]
"Na-ah. Definitely Magarych. Very greedy," McMad smirked.
"Going on..."
The psionic Yakut was named "Babayota": after washing, shaving and change of clothes he started to look like a strong stern samurai. But the former lodge guard was the unluckiest. His stripe said "Doberman".
"A Rottweiler, more likely," Xenobyte corrected choking on laughter.
"I refuse to show up on the same shot with him!" Melissa declared decisively.
"Er... Well... Banzai, what do you say?"
"Melissa, who'd strain their eyes to read those stripes?" said Banzai in a conciliatory manner. "The guys gonna command them, let them name them as they see fit."
"I don't want during my report to hear one of those fools scream in the background 'Doberman, bite'!"
"Belay that!!!" Xenobyte immediately bellowed in fear.
The guard heard Melissa's command, stirred, looked around and started to somehow beguilingly approach the programmer, crackling his fingers nastily.
"Mahmud! Why does he... at me in particular?!" Xenobyte asked commandingly.
"Well, I don't know," the warrior shrugged. "Probably something from subconscious."
"I don't approve of such subconscious," the programmer declared morosely.
"OK, don't lose your temper. Better tell, how many laser rifles have we got?"
"So far — two. Three more will be finished soon, then we'll be able to test them in the field."
"Hey, eagles," Banzai remarked unobtrusively, "let's prepare to work. There seems to be a UFO on the radar."
UFO-13 crash site.
November 14, 10:18 real time.
The new pilots shot down the enemy craft successfully. The testers armed themselves and hastily loaded into a canvas van. Compared to the first "ski campaign" it was top comfort, though Banzai didn't fail to mention that their transport had probably heroically worked on the "Road of Life" to the besieged Leningrad.
Besides the three bots, the van carried Mahmud, McMad, Xenobyte and Granddaughter.
"And Melissa promised a helicopter," Xenobyte noted gloomily, bouncing on the hard bench and pushing up the helmet that slipped down over his eyes.
"The van was a compromise between comfortable, but expensive helicopter and continued cross-country skiing," the sniper grumbled. "Listen up, how'd she get so much practicality? If SpecOps training wasn't as expensive, we'd charge Sectoids with knives to save money!"
"Hey, old man! Slow down, getting off here!" Granddaughter yelled, drumming the driver's cabin. "We'll walk the rest of the way, so that it wouldn't be like the first time. Meliska will draw and quarter us for the van, if anything..."
The team dashingly jumped out of the van, spread in a chain and went toward vaguely seen distant buildings. Not far from the van a lopsided pole stuck out of the snow with a plate that read "'Pobeda' state farm". "State farm" was crossed out and "ranch" was written clumsily.
Babayota, who was running next to Xenobyte, suddenly frowned and grumbled:
"I smell a shaitan!"
"Learned from Tyndyrbiyev. When did you find time?" the programmer grumbled. "Where?"
"Three o'clock, one hundred fifty meters."
"Mahmud, do you copy?"
"Yeah. Somewhere in that cowhouse, maybe?
"Now, Mahmudych," Banzai interjected. "Take Doberman and circle them from behind. Mac, take up the position, Xen, down where you are."
McMad whistled to Magarych, shoved the sniper rifle behind his back and started climbing the water tower, sticking out nearby. Xenobyte, watching over the team's first psionic, diligently buried the partner in a snowbank, then stationed himself.
"So, ready?" Mahmud asked in the earphones. Banzai, ask Melissa if she'd survive me spending one grenade."
"Mahmud, don't be a smart-ass."
"No way, no way... I know her, she'll make me write a statement, a writing-down report and a treatise about cost-efficiency of ammo use..."
"Throw it already, bastard!"
They could hear an explosion in the cow-house and fearful squeaks of aliens entrenched there.
"Push them to the machine guns, Mahmudych! Push!"
Big-headed Sectoids started leaping out of the cowhouse gates one after another. Xenobyte sniffed loudly and pressed the trigger of the machine gun gifted by the "hunters". Rifle bangs sounded from the water tower: snipers were shooting the aliens attracted by noise.
"The cow house is clear," Mahmud reported.
"Mahmud, two Sectoids are approaching you from behind..."
"Trifle..."
"With heavy plasmas," McMad added.
"Xen, I'm getting out!" the walker grumbled warily. "Don't shoot me instead of Sectoids..."
A minute later the sly-looking shock troopers leaped out of the cow house and pressed themselves to the walls on both sides of the exit. A scurrying was heard from inside the building and two aliens leaped into the daylight. Xenobyte pressed the trigger, but instead of the burst heard only a depressing clang.
