Готовый перевод Карантин класса «Т» / Class T quarantine: Глава 2

Chapter 2
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Of course, passing the bioscanner wasn't the end of it. A search team emerged from a similar armored capsule with a mirrored window to the one we encountered at the beginning of the tunnel. Four men in lightweight armored suits, armed with magnetic pulsers. Serious firepower by today's standards... But you can't venture out into the open air with such equipment. A strike from orbit would come in a flash.

However, despite the seriousness of the equipment of the team that had come to us, the search itself was nothing special. They merely confirmed that everyone was our own, residents of the Base, and not some unknowns or, worse, Outcasts, who were forbidden entry, and that was all.

The last armored shutter cleared our path, and Firkh immediately drove the "flea" out of the tunnel and onto the adjacent patch of land in sector "C," where we had to linger a bit longer, waiting for the opportunity to rejoin the main highway. We gazed through the fully open armored shutters at two camouflaged "fleas" in raider trim rolling past us; at the quietly puffing heavy eighty-ton steam trac, towing behind it, in addition to the main, heavily armored three-axle trailer, three ordinary two-axle covered snail-shaped wagons; and at one more armored vehicle — a purely passenger one.

We followed this column onto the main road, falling in behind them. Our destination, after all, was exactly the same — to the scrap metal collection bay.

As if we were one team with this search party, we rolled into a huge, seemingly hollowed-out rock cavity, only slightly improved by the people who had reinforced the vaults with steel arches. And only there did our paths finally diverge. Accompanied by armored vehicles, the steamer rolled onward to one of the two mechanized unloading points here, while we turned toward the nearest regular one.

Firkh Peters pulled the "flea" to a stop in the designated square by the conveyor belt. He immediately engaged the pneumatics, lifting the side passenger doors and sliding the cargo compartment cover upward. We immediately climbed out. I carelessly left both my backpack and my gun in the remaining open cabin. We weren't entering the main scrap metal collection area in the publicly accessible Sector "D," where a horde of people always mills about, including those who have nothing to do with the metal collection and acceptance process but are determined to make a few creds off the whole thing. There, yes, if you turn your back, they'll steal something in a flash. But here, there are no thieves. Thanks to the sector's relatively limited accessibility and its higher technological level. Simply put, only a Base resident or a guest with a valid reason can show up here, and the Base security service has optical sensors everywhere. That's why the rules are like that...

The middle-aged female receiver, wearing a blue work uniform and stationed behind a simple metal-and-plastic desk at this metal collection point, greeted her old acquaintances, the Peterses, quite cordially and, without question, started the conveyor. Swan and Lags immediately began unloading the day's haul from the back of the flea onto its rubberized belt. Mostly assorted pieces and scraps of stainless steel construction, with occasional inclusions of non-ferrous metals.

I didn't hesitate to take part in the unloading. So what? It makes time fly by, and it's generally interesting. It's quite fascinating to watch the automated receiving station in action. A slowly moving conveyor belt carries everything placed on it to the inspection stand, where wide shovels scoop the pieces of metal one by one onto a massive, high-precision scale. There, along with the weighing, a built-in stylometer determines the alloy composition. Finally, a fan of red beams from a 3D scanner sweeps over each item arriving on the stand, creating a digital model and comparing it with an existing database to prevent entire parts, assemblies, and explosive items from being thrown into the trash. From the stand, the scrap metal tumbles, clanking, into a rubber-lined, three-cubic-meter trolley, positioned on narrow rails and designed to fit the cargo compartment of the "flea."

It's generally quite entertaining to watch this whole thing for someone unfamiliar with the metal collection system. And the receptionist, for example, has long since grown tired of this amusement. She sits there, lazily watching the information displayed by the weighing machine change on the holographic screen unfolding above her desk... Too bad it's only partially transparent to us, so we can't see anything but blurry spots of light.

After unloading about three and a half tons of scrap metal, only an utter trifle remained in the back of the flea. A few intact plates, more profitably sold to the Base's mechanical workshops. They're always willing to buy decent metal and undamaged mechanical parts at a price higher than scrap. Plus, the remains of the mobile Swan had found. The cart was almost full. When the last piece of metal fell in, and the conveyor belt stopped, it quickly rolled away along the narrow rails. It darted into a dark hole in the nearby wall, and at the same moment, another, empty one emerged from a similar one next door and took its place at the receiving point. Such a well-thought-out carousel.

At this point, many people become curious about where all the scrap metal goes. Most often, imagine an incredibly large compartment where minecarts dump their looted goods into a colossal pile. But in reality, it's much more prosaic: there's only a medium-sized bin there. All the rails leading from the receiving hall converge on it, and the minecarts loaded with their loads tip into it, rumbling as they spill the metal. And at the very bottom, at the mouth of this bin, massive toothed shafts rotate. Twin. Capable of easily gnawing through a whole "flea," let alone relatively small pieces of metal. A grinder-mill, salvaged from one of the recycling centers, is capable of grinding even a tank into a homogeneous, sand-like mass... Grind it and send the result of its work down another large conveyor belt—to one of the Base's vast storage bins. There the metal sand will lie, waiting for its time.

"One hundred twenty-seven credits have been added," the receptionist said to Firkh, who had approached her desk, looking at the holographic screen. Then, turning her gaze to him, she clarified, "Shall we deposit them into the account as usual?"

"Yes, Naira, on the account," confirmed Peters Sr.

He took the ancient communicator headset, shaped like a suction cup with a tendril attached, pushed across the table to him by the woman, pressed it to his right temple, and froze briefly, staring into space and silently moving his lips. Apparently logging into the Base's information network to check the receipt of funds in his personal account. When he had calmed down, he unhooked the headset and, nodding with satisfaction, placed it back on the table.