"Shaitan," he cursed melancholically, then forcefully threw something at the aliens.
Seeing the flying grenade, Mahmud cursed in fear and dove to the side. Doberman did the same silently, but sad disapproval could be read in his eyes. Next moment the grenade juicily smacked the forehead of a Sectoid, knocking him off his feet. Babayota banged away the other with a rifle burst.
A few seconds later Mahmud realized there was going to be no explosion and crawled out of the snowbank, just in time to see Xenobyte diligently pick the grenade and hide it back in his bag.
"Misfire?" the walker asked with suspicion.
"Why misfire?" Xenobyte shrugged. "I just didn't prime it. Babayota, good job!"
"You're a bastard, Xen. You can't scare people like that!"
"Calm down, what should we do with the prisoner? We don't have the box to hold the aliens yet..."
"Shoot the dog."
"Melissa's gonna chew us for unjustified waste of ammunition."
"Do you suggest kicking him to death?!"
"That's inhumane."
A shot banged from the water tower. The Sectoid bucked with his paws and fell motionless.
"While you drone there, he'll recover and escape," McMad said in a boring voice.
"But now you write a report for Melissa!" Mahmud gloated.
"But that wasn't me. That's Magarych," the sniper parried. "So, any live aliens left?"
"Mission's over. Pack up."
Chkalov Air Defense base.
November 14, 11:11 real time.
Xenobyte entered the "VIP hall", jerked nervously and pointed his finger in condemnation:
"Melissa, now tell me, with all of us starving and writing reports for each bullet spent... What is this piece of crap still doing here?!"
In the middle of the table the fountain was still rising wildly and ridiculously. Melissa looked at the contraption with open disgust.
"I still can't find an article that would cover writing it off," she complained. "It's not just a fountain... We had it from the start, therefore it is a part of our basic assets..."
"Are we the protectors of our home planet or a second-class 'Limited liability company'?!" Mahmud exploded.
"'Limited liability company', why?!" Melissa replied icily.
"Just asking..."
"OK, why did you pull us here?" McMad interjected. "And since we already gathered, I'd like to get cartridges for practice shooting..."
"You've already spent thirty!" Melissa yelled, almost breaking into tears.
"No wonder our bots have trouble hitting a tank from three meters," the sniper winced his shoulders, "if they only see weapons during missions!"
"Well, don't say that," Xenobyte noted listlessly. "Magarych lately..."
"Magarych is a natural talent, the joke of RNG... All his resource went into precision. Now tell me, friend Xenobyte, why are we still running around with marauderized firearms, while we should already had be armed with the newest technologies?!"
"Because," the programmer snapped, "instead of producing weapons the engineering staff distills alcohol to sell it, and the scientific staff is busy increasing the efficiency of the distilling still, instead of..."
"That's what I wanted to tell," Melissa grumbled darkly. "A financial crisis threatens us. You spend more bullets than I can buy."
"But the number of aliens doesn't decrease either," Mahmud grumbled.
"Exactly. On the contrary, the number of aliens keeps growing. And those are not just Floaters and Sectoids anymore..." Banzai showed up at the door and joined the conversation. "Remember a Muton two missions ago?"
The testers, including Granddaughter, winced in sync. Muton proved a powerful, fast and heavily armored creature: he was taken down collectively, like a mammoth. And they spent about as much ammo as for the rest of the alien crew.
"If the game continues at this speed, they'll reduce us to splinters," Banzai moralized. "What does it tell us?"
"That we've missed something," Xenobyte said deep in thought. "Some mechanics of getting money relatively easily."
"Exactly," Granddad nodded. "The systemic approach is clearly visible. So. How can we earn money?"
"Alcohol is in good demand," Melissa reported at once, peeking in some papers.
"Not conceptual enough, unless we build a separate moonshine base," Banzai shook his head.
"Corpses! Alien corpses, alien technologies... Is nobody interested?!"
"Ours aren't. We need to contact foreign secret services. The owner of the hunting lodge gave advises, but wants a lot of money. Either that or a truly extortionate share."
"I've seen his demands, won't do," Banzai winced. "Here, comrades, time to reread Marx. We need seed funding."
"And again, where can we get one?" Xenobyte twirled his fingers with irritation. "All relatively honest methods... Oh..."
"Exactly," Banzai grinned. "The majority of large modern capitals, not only of Russia, but Europe too, started from pirate chests. So, what do we gain thinking in this direction?"
"How about assaulting criminal structures?" Granddaughter suggested enthusiastically?
"So far they, unfortunately, outweigh us both in firepower and manpower," Mahmud grumbled darkly. "They'll kick us out of business before we start."
"Quickly organize a pyramid scheme. Some 'NNN Inc.'. Air some killer commercials..."
"Which, again, require money."
"Well, two options are left," McMad sighed. "Either robbery or making bots streetwalkers. Xen had a secretary in his lab, I think..."
The programmer threatened him with a fist.
"She's writing a quantum physics PhD thesis right now," he grumbled gloomily. "Unlike other cooking woodpeckers."
"It's robbery then," Mahmud sighed. "But they're gonna cut our financing!"
"To sum it up," Banzai pronounced respectably, smoothing his mustache. "While you were floundering, I developed a plan to bring our organization out of the monetary dive. First... Melissa, write it down. From now on, ground vehicle fuel should be bought at the car service station at Malaya Budyonovka village instead of the official sources!
Melissa stared in shock:
"Where'd they get that much diesel fuel?!"
"This is none of our business! But ask Rossnab, though... Second. Temporarily stop flying to battle missions!"
"Banzai, are you OK?!" Mahmud asked with worry. "Not only will this vermin grow, but we're gonna get fired to hell!"
"Justify lack of activity with lack of ammo and fuel... This all doesn't concern the missions to defend the hunting lodge and Pobeda ranch, which are not state, but private property."
Understanding sparked in Melissa's eyes.
"And finally the third... Comrades, prepare the bots. Tonight's the plundering night."
"Where to?" Xenobyte chuckled sadly. "Rustle the last cow from Budyonovka? She'll die on the way..."
Banzai walked to the map and knocked it persuasively.
"A NATO military base is located here."
Everybody went slack-jawed.
"What the... What are they doing there?!"
"Renting a piece of land, paying with hard currency, behaving well," Melissa shrugged. "Unlike us." [T.N.: Inflation under Yeltsin was several million percent in less than a decade. Prices had to be recalculated frequently. Dollars or marks were immeasurably more convenient, but illegal for deals between residents.]
"Bastards," Mahmud gritted his teeth. "I'm no racist, but..."
"Comrades," Banzai informed them, looking at the map with love. "This is a gold vein! Modern weapons, ammunition... Yes, we've definitely got lucky!"
"And NATO doesn't seem to," Mahmud grinned predatorily.
Mission 03: green terror.
Chkalov Air Defense base.
November 18, 10:12 real time.
— ...We should also note, that in the period covered the staff of scientific and technical departments not only fulfilled, but exceeded the moonshining plan, providing our office with new and new liters of the export product. Therefore, I suggest assigning the brigade of technicians an honorable rank of collective of shock workers, and as for the scientific department...
[T.N.: a stereotypical officious Brezhnev-era speech.]
Xenobyte halted, took his eyes off the sizable pile of printouts and scanned the "conference hall" gloomily. The situation in it was quite stable. Comfortable twilight reigned. On the far end of the long table, opposite the podium, testers were dozing peacefully. Behind Xenobyte's back hung a colorful placard with some graphs. The programmer's eyes narrowed cunningly. Looking point-blank at Melissa he declared:
"I suggest granting the scientific department two monthly wages as a one-time bonus!
Melissa jumped in her chair, shook her head and cast a fierce look at Xenobyte:
"What bonus? From what funds? Why?!"
"Kidding," said the programmer icily through his teeth and swung his arm.
A huge scalpel pierced the table in front of McMad. The sniper didn't even look, retaining the expression of polite boredom.
"Banzai, where are those deserters?!" Xenobyte asked severely.
Strangely, the answer was silence. Listening tensely and attentively, Xenobyte caught weak voices "from beyond":
"Any snacks with the beer?"
"Well, crispbreads, maybe..."
"Mahmud, get some juice for me, OK?" was Granddaughter's voice.
"And don't take Zhigulyoskoye, take something simpler..." [T.N.: the best known, but least respected beer brand.]
Xenobyte inhaled with a whistle, making complex hand movements, exhaled, inhaled slowly again, covered his eyes and suddenly screamed, making the podium shake:
"Banzai!!!"
Melissa reflexively somersaulted off her chair. Somewhere an alarm sounded, frozen bodies of walkers tilted. The door opened and surprised Babayota peered in. After a single glance at Xenobyte he hiccuped, muttered "Sayonara!" and quickly shut the door.
"Did you say something?!" Banzai asked hastily returning to the microphone.
"Return this beer-fetching renegade at once!" the programmer hissed.
"Have you already finished your groundbreaking report?!"
"I'm not even done with the introduction."
"Yeah, and the majority of the audience has already fled," Banzai noted harshly. "Xen, I won't speak of seasoned fighters Mac and Mahmud. But Granddaughter?! Take pity on the child, will you? Even I almost fell asleep listening to this mind-numbness..."