There was really nothing else holding us back here, so a few minutes later, we were off. Heading to the nearby garage complex, where the Peterses have their own storage space and where I'll need to find something soon. Keeping the vehicle in the regular guest parking lot wasn't an option. There wouldn't be enough money to pay.

Right now, I wasn't exactly rushing off to inspect the garage modules their owners were offering for rent or for sale. It was a bit premature. I still haven't acquired my own vehicle. So I asked Firkh to drop me off near the residential section of our sector. I disembarked, hoisted the heavy backpack onto my shoulders with Swan's help, and trudged, hunched over, back to my quarters.

At least it's only a short walk. Reach the vestibule between the technical and residential sections of Sector "C," endure a brief ultrasonic and air-cleaning procedure, and I'm almost there. Walk another couple hundred meters down one of the white corridors splaying out in all directions, unusually dreary due to their construction of unadorned polymerized concrete, and turn the corner... limp to the door of a slightly rounded rectangle standing out against the wall, the second one from the turn... and, breathing heavily, stop... That's it...

I slapped my left palm against the blue square sensor to the left of the door, causing it to fill with an inner glow, and a moment later, a fan of red beams from the facial scanner slid across my face. A second later, the softly flickering sensor went dark, and the rectangle blocking my path into the dwelling slid to the right.

Without hesitation, I stumbled into my quarters. A standard five-hundred-cubic-meter residential module, which looked somewhat unusual inside — like a four-room apartment furnished with pretensions to ancient luxury. The previous owners had gone to great lengths to hoard the place with all the junk that literally litters every shop and store in Sector D. The country mansions belonging to wealthy citizens suffered the least from the orbital bombardment, so the search engines dutifully haul out low-tech junk to the delight of all aesthetes.

Well, I'm largely to blame here. In a rush to get away from Base 5 and unwilling to bother with transporting my belongings, I offered the people who agreed to the exchange to leave everything as is, taking only their personal belongings. And they didn't even resist... Apparently unwilling to lose their chance to move from Sector C-3 of Base 76 to Sector B-7 of Base Five for a ridiculously small fee. What can I say—I didn't even bother. Once I learned that not only was there full access to the Base's internal data network and no restrictions on the use of high-tech equipment, but that they also offered the opportunity to use two percent of the small Foroh-11 AI's processing time for personal use, I forgot all about all the inconsequential details. And now I live as if in an ancient palace... All the walls are covered in embroidered golden draperies, some kind of clumsy nonsense is stuck to the ceilings, ancient glass lamps hang, chandeliers, I think, and the floors are covered with enormous rugs. Naturally, all the furnishings match the home, and aren't strictly utilitarian, made of ordinary metal and plastic. For example, the large table in the living room is made of shimmering blue glass, the chairs are all natural wood, upholstered in soft, not synthetic, fabric, and the armchairs and huge sofa are upholstered in soft red leather! Sideboards and vases are everywhere, and the crowning glory is a painting that takes up almost half the wall, depicting some kind of forest lake.

At first, of course, I was seriously considering throwing out all this junk, but after assessing the scope of work, I decided to take it slow and put off the arrangement of the living quarters until later. There's no rush. Living in this environment is perfectly possible. And the girls, it turns out, like it...

Since I try not to make a mess in the living quarters, otherwise I'd be a pain in the ass cleaning up later, I had to hobble to the workroom and only then take off my backpack. And put the "cort" on the table. And next to it, my belt, unbuckled by shaking hands.

"Phew!" I exhaled noisily.

And he began to pull off his suit, which, turned inside out and stripped of its regenerative system cartridges, was immediately sent to the microwave cleaning booth. This wasn't underwear, which would be perfectly cleaned in a simple washing machine.

Then, grabbing a set of clean clothes, I went to the shower. After standing happily under the firm, warm streams of water, hitting my aching shoulders and seemingly massaging them, I dried off, quickly got dressed, and went to eat. Luckily, I'd thought about what to do with my hungry stomach upon my return this morning, ordering a large portion of meat fir-fir. All that was left was to heat it.

As I tucked into the quickly-cooked meat casserole, I couldn't help but indulge in a complacent thought about how wonderful it must be to live on a Class A planet, not on some space station or under a never-rising dome on a dead asteroid. At least it's good that there's no shortage of food here. It's natural, too. And incredibly cheap, by Earth Union standards. The farmers are trying their best... And the fact that Freya isn't very populous also significantly impacts pricing. If we had just a couple of small hydroponic greenhouses for a couple of tens of millions of people, instead of hundreds of square kilometers of fertile land per capita, everything would be completely different... But as it is, live and be happy. Any culinary delights cost just a few credits. Just choose what you want, order, and soon the finished dish will be on your table. Before you know it, they'll be done. There's so much competition for customers among all the food outlets at the Base! Their ability to expand is limited. Not least because of the residents of the most populated sector, "D," who consider custom-made food a luxury for the rich and try to cook for themselves. Without prior training, of course. So you can imagine what kind of food they serve there.

After a hearty snack, although I was eager to begin a thorough analysis of the trophies taken from the bandits, I first tackled the "dirty" work. That is, cleaning the "cort" that had seen combat today. It was a good thing I was lucky enough to avoid being caught in a downpour. Otherwise, a partial disassembly and standard cleaning wouldn't have been enough.

I cleaned it. I unloaded the cartridges from the magazines so as not to weaken the springs unnecessarily. Then I put the whole thing, including the cleaning and lubricating products, away in the gun cabinet.

But even after that, I didn't get around to the trophies right away. I started by emptying my backpack. Before it burst, the poor thing.