"Among other things, it was her, who asked me to make a report on the achievements of modern science!"
"She only asked you to tell what exactly do you study! The order of researches, technology tree... She needs to write the article!"
"So?"
"What 'so'?! You've been talking fifteen minutes like on the fifth plenary session of CPSU CC how 'our ships plow the space of Bolshoi theater'. By the way — they don't, we're still flying decommissioned MiGs. All in all. If you promise to be brief and to the point, — I return the guys. If no, we have some beer listening to you through speakers." [T.N.: CPSU CC plenary sessions happened monthly to semi-yearly; numbering was reset after elections; none of the 5th sessions has historical significance. Spaceships and theater refer to "Operation Y" film, where a character misquotes officious stories of technical progress.]
After arguing briefly Xenobyte returned to the podium and gave the colleagues a murderous stare as they were starting to stir. Without taking eyes off them, he took the pile of papers again. He briefly pondered, flipped through them, then resolutely crumpled them.
"I'll be brief," the programmer said coldly through clenched teeth, "we're doing great... Babayota, what do you need?!"
The psionic apologetically reported:
"Shaitan on the radar!"
Testers went noticeably livelier. Even the brief report was going to be postponed if not outright canceled. Xenobyte reddened, kicked the podium and sullen went to the armory, muttering:
"Well, you've asked for it..."
UFO crash site-109.
November 18, 10:28 real time.
"Doberman! Grab those two woodpeckers and set the defense. Got it?! Just defense, don't attack, but shred anybody who comes — got it?!"
"Yessir!"
"Magarych — in place, Babayota, with me. Ready to start!"
Granddaughter looked at the camera display and waved to start. Melissa's morose face lit up like a lightbulb with a charmingly welcoming expression. Nearby Xenobyte stretched his face baring teeth like a beast. It had to indicate a smile, but looked rather scary.
"Hello, dear readers!" Melissa cooed. "We are reporting directly from the battlefield. As you remember, we were going to tell a bit about scientific researches, but our chief of scientific section reasoned that a theoretical lecture might be too dry for fans of dynamic virt games..."
Melissa cast a spiteful glance toward Xenobyte, whose smile steadily approached a grin of a shark trying to chew through the transatlantic cable.
"Thus instead of a boring lecture we decided to show you how science looks in practice! Professor Xenobyte — you have the floor."
Xenobyte's stare seemed to leave charred bands. Gritting his teeth he said:
"Well... What to say. In short, me and guys cobbled together this thingy, now we'll look how she works... If it works fine, we'll try to figure how it works."
The programmer vindictively glanced at Melissa, who's been semaphoring him the select fragments from Malleus Maleficārum, promising to do this to Xenobyte once he gets offscreen. The programmer grinned and pulled tarp off some contraption.
The thing looked scary. It remotely resembled an archaic photo camera with a huge ceramic pipe in place of the lens. Xenobyte's face radiated fondness. Strapping the apparatus over his neck he rose it with visible effort and looked around carnivorously.
"Of course, it's still a prototype, we'll work more on the ergonomics," he muttered deep in thought. "Weld a handle on the side, for example... Well... Babayota!"
"Yes!"
"Come on, get us some shaitan for vivisection."
The bot looked around attentively and waved his hand. A couple minutes later the whole crew stood in front of a beaten up UFO.
"Ah, just what we need!" Xenobyte shined. "I know those vermin, somebody's hiding in the saucer until the end... Now we're gonna..."
"Xen, you can't turn in its corridors with this monstrosity," Mahmud warned him worriedly.
"And I don't need to... Let's see..."
The UFO lying on its belly resembled a giant 8. The testers were very familiar with this ship type, thus the programmer confidently went to one of the entrances. He installed a small tripod in front of the metal door and set his creation on it like a gunman of Ivan the Terrible with a harquebus. [T.N.: actually, they used monopods.]
"We'll guard the other exit," proclaimed Mahmud, exchanging winks with McMad.
Xenobyte waved a hand and both walkers quickly ran off, looking at the device worriedly.
"Er," Melissa said, tensely smiling at the camera. "Professor, would you mind a theoretical question?"
"Go on."
"What if it bangs?!"
"Of course it will, it was built just for that..."
"No, I mean right here."
"Right here? It shouldn't."
"Maybe we should step away?"
"No-no, you wouldn't see well from that far... Everyone ready?! Is the press ready?! Hey, extraterrestrials! Smile, you are being filmed by a hidden camera!"