The remaining tools from the equipment taken in the search went into their locker. The remaining magnesium rods and chemical lamps in need of restoration went there, too. The control unit removed from the bot's engine and the electronic junk cut up in the control room were placed on the table. The AI, wrapped in several layers of shielding film, without unwrapping it I shoved into the very bottom of a large double cabinet, where all sorts of partially functional technological junk are stored without unwrapping it. It seemed like a completely useless thing... so as not to attract anyone's attention. Of course, it's far from certain that the Base security service planted audio and video monitoring bugs in my living module, but the possibility is quite high. Security officers are always busy with nothing better to do, so they waste their time on all sorts of nonsense: instead of at least restoring order in Sector "D," they're looking for all sorts of techno-saboteurs. Although who saw those? Surely, the attacks on Seventeenth and Twenty-Fourth from orbit by tunnelers weren't due to any malicious machinations, but rather to the fault of a few stupid individuals, madly tinkering with complex electronics that, with or without reason, constantly tried to connect to the planetary data network... Well, never mind. The main thing is that, because of all this, a loner like me, newly arrived at the Base and possessing a good knowledge of technology, simply couldn't help but attract the attention of security.

While pondering these thoughts, I shook out my empty backpack and put it back in its place. I nodded with satisfaction and placed the thin organoplastic headband of the Reg-5PO communicator on my head. It was certainly an old thing, and not particularly comfortable to wear, but its hypnotic learning function more than made up for any shortcomings.

Having connected to the Base's information network and logged in, I launched the assistant program for the handguns section and brought it up on the virtual screen that unfolded before my eyes. My existing knowledge on the subject might well prove insufficient, even considering my good knowledge of weapons and my mastery of the relevant database's first rank. In our reality, this is nothing—there are too many different, sometimes quite outlandish, weapon models encountered on Freya. This is all because, in the Earth Union, firearms have been considered purely civilian, freely possessed, ever since the dawn of the space age. Perhaps the authorities would have been reluctant to allow such unbridled freedom, but they realized it was easier to resolve a minor evil than to unsuccessfully fight it in the face of the ubiquity of replicators. So people went wild, printing anything they wanted, even the most exotic examples of the firearms era. Each to their own, as they say. And now we have to deal with all this diversity.

Naturally, I had no trouble identifying the Hog-6 I'd first recovered from my trophy backpack. It's chambered for the most common 7.62 x 39 caliber. A solid, rugged, and relatively inexpensive semiautomatic carbine from the twilight of firearms. A favorite among many, especially farmers. Base 3—Troika, our so-called arms magnate, has been churning out hundreds of them since local workshops dug up a high-tech Hog-6 model in a modern ceramide design.

We'd also like to have optics to go with this carbine, but we're in dire straits. We don't have any such production, and there aren't any plans for it.

\\"But those ubiquitous silencers are made by anyone and everyone," I thought with a hint of frustration, casually unscrewing them from my carbines. No, they're certainly a good and necessary thing, but these days, you can easily do without them. There aren't as many techno-control airborne drones in the sky as there were in the early years, which means there's often no one to rush to the sound of gunfire.

I pushed the plain gray silencer cylinders, unscrewed from the barrels, to the far end of the table. These are immediately for sale, no question about it. Because you can immediately tell they're cheap, homemade pieces; you can find them in any gun store for a dozen credits apiece. And, by the way, they're only good for about a dozen shots.

Having rid the carbines of these homemade silencers, which were so dissonant with the rest of the technically verified mechanism, I immediately carried out a partial disassembly of them and, guided by the prompts that appeared before my eyes in the assistant program, subjected them to a thorough inspection.

Both Hog-6s were in pretty good condition. They hadn't been fired much, if at all. And they'd been properly cared for. So, despite their apparent wear, the rifles could be sold immediately at a reasonable price. And that's a very good thing. I'm not the owner of a gun shop somewhere in Sector D, who could easily sell a completely unmarketable weapon at a high price, simply foisting off a piece of junk that can't even shoot properly on some simpleton who happens to drop by.

\\"New Hog-6 are going for exactly four hundred... The usual price for used items, but without any significant defects, is three-quarters of the cost of new... that is, three hundred credits... Well, minus the inevitable percentage to the reseller... And that comes to five hundred - five hundred and twenty coins for both," I estimated while assembling the weapon.

Having dealt with the trophy long-barreled weapon, I moved it to the far side of the table and pulled out the first of the two gun belts I'd taken from bandits from my backpack. A very ordinary belt, one of those they make nowadays. Genuine leather with stainless steel components, no weightless synthetics or plastics. Although, in its defense, it does its job quite well.

Unbuckling the holster, also leather, of course, I grabbed the handle and carefully pulled out the massive blued barrel. I whistled in admiration, twirling it in my hand. What a hefty gun, this Smith & Wesson .44. A replica, of course, but one that's as close to the original as possible, made from materials identical to those used in the actual production. Even the grip panels are made of real wood, not some kind of organic plastic.

“It’s just a shame it’s badly worn, this will noticeably affect the price even if the mechanism works without any problems,” I muttered, examining the short-barreled weapon.

But there's nothing to be done about it — time is a merciless thing. And this Smith & Wesson replica was clearly manufactured before the Exodus. After that, no one would have thought to waste the replicator's precious resources on creating such a weapon.

Having unloaded the revolver, which was noticeably weighing down the hand I was using it for, I checked the barrel to make sure it wasn't completely worn out, and that the mechanism was working properly. The condition of this trophy turned out to be quite satisfactory. And for a barrel that's at least eighty-two years old, it was simply perfect.

Having slipped the Smith & Wesson back into its holster, I unhooked it from my gun belt and placed it directly among the carbines on the far side of the table. Also for sale. No other options. The "Grizzly" game that the assistant program suggested this revolver was designed for had never been found on Freya. And for shootouts with people, despite its undeniable power, or rather precisely because of its excessive power, it's poorly suited. A "Vulv" would be far better. It's a snappy, smooth shooter... and, importantly, weighs a good three-quarters of a kilogram less. And despite its smaller caliber, it has plenty of firepower. For a second gun, anyway.

Although perhaps I'm overly biased toward this hand howitzer—the Smith & Wesson .44 caliber. I simply have no desire to trade in my father's long-ago gift for anything else. The memories, after all... And of my parents, and of the childish delight that gripped me the moment I picked up a brand-new revolver—so cool thanks to its unusual design, aligning the barrel with the lower chamber of the cylinder, rather than the usual upper chamber...

Shaking my head in annoyance, trying to clear away the unwelcome memories, I continued sorting through the trophies. I began emptying the pouches on the gun belt.

My booty included two fully loaded Hog 6 magazines, the cartridges of which I promptly emptied into the prepared tray; a fancy gold-plated lighter; an open pack of cigarettes, which immediately went into the designated trash bin; and a 4x pistol scope with the paint worn down to the bare metal in places. And, as expected, a knife was found in its sheath. A predatory Bimb blade, clearly not intended for kitchen use.

I spent the longest time fiddling with the scope, wondering if I could attach it to my gun Then I wouldn't even need to carry binoculars.

It didn't work. It seems the only way to attach it is to that Smith & Wesson. And even then, if we can find the part of the mount that someone removed from the scope — presumably so the scope could be used more conveniently as a sort of spotting scope.

Throwing my empty gun belt onto the carbines, I pulled a second one from my backpack. This one pleased me with its automatic pistol.

"It seems someone had an inappropriate amount of trust in reloaded cartridges," I couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of such recklessness. A revolver should be the second gun! And only that! Because it will never jam at the most inopportune moment, choking on a bad cartridge.

"Well, the guy's point is understandable," I backed away slightly, feeling how comfortably, like a glove!, the slightly rough grip of the Glock 17, pulled from its holster, lay in my hand. And then I had a few other suspicions.

Pulling the magazine from the pistol, I ejected a single copper-plated round with a blunt-nosed bullet, looking brand new. I chuckled again. This time, it was approving. On the base of the round, extending to the primer, was a clear, black laser-etched inscription: "RL#3" and the date "9/81." This meant that this ammunition had been reloaded on one of Base 3's automated reloading lines less than six months ago. This, of course, guarantees no problems with this ammunition. Well, beyond the permissible three misfires per thousand. So the bandit I took this gun from wasn't such a reckless optimist. He'd simply splurged on quality ammunition...

//"It's better for me," I thought good-naturedly, shrugging my shoulders. "The cartridges will then go for one and a half to two credits apiece, instead of ten."

Just to be sure, I rubbed the black engraving with the pad of my thumb to make sure it wouldn't smudge. They say some craftsmen out there simply use regular paint to apply similar markings to old, worthless cartridges and then sell them to gullible fools for half the price.

After emptying one seventeen-round magazine—the one I'd pulled from the Glock, and a second, spare one I'd pulled from a pouch on my gun belt—into the empty tray, I felt a surge of good humor. Thirty-four rounds were quite something. About half the Peters family's income for the entire day.

I didn't have time to get too excited about this. I came to my senses. This all doesn't even compare to my main prize!

Having thought this, I abruptly changed my mind about transferring the pistol to the carbines. Instead, I took a closer look at it. I practically sniffed every detail and subjected the inside of the Glock's barrel to the most meticulous inspection. It's not a bad pistol, after all; only the plastic on the grip was covered in microscopic cracks. But it could still serve, maybe...

After some thought, I decided to put this trophy aside for now. Maybe I'll find it useful later. No, not as a replacement for the "vulf" or as a third gun, but there's still room for it. It would be a nice addition to the vehicle I'm definitely buying any day now, for example.

I dealt with the remaining goods in the backpack very quickly. The ammunition went into the appropriate trays, the sunglasses and unics into a pile gathered on the far edge of the table. All the grenades were also for sale. Because I don't trust them at all, even though they could have come in handy. Sixteen ten-gram silver coins went into my pants pocket. That's all.

After critically surveying the pile of items on the tabletop, I picked up the empty backpack. The first thing I did was throw in all the electronic junk I'd salvaged from the control room, along with the control unit from the ship's engine. Then I piled everything else on top, including sixty rifle rounds and eighteen revolver rounds.

Trying to lift my overstuffed backpack, I grunted with the effort. It was quite a hefty weight again. Still, it's not quite as heavy as it was. And it's only a short walk from here...

Throwing a light jacket over my shoulders, I was about to grab my backpack and drag it to Evan when the communicator beeped briefly, notifying me of an incoming call. The caller's nickname appeared: Black Roger.

\\"The Peterses must have decided to change their plans for tomorrow," I thought, confirming the extended visual connection with Swan. However, when the virtual window unfolded before my eyes, I dismissed this guess.

"Why are you so disheveled?" I asked curiously, looking at the image of my friend. He really looked a little out of his mind, so excited he was practically bouncing off his chair... and the way his eyes were glowing...

"Have you seen the daily newsletter yet?!" he blurted out, ignoring my question.

"No," I shook my head. And, intrigued, I immediately requested that same newsletter, simultaneously asking the younger Peters, "What's in there?"

"Adeline Payne has arrived at the Base with her show today! And the Nebraska Lights club has already signed her for a performance!" he hurried to share what he considered to be mind-blowing news, almost choking on his saliva.