Before Melissa could say anything else, Xenobyte pulled some rod sticking out of the pipe, making a grinding sound. The device howled and started vibrating. Melissa shut her eyes... But nothing else happened.
Melissa cautiously opened one eye. Then the other. Her facial expression became rather sullen.
"Hello, associate prof," she hissed icily, "is that all? And I thought..."
"And now," suddenly said Xenobyte, "let's go!"
With those words the programmer resolutely turned down the pulled rod. The device shuddered, froze, something inside it gurgled quietly. After a second of ringing silence, a roaring stream of plasma hit from the pipe. It obliterated the hatch and the hull around it and disappeared deep inside the UFO. In two places, right above the engines, the roof bulged. The second hatch was torn off its hinges and a roaring flame struck from it.
Melissa just stopped and stared with a gaping mouth. Mahmud and McMad peered from behind a tree, in which the broken hatch stuck, synchronously pulled off their helmets and wiped their foreheads.
"Cool!" Granddaughter screamed with joy, lowering the camera. "Xen, do it again."
"Don't!" Melissa waved her arms. "Xen, fool, there's... There were engines... Fuel... Navigation system..."
Meanwhile, Mahmud cautiously peered inside the cooling UFO. After muttering something like "Ooh, how neglected it all is," he disappeared deep inside. Five minutes later he emerged with a charred Muton skull in his hand:
"Poor Yorik... That's all that remains. Melissa, take it, sell it as a snowman skull... Xen, what did you made this shit from?! It even tore down floors inside. There are holes in the ceiling above engine rooms."
"Losses, such losses!" Melissa bemoaned. "Xen, you are a maniac!"
"Science is a terrible power," Xenobyte smiled menacingly.
"Hey, eggheads," Banzai's worried voice suddenly said. "Finish it there. I've got something on the radar... Hm. Something big."
The walkers exchanged worried glances. Suddenly Babayota stirred, harshly pointed at the bushes and declared:
"Shaitan!"
Everybody grabbed weapons. A large Muton indecisively emerged from the bushes. He glanced longingly at the twisted remains of his ship, kneeled and put his paws behind his head.
"Shaitan panics," calmly explained Babayota.
Mahmud sighed heavily, walked to the Muton and with a familiar move hit him with the gun butt on the back of the head. Muton fell face first in the grass, and the voice from heaven said: "Mission finished."
Chkalov Air Defense base.
November 18, 10:12 real time.
When Melissa declared she was leaving the base to shoot a report about "scientific achievements", Banzai personally entered virt to replace her. Now he was sitting in the "VIP hall" staring at the fountain deep in thought.
"Xen?"
"What?"
"Why doesn't the water flow?"
Xenobyte stared at him.
"Does it matter?! Probably, broke."
"Do you think it can be fixed?"
Testers exchanged glances.
"'The captain has a sunstroke.' Or senile dementia, more likely..." Mahmud suggested. "Where to dip him?" [T.N.: quote from "Adventures of Captain Vrungel", episode 8: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j__q2Crrv5w time 0:00-4:40]
"Belay that," Banzai stopped them abruptly. "OK. Back to business. How was your last mission?"
"Somewhat sluggish," McMad yawned. "The enemy was hiding most of the time. It would've been completely boring without Xenobyte clowning!"
"By the way, what did you say about somebody taking a walk?" blurted Mahmud.
Banzai scratched his head. Then said sullenly:
"While you were having fun, I noticed something at the edge of the radar field. Several ships in formation. Assuming it was symmetrical... There were eight UFOs."
Testers' jaws fell.
"Two fast scouts, five fighters... and something big in the middle. Just huge."
"Transport convoy?" Melissa hypothesized, licking her lips hungrily.
Banzai looked at her gloomily and shook his head.
"On one hand — why else does it need a convoy? On the other... on the other hand, this thing gets on my nerves, somehow."
"The questions is different," Xenobyte remarked coldly. "Anyway, what can we do with this thing?"
"What do you mean?!" Melissa was outraged. "If it's a transport convoy... Imagine how much it carries?! Fuel, devices..."
"And a fighter wing," the programmer interrupted. "And we've still got only two interceptors and two Tunguskas."
The hall fell silent for a while. Everybody kept estimating the profit from the supposed transport. All artifacts of the alien technology were sold abroad, which meant — for hard currency. Yes, a large ship would make a great difference in their "economy"...
"It's too tough for us," Mahmud ruled out. "We won't even catch up to them..."
"Xen, it's all your fault!" Melissa declared firmly.
"That's new!" the programmer was outraged. "How am I involved?!"
"Like that! Instead of developing this photonic ram of yours, you'd better work on improving our interceptors!"