I briefly considered making a joke by asking who this Adeline Payne was. I didn't, sensing that such ignorance would mortally offend the delighted Swan. Besides, I'd already figured out who she was. It's hard not to guess, hearing that she's going to perform at the Nebraska Lights. The most popular club on our Base. A strip club. Entertainment has dwindled since the Exodus, so people are having fun in this simple way.

"She's not bad," I muttered, looking at the animated image of a half-naked, flame-haired girl writhing around a pole. This Nebraska Lights flyer featuring Adeline Payne had climbed to the top of today's newsletter, attracting the most attention.

"Not bad?!" Swan, who had finally heard my words, was indignant. And then, with unshakable confidence, he declared: "She's simply amazing!"

"Well, maybe so," I didn't argue, but out of curiosity, I requested public information about this stripper and discovered that in her personal holo photo, she looked even better than in the advertising brochure. A truly beautiful woman, about twenty-five years old. And her fiery hair, curly, all the way down to her ass!

Having graciously accepted my surrender, Swan immediately got down to business, solemnly proclaiming:

"Then there's no point in chatting! We need to get to the Nebraska Lights right now before the best seats are taken!"

"I was actually going to see old man Evan..." I said thoughtfully, continuing to look at the holophotos in Adeline Payne's personal section. Luckily, there were quite a few of them, some quite explicit. She had absolutely nothing to hide from strangers.

"What are you talking about, White?! What kind of Even could this be?" my friend almost jumped out of his chair in indignation.

I didn't respond to this. I began to think, involuntarily stroking the back of my neck.

Swan took my slightly prolonged silence a little differently, hastening to add:

"If you're short on money right now, I can lend you fifty."

"What's with the fifty?" I stared at him in surprise. "Isn't it only a five to get into 'Lights of Nebraska'?"

I ignored the passage issued by the younger Peters, continuing to be indignant:

"Even if it were so! It's still not right to charge such a high price! Fifty credits just to gawk at a naked girl?! For that kind of money, you could hang out at Tannonver for a whole day! Have so much fun in some fully immersive VR game that you'll be left with the impression for months! And with such beauties that your Fiery Adeline would look like a mere slob!"

"The girls there aren't real," Swan made a weak attempt to object.

To which I snorted:

"Holy shit!" I breathed out in shock.

"No, I'm out," I finally said to Swan, who was waiting for my decision. "I have other plans for the evening."

"What's up, White?" he almost screamed.

"Maybe another time?" I suggested, trying to get rid of him, and appealed to his common sense: "She clearly didn't come here for just one show. She'll probably stay for a few weeks. So we'll come later." Mentally adding: \\"Perhaps the prices will become more reasonable later on. Fifty creds for some striptease is clearly too much."

"Do you think so?" my friend thought.

“I’m sure,” I reassured him and quickly wrapped up the conversation: “Okay, we’ll talk more later. Okay?”

"Okay, go ahead," Swan grumbled, waving his hand hopelessly, realizing that he definitely wouldn't be able to convince me to go to a strip club today. He hung up.

I glanced sideways at the bulging backpack and briefly wondered if I'd made the right choice. But only for a moment. Stripping is certainly fun, but there are other equally wonderful things. For example, turning in your finds and then having a nice, round sum deposited into your "unic"... something like twenty thousand creds.

With these rosy thoughts, I left my room. A few minutes later, the conversation with Swan simply flew out of my head. It only took a few dozen meters to forget all about such nonsense as a strip show. After all, lugging heavy things around is an extremely thankless task. It's not at all inspiring, but it instantly clears the mind. Life's priorities immediately fall into place: first, I need to figure out my stuff so I don't have to lug around unwieldy backpacks, and only then can I think about entertainment.

The sad thing is that Sector "C" actually only appears rather small. Yes, it's not the same as "D," whose main underground dome is over two kilometers across, but still. The Base's builders weren't shy, taking advantage of the fact that Freya still had more than enough equipment for underground work, and they dug up a lot.

Because no one had thought to build a direct route from my living quarters to Old Man Ivan's shop, I had to trudge a good kilometer. Quite a walk... with legs starting to tremble from the strain.

But walking is nothing special — hard, and so be it. But maintaining a perfectly calm demeanor while nonchalantly observing the ubiquitous advertising, the parked and passing cars, and the numerous passersby encountered in the retail section — the very heart of Sector "C"... Yes, that's quite a test of endurance and fortitude. But what lengths won't you go to for the sake of invisibility?

No, maybe I'm overdoing it a bit, but you can never be too careful. Especially for a lone searcher. Because it's fraught with danger... And although this isn't Sector D, where some jerks might just show up and offer to share your loot, it's still best not to show off too much. Anyone can whisper a word to the right people, so it's better for everyone to forget about an ordinary guy with a backpack, never lingering in their memory... It'll be better for everyone.

Walking and discreetly monitoring the situation around me, I made sure I wasn't attracting undue interest from passersby. Residents of the Base's main sectors were generally uninterested in me and my backpack. The visitors from the outside world and the occasional intruders from Sector "D" who dropped by were more likely to stare at the local wonders — the shimmering facades of retail outlets and small workshops with hologram barkers, optical illusions, and other technological marvels. You wouldn't see anything like that in the publicly accessible Sector "D," where the storefronts make do with simple painted signs and ancient neon signs.

Having stopped, almost reaching the desired Ivan's shop, I let a group of searchers pass by. They pulled up to Almera Khro's shop in a cargo-passenger flea and walked inside with three large plastic crates of clearly military make. From there, I continued on to old Ivan's lair, with the simple name "Ivan Tarvo's Technogoods." The other shops here don't flaunt pretentious names either. This isn't Sector D, after all... The owner's name is the most important thing here. Everything is built on trust. And how could it be otherwise? Our trade is quite specific and relies heavily on barter. Which means the issue of properly pricing goods is quite pressing.

Ivan's shop is, to put it bluntly, a rather small space. It doesn't have the usual display cases of Sector D, filled with a variety of wares. Everything is much more sophisticated in today's times. The usual display case is replaced by a huge holographic screen, on which you can examine in detail everything old Tarvo has. And, of course, what he doesn't have, but can get. The latter is the basis of his success. There are plenty of simple "buy and sell" shops, and much more impressive ones.

"Oh, White!" a gray-haired man with a short haircut, who had settled into a chair behind the counter, noticed me. He sat there with an absent look, staring into space, or, more accurately, at the virtual screen, until I dropped my backpack on the floor and distracted him. He explained, although it wasn't really necessary: ​​"I'm just checking out today's newsletter."

"I hope it's not an ad for Adeline Payne's show in 'Lights of Nebraska'?" I teased Evan, unable to hide the grin that naturally appeared.

“No, I haven’t gotten to it yet,” he laughed and teased me: “It’s you young people who think such news is the most important.”

"What, there are more interesting ones?" I immediately grasped the hint.

"Of course!" Evan readily confirmed, stroking his chin, and began to enlighten me: "There was an emergency on the Eight, as a result of which almost half of Sector A lies in ruins!"

"Oh, come on," I said, not believing the news at first. I even snorted, "Tell me that some techno-saboteurs are to blame for all this!"

"I didn't believe it myself at first," the old man chuckled. "They caught an administrator there misusing and diverting funds under his control."

"Is this ordinary theft called so beautifully now?" I chuckled cheerfully, interrupting him.

"Something like that," the old man nodded, smiling slightly. And after a suspenseful pause, he literally killed me: "He appropriated something... valued at five million at the lower end."

"Five million credits?!" I gaped. And when I'd recovered a bit from the sum I'd mentioned, I muttered enviously, "And why aren't I some kind of Administrator?"

"Anyway, the Base's Security Service found out about this and decided to arrest the Administrator, who had completely lost all sense of reality," they continued to fill me in on the twists and turns of the matter. "But it turns out he wasn't so simple... He sensed something and tried to escape."

"And he single-handedly destroyed half the sector, or what?" I asked, frowning in confusion, clarifying this incomprehensible point.

"No, not alone," the owner of Technogoods countered. "His escape attempt was covered by a pair of fully functional Kron-15NKI boarding droids... They were the ones who did the damage... They took out about a hundred people... And they caused a lot of ruin, not worth those five million."

"Yeah, there must have been some pretty bad blood there," I whistled, vividly imagining battles involving heavy boarding droids designed for prolonged combat on captured spaceships. After a brief silence, I shook my head. "No, it's still good to be an Administrator."

Evan nodded in agreement before continuing:

"The funniest thing is that, aside from losses, Base 8 received nothing. No valuables were found on or near this administrator's body. And now they're looking for someone involved in this case who can shed light on the whereabouts of the illegally borrowed property..." With a wave of his hand, the old man unfurled a small holographic projection above the counter right in front of me and nodded at it. "Look, they've sent out a profile to all the Bases..." Then he added, a little ingratiatingly, "With the promise of a reward of one hundred thousand for information leading to his capture, or five times that amount for his arrest and delivery to Base 8..."

I glanced without interest at the scant description and the rather low-quality, due to the extremely low resolution, image of a nearly bald teenager, his face drawn, as if from exhaustion, so that his eyes took up almost half his face. I glanced at it without really looking closely and then turned away, the corner of my mouth twitching. Hunting fugitives isn't my thing, even if the reward was substantial. I wouldn't have taken it on before, and even less so after today's discovery.

"I see you weren't interested," old Tarvo stated with what seemed to me like hidden satisfaction, folding up the holoprojection and grinning. "And my "brats", as soon as they heard about the reward, gathered their gang and raced off, their hooves clattering with impatience. To check if anyone resembling Base had arrived with the last convoy."

"Come on, that fugitive would have to be completely stupid to just up and move from one Base to another, even the most remote one. He'd probably go to some Farmers, hoping to wait out all this fuss," I snorted.

“That’s true, you have to have absolutely no understanding to put yourself in such a stupid situation,” the owner of Technogoods agreed with me.

We were silent for a while, each thinking about our own things, and then Evan got down to business.

"What did you bring there?" he asked, nodding at the backpack I had placed against the outside of the counter.

“Yes, a whole bunch of things,” I said cheerfully and, trying not to give myself away with an involuntary grin, added meaningfully: “No one has ever brought you anything like this before.”

“Well, well, well, well,” the intrigued old man encouraged me.

“I’ll show you everything now,” I promised importantly, bending over the backpack.

"Are you sure you haven't confused my tech shop with some junk shop in sector D?"

Evan, to his credit, quickly realized he'd been played in the most banal manner. He laughed softly and shook his head.

Extremely pleased that everything had come together so well, I continued the process of laying out my trophies for the day on the counter.

"Did you run into someone?" Ivan asked kindly, picking up the first carbine I'd retrieved from the depths of my backpack and examining it.

Although this is somewhat understandable. Our credits are completely different from those in circulation in the Earth Union. And they are made of silver. Because after the Exodus, when the need for a unified means of payment arose, it was decided to return to the hoary past and turn to precious metals. Specifically, to the most widely used metal - silver. They estimated its value based on the latest average exchange price in the Earth Union, and began minting coins from the most common, technical silver, and putting them into circulation. Later, gold, platinum, and other precious metals also came into use. And much later, non-cash payments in this new currency began... This was when searchers from Base 31, located near Freya's largest city, the polis of Faylan, dug into one of the underground vaults of the planetary branch of Galaxy Bank and discovered two and a half million brand-new universal payment cards and terminal equipment for them.