"Do you know, how much one needs to research to develop the first fighter based off alien technologies?! And the industrial base?! Do you expect me to carve a plane in the basement with a single file?"
"OK, forget it," McMad interjected. "Though, it's bad that the damned convoy flashed on the radar. Now it's like we knew, but didn't react... That would be negative."
"What's with this day?!" Melissa sniffled. "Endless losses..."
"A dilemma," Banzai muttered deep in thought. "According to all strategy, the convoy should be taken, but we've got nothing to take it with. Unless we come up with something abominable, which even 'Samara' programmers didn't prepare for... Something weird... Perverted..."
"Xen!" Granddaughter demanded. "You are our specialist in abominable stuff! Think up something quickly!"
"You say 'think up quickly'!" Xenobyte grumbled peevishly. "It's not waving a crowbar, it's a creative process! Eh, Granddaughter, you know nothing about abominations. It's like a long poem. A soul fit, full of noble insanity! A combination of intuition and precise mathematical calculation. Something unaccounted for by genius, but — alas — frozen flight of fantasy of the programmers of the opponent! Something..."
Suddenly Xenobyte stumbled and halted. His eyes stared in the infinity, his fingers moved slowly. Finally, he started to blink, staring at the colleagues in surprise.
"Hm... I seem to have thought up something. Banzai, what was the speed of that convoy?"
Final mission: martian chronicles.
Terror: Arzamas-13 urban settlement.
November 26, 13:13 real time.
A Muton ran through the street with a panicking scream, stumbled, dropped heavy plasma and ran on, while bewailing, smearing snot over his face with a fist and whining. Xenobyte, standing by "Soyuzpechat" newsstand, peered displeasedly from behind a newspaper, spat after the alien and continued reading.
"What do they write?" bored Banzai inquired.
"Neverending spam, as always..." the programmer yawned. "Weather report, weekly astrological forecast... Lies, as usual. Whoa, look at that, 'an UFO spotted above Gnusino settlement...' Big deal. By the way, judging by the time, it was our experimental interceptor. Only I don't understand why does the author write that '...the object shape resembled a rotten tomato...' What does he mean?!" [T.N.: the settlement name means either 'vile' or 'bloodsucking insects'.]
"I don't know... Did you notice a Muton ran by?"
"I did," Xenobyte shrugged indifferently.
"And? Our job is exterminating the likes of him, isn't it?"
"He's panicking anyway. And dropped his weapon."
"Xen, you know this rabble. He recovers, realizes he's got no weapons, takes a grenade off his belt. Comes closer again, panics again, drops the grenade. Live. Will you enjoy it?"
Xenobyte frowned capriciously, folded the newspaper, straitened psi-amplifier helmet and snapped his fingers. A minute later a Snakeman crawled out of an archway with resigned desperation on his face. The programmer beckoned him to approach.
"Obey!" Xenobyte uttered with a sepulchral voice. "Listen. Crawl there, in the blind alley find a Muton with a grenade. Take his grenade and ram it into his throat. Got it? Carry out."
The Snakemen obediently folded his paws and crawled in the direction where the Muton disappeared. Xenobyte started to unfold the paper, but the radio on his belt hissed:
"Xen!"
"What?"
"Rush to the October square!"
* * *
On the square he saw the rest of the team that went to the terror. Four young psionic bots armed only with psi-amplifiers and stun clubs, two strong assault troopers and Melissa and Granddaughter, filming a report about the work of psi-team.
Seeing Xenobyte the bots suddenly pulled themselves up, one started to fasten a blouse button nervously. Tucking the paper under his arm Xenobyte extended his arm demandingly and grumbled:
"The scanner. So-o, what do we have here?"
"The remaining terrorists entrenched in the basement," Melissa grumbled sullenly. "And seem to have declared themselves Cuban Communards. A stalemate. Your rookies can't do anything. I did ask you to give any of proved veteran psionics, for we need to shoot a report..."
Yes, the old team, with which the testers started the game, gathered very infrequently. McMad and Mahmud went to Karakum desert to a newfound alien base. Veterans like Doberman and Digger now lead teams of their own, keeping vigil in far corners of the country, rushing to now-routine clearing missions at UFO crash sites...
Xenobyte lazily glanced at the scanner.
"Two Mutons, a Floater... A-ha, I see, an Ethereal... What is he doing here? No matter... Hey, private! Can't you deal with an Ethereal?
"There's two of them!" one of psionics complained. [T.N.: possible reference to an old joke: an epic hero alone challenged an enemy army and won; but he cheated, there were two of them.]
"Rookies... And who's that?! Hullo! Sectoids! Three pieces. Long time no see! So, what's the trouble? Throw a dynamite stick there and be done with it.
"No, that won't do!" Granddaughter waved her hands. "The beginning was so beautiful... I mean, it was all well at the start, then, after you left, it was all confusing, but Melissa explained that it was a strategic ruse to drive them all to the same place... Xen, can you... those Ethereals... that... Overpsionify?
Xenobyte snorted derisively and nonchalantly pushed the scanner and the paper to the "orderly", who ran to him. Granddaughter shouldered the camera readily.
The programmer approached the house, where aliens fortified in the basement, smiled evilly and produced a small pipe. He tuned something in the psi-amplifier, put the pipe to his lips and made a piercing sound that made teeth hurt. The sounds combined in a three-note melody. There was some rustling in the basement...
A minute later the house door flew open. On the threshold stood an Ethereal warped in an orange cloak like a Hare Krishna. The alien trembled and bounced to the rhythm of the pipe. Xenobyte, like an Eastern snake charmer, stared at the Ethereal unblinking, then stepped back...
Shortly after, the rest of aliens entered the square single file, like rats after the rat-catcher of Hamelin. Assault troopers aimed businesslike and stunned the leading Ethereals. There really were two of them.
The aliens followed with their eyes the ones being dragged to the transport. Xenobyte hid the pipe and looked toward Granddaughter questioningly.
"Impressive," she commented with a swallow. "And... What will happen to them now?"
Instead of answering Xenobyte snapped his fingers. The aliens, still single file, lined along the wall and put paws behind their heads. The troopers prepared their rifles. Melissa jumped to Granddaughter and emphatically turned her around:
"You shouldn't watch things like that... And you're a fool, Xen!"
"This is war," Xenobyte shrugged indifferently, rolling up the newspaper. "Hey, firing squad! Ready? Aim... Stop!!! Stop, nobody moves..."
Everybody glanced at him in surprise. He looked at the aliens prepared for execution, squinting suspiciously. His long finger pointed at one of them:
"This one... And also this one... Yes, those two — tie up and to the can. Quickly! Immediately after arriving to the base — to interrogation! Damn, almost missed them!"
"What's there?" Banzai asked business-like.
"A leader and a navigator!" the programmer reported, baring teeth happily. "Just you wait, contras!"
Chkalov Air Defense base.
November 26, 14:48 real time.
By all signs the game was nearing the final straightaway. The strategic development had ended long ago, and the ship had been built, potentially — the weapon of severe retribution. The aliens looked unhappy to had gotten involved with Earthlings, but continued doing the dirty with stubborn fatalism, letting train new conscripts.
The only thing missing was the location of the central base of the aliens. And then the testers ran into an unexpected problem. The prisons of Science Department had successively housed leaders of all alien races. They told gripping stories, sold their partners in crime, revealed bases and storehouses... But nobody could explain where did the invasion start from.
And here, having caught Sectoid leader and navigator almost by accident, Xenobyte suddenly realized that was the only race the top brass of which hadn't been questioned on the topic of "the central base". By elimination one could conclude that it were Sectoids, who were responsible for interplanetary flights, therefore they could point the central base.
The small and forgotten by everybody proved tough guys. They trembled with fear, squealed, but refused to speak. An hour after the interrogation started enraged Xenobyte flew out of the basement and roared: "Summon Babayota!" after which he disappeared in the lab.
Ten minutes later a personal helicopter delivered to the testers' central base the commander of the psi-department of the Eastern District, colonel Babayota. He exchanged glances with Xenobyte, they evilly bared teeth in sync, then headed to the prisoner confinement block.
Granddaughter twitched to follow them, to film the process of obtaining the crucial information, but Melissa talked her out of it:
"Xen will probably write about it in 'Advises of Veterans'... Don't go there... You shouldn't."
Granddaughter glanced at the heavy door with a "biologically aggressive environment" sign and agreed with surprising ease.
For the next fifteen minutes most of the energy from the base substation went into the lab department as in a bottomless pit. All bots, especially psionics, walked around nervous, with glassy eyes, expressing anguish and slight panic. Even Banzai, who somehow urgently left his observation post in reality and entered the game, didn't know what kind of obscurantism was happening in the prisoner containment module.
Finally all went quiet. Xenobyte entered the conference hall, here other testers had already gathered. He scanned colleagues with a meaningful look and pronounced:
"Summon Mahmud and McMad. Let them gather the best of the best at 'Baikonur': we're taking a ride."
"Baikonur" secret base.
November 26, 15:31 real time.