I didn't answer Evan, who was looking at me questioningly. Instead, I leaned over and pulled the control circuit from the bot's engine out of my now-thin backpack. I pulled it out, carefully placed it on the counter, and, right before the old man's eyes, peeled the shielding film off the electronic unit.

"Rare catch," Evan remarked meaningfully, glancing sideways at the spider droid who had begun to reassemble the control circuit. He said nothing more, falling silent eloquently.

It's not that I don't trust Evan at all, but when such serious money is at stake, even the slightest risk is inappropriate. It would be fine if I'd just found a broken bot, even if its electronics were miraculously intact, but this way... It's better not to provoke anyone; it's safer that way. There's a much lower chance of being caught, disemboweled, and abandoned in some dark alley with a smashed-in head.

“Well, yes, basically,” the old man, rubbing his chin, agreed with my arguments, then added, “So then I’m selling it?”

“Yes,” I confirmed.

"And when are you going to open a bank account for yourself, like all decent people?" Evan, as usual, did not fail to express his opinion on this topical issue.

"Don't tell me you have another control circuit for the engine there!" Evan said indignantly.

"No, there are more ordinary things there," I laughed. "Burnt electronic units and the metal extracted from them."

And he began to lay the remaining contents of the backpack on a free section of the counter, closer to the place where, on the inside, there was the invariable attribute of shops and stores in absolutely every sector of the Base: a weighing counter. Almost like the one in the metal reception area, only small, not medium, and not automated.

"Where did you get so much?" The old man was a little stunned by the amount of scrap metal I had brought.

“I was just lucky,” I said laconically, placing the fattest piece of my trophies on the counter – a weighty silver-gold ingot of metal with greenish glassy inclusions, extracted from electronic circuit boards.

He shook his head, looking at the pile that had appeared in front of him.

"Oh, you're so lucky, White... That's almost twenty kilograms of silver alone!"

I remained modestly silent, as if embarrassed. Although my tongue was itching to speak... But I had to give Evan a chance to calculate everything calmly. Otherwise, he might get confused and make a mistake somewhere...

"Six thousand six hundred and eighty-nine silver credits!" the old man announced solemnly a little later, having finished his calculations.

"Cool!" I smiled broadly and immediately stared at Evan. Frankly, expectantly.

He immediately figured out what was going on. Chuckling, he pulled the previously hidden payment terminal out from under the counter again and transferred the due amount to my unic. As a result, I now had almost seventeen thousand credits!

\\"That's a decent amount! It'll definitely be enough for some good wheels!" I thought with great joy.

"Satisfied, I see?" the owner of Technogoods chuckled good-naturedly, looking at me.

"Well, yeah," I confirmed, my soul brimming with emotion, clearing my throat with a flourish. I quickly pocketed the uniform and then asked Ivan in a businesslike tone, nodding toward the goods laid out on the counter: "Do you want me to help you take it off?"

"Where are you going now? You'll probably head straight to the Nebraska Lights to celebrate your good fortune?" Evan asked, not without a sly taunt.

"What Lights of Nebraska," I said, waving my hand and laughing. "There are more interesting things to do today than watch a striptease!" Then, turning serious, I pretend to complain: "But honestly, I'm so tired today that I just want to lie down and rest. Which I'll probably do as soon as I get back home." I muttered thoughtfully: "I'll refresh some of the databases as well."

"Refreshing skill bases is a necessary thing," the old man supported me.

Well, he knows how much hassle it is. It's all good for those with neural implants—the knowledge they've acquired won't go anywhere, but for us, it's a real pain! Not only does the accelerated—how else could it be?—hypnotic training leave your head pounding in the morning, but the knowledge you've learned instantly vanishes from your memory! Especially if you only touch on the topic in passing. So you have to constantly refresh your knowledge base.

"Look, Evan... do you by any chance need a backpack? It's not new, but it's still good, not even patched up."

Evan just waved his hand at this, wiping away the tears that had appeared.

* * *

Truth be told, I basically wasted my time. I never found anything suitable. There wasn't a car for sale that satisfied me in every way and was also affordable.

“Something like that,” I answered good-naturedly, barely holding back another yawn.

Be that as it may, no lack of sleep prevented me from fully engaging in the preventative maintenance and routine repairs of the Peters' car. The main thing was to get started. And then the drowsiness somehow slipped away on its own.

"Well, it's working! We can start the search again tomorrow!" Peters Sr. said with satisfaction, shutting off the engine, which had been running once again to test the functionality of the rebuilt pneumatic system.

“Yeah,” his sons supported him, although not with such joy.

"And today, since it's kind of a day off anyway, we might as well pop in somewhere and have a drink," Firkh continued. He then turned to me with a question: "What do you think of that, White?"

"I think it's very good indeed," I assured him with a chuckle. And after a pause, seemingly hesitantly, I continued: "But first, I need to do one more thing..."

"Well, I hope this won't take you much time?" Firkh clarified.

“It shouldn’t,” I replied, adding innocently: “Especially if you help me out a little…” And I said seriously, stating the obvious: “You know vehicles a lot better than I do… So your advice wouldn’t hurt me,” appealing, of course, first and foremost to Peters Sr.

"And what kind of advice do you need?" the Peterses naturally asked, flattered by my words.

"Well, I'd like to pop into the Machine Matrix showroom and look for some vehicles... refurbished ones, of course," I shared my plans, somewhat sheepishly. "What do you think about that?"

"You saved up for your vehicle?!" Swan gasped, either surprised or outraged that I, such a rich man, had regretted spending a measly fifty credits yesterday on a trip to a strip club.