How much had changed since the start of the game! The times when testers were crammed into the single base and had to count every kopeck became a thing of a distant past. Now they were a powerful organization. Workshops, that had grown into real factories, were making goods for sale round the clock: primarily hopelessly outdated weapons and light armor suits. The old venerable moonshine still took an honorary place in the huge cognac-vodka factory. And of course, military bases...
The testers' bases were spread all over the country. There were simple bases consisting just out of two hangars for fighter and transport, a radar and barracks. Rookies were sent there for brutal screening and then to gain experience in routine missions under command of the officer bots, promoted from the most experienced veterans.
The few that passed ended up on one of the three central bases. Mahmud was in charge of heavily armored stormtroopers, McMad — of the mobile infantry, Xenobyte, of course, psionics. Melissa, in charge of economics, frequently traveled to each base together with Granddaughter, occasionally shooting reports about harsh everyday life of protectors of fatherland. Two times they even managed to participate in defense of bases found by aliens.
And so, the time had come to gather forces for the decisive strike. Of course, the testers knew that sooner or later this moment would come, that everything will happen just like that... But that couldn't spoil the festiveness of the moment. At a specialized base a spaceship had been built, and the supply of the newest weapons and ammo had been carefully maintained. And now best of the best soldiers were flowing there.
The whole base was bustling about. Bots were running everywhere, carrying crates with weapons and ammunition; new personnel were arriving. The best fighters were spread over all bases, where they served as officers.
"Attention! Transport helicopter from Baltic base arrives..."
"Two more crates! I said TWO crates, got it? Go!"
"Hey, spongers! All living staff gather in the local VIP hall, and quickly!" Banzai said from loudspeakers.
Xenobyte was the last to run into the conference hall. And he immediately collided with something massive standing in the doors.
"What bastard dragged mechanized armor here, and why the hell?!" the programmer flashed his eyes angrily, rubbing the injured nose.
"Listen, button-presser, don't be rude!" the 'armor' creaked, turning around.
"Mahmud?!" Xenobyte stared in astonishment.
"Long time no see," the walker grumbled.
"You're scary to look at," Xenobyte confessed.
"You know, you're acquiring your usual look of a moldy vampire too."
Besides all else, Mahmud was managing the cyborg department. Accordingly, he installed all implants he could: from an artificial "eye" seeing in all available bands, to an in-arm grenade launcher, which immediately earned him a "Cyberdemon" nickname. While Xenobyte was developing his psionic abilities, together with their "trademark" features: albino-like red eyes and unnaturally pale face.
"So, everybody here?" Banzai shouted impatiently. "Good, let's start the site meeting. To summarize, ladies and gentlemen, congratulations. We've reached the final mission."
"Hooray," McMad grumbled listlessly. "I'll go prepare my blockheads."
"Sit!" Banzai barked. "As it was easy to guess, our last goal is Mars. But there's a catch. Our transport, "Pale Eagle", can only carry a crew of about twenty-five. Plus the cargo of weapons, ammunition and equipment. The question is: would it be enough to storm the central base?"
The screen descended from somewhere above. The lights went out, a projector switched on by the far wall.
Our brothers in reason from NASA had courteously shared information, after Melissa put pressure on them. Judging from satellite photographic data, there are several underground bases, settlements, possibly whole alien cities," Banzai pontificated didactically. — "After analyzing all available information, I came to distressing conclusions..."
Banzai held a dramatic pause and sighed:
"The thing is. Potentially, the problem is solvable head-on. I mean — landing, bloodbath and — victory of forces of good over forces of reason. However, we've got all necessary designs to pick a different path. Namely: land far from the main base, capture a staging area. Organize there a base of our own, transport more people and resources and only then start the assault. And if all necessary for that is present..."
Banzai moved his brows significantly.
"Then there may be insufficient momentum for blitzkrieg," Melissa finished darkly.
"It's a trap," Xenobyte grumbled cheerlessly. "Come, falcons, waste your best troops, then slowly and tediously restore the resources... Bastards, aren't they?"
"What can we lose in case of 'quiet undermining'?" McMad winced.
"By my estimate — at least two days of real time, playing at accelerated tempo." Banzai sighed. "I suppose, we'll have to repeat all the alien way: landing, organizing a base, scouting... Terror missions. The developer hinted the players will be capable to 'be in the shoes of aliens'."
Everybody present sighed with disappointment.
"But what if we try ramming anyway?" Mahmud slammed his hand on the table. "We can always load a save!"
The testers exchanged glances. Granddaughter was so excited, even her pigtails trembled. Xenobyte's eyes were shining unhealthily. Melissa pretended to be on the side of reason, but... It was clear everybody picked a gamble.