“Yes, I had some savings,” I shrugged, without going into details or saying that they constituted only a small part of the required amount.

"Well, getting your own vehicle is certainly worth it!" Peters Sr. said solemnly, clearing his throat and coming to his senses first. "We'll go with you, of course, White. Why not?" He turned questioningly to his sons. "Yes, boys?"

They immediately nodded in agreement. They couldn't ignore my wonderful offer, as I'd hoped. And who would refuse to participate in such an event as visiting a showroom to buy a vehicle?! It's an interesting activity in itself, but when you add to it the opportunity to share valuable advice on choosing wheels...

It's not that I have any pressing need for the Peters family's advice, although it wouldn't hurt, but I could use some companionship. It's one thing when a whole group comes to buy a vehicle, a small search party, so to speak, and quite another when just one young man shows up and buys a "flea" for a tidy sum. It's sheer stupidity to expose yourself like that, pretending to be a rich lone wolf.

We didn't waste any time arguing – we put away our tools, locked up the garage module, and headed straight to the MM specialty store. Luckily, it's only a short walk… The retail section is located right in the center of our sector. The residential and garage areas, the metal collection point, the mechanical workshops, and the recreation area adjoin it on all sides. That's why, on the Base's global map, the entire complex looks like a flower with rounded petals.

We were greeted with a warm welcome in the enormous showroom, so brightly lit that at first the brightness was almost blinding. When we turned at the entrance into the part of the huge hall, divided by a glass partition, where the machines were located, and not into the part where the tall shelves with spare parts for them were located. This was understandable, as those who come here usually leave much larger sums when they buy something, and the salespeople get a cut of the sales.

So, three local specialists welcomed us with all their hearts and immediately began courting us, inquiring about our needs. And they were immediately disappointed.

I refused to even approach the new truck on display in the main hall. And not because I don't have enough money. No, I have just enough. There's a brand-new "flea" in cargo-passenger configuration for just fifteen thousand credits... But keep in mind that it comes with the bare minimum configuration. Which means you'll have to buy additional equipment for a full five thousand. Well, how could it be otherwise? Do you need armored blinds covering the viewing windows? Yes, you do. Do you need a winch? Of course. And what about some kind of crane for lifting and moving large or simply heavy loads into the truck bed? Of course. And what about a heliograph, which is used to communicate with oncoming traffic? Of course!

\\“What can I say if this ‘flea’ doesn’t even have a simple shovel to clear the way!” I thought to myself.

Although the most important thing isn't even that, but the fact that this armored vehicle, like almost all the others in the main hall, is equipped with a modified engine. Those experimenters at MM have finally tweaked the already technically advanced Saks-50 to suit their needs. They just can't seem to calm down—they're always looking to expand their product line, which has been represented by a single engine for almost fifty years now. And past mistakes involving serious, by our standards, losses don't discourage them in the least! Although it must be admitted, things aren't as bad now as they were during their first attempts. At least for now, people aren't complaining about these Saks-50M8s. But I still don't trust the MM techies... It's one thing for a vehicle to be designed by experts with a knack for this kind of development, but quite another for it to be rebuilt by people who lack the necessary knowledge in a whole host of disciplines, from thermodynamics to materials science! The first few rebuilt vehicles that come to mind are the Saks-50M1, with its output suddenly boosted from fifty to seventy-five kilowatts, whose cylinder block would burst after about six months of use; the Saks-50M2, with a modified hydromechanical transmission, whose transmission gears wore out an order of magnitude faster, requiring replacement after almost every trip to ensure they don't fall apart mid-trip and the vehicle doesn't stall a couple hundred kilometers from the Base. I don't want to end up like the people who did back then, and end up with a ton of money... A new engine and transmission assembly costs exactly ten thousand. And if in parts, then all thirty!

However, even if there was an absolute guarantee that the Sax-50M8 engine would run smoothly during operation, I still wouldn't buy a vehicle equipped with it. I'm not happy with the modifications to the engine and transmission system in this eighth model. Yes, everything was done to accommodate the changing situation on Freya. It's easier now with reconnaissance drones, which used to fly everywhere in practically swarms. Yes, you can now occasionally take the vehicles for a full speed without fear of being immediately attacked from orbit. But why would I want to accelerate the "flea" to ninety to one hundred kilometers per hour instead of the thirty to thirty-five kilometers per hour maximum for the old engines? Given that the weight of the transported cargo has been reduced by almost a third? The "Flea" is not a heavy-duty steamer anyway, you can't carry much cargo on it, and with this modification, even less so... Should it only be used for racing?

Seeing that the new technology, although not indifferent to us, did not generate any buyer interest, another seller took over our work, quickly pushing aside his younger competitors.

"Perhaps you'd like to look at some more interesting options, both in price and in terms of options?" he asked us, shaking a bright orange fruit jelly from a plastic box into his palm and popping a tiny ball into his mouth. He immediately handed us the open box confidentially, as if inviting us to help ourselves without hesitation.

Firkh and I didn't fall for it, but his sons did – they each took the bait. And they immediately smiled contentedly… Which is understandable – such fruit jelly is truly delicious. Even if they are purely synthetic.

"Let's go into the next room, and I'll show you everything," continued this skinny, sleek, lively fellow, almost older than Firkh, without hesitation.

Naturally, we didn't resist and moved on to another room, much smaller, where refurbished equipment was on display, though not much different from new in appearance. We were stuck there for a long time… wandering among half a dozen machines, yeah. Of which, only one was a pure cargo-passenger model. So we danced around it for a half hour…

Basically, everything's fine: the few holes in the outer shell have been carefully patched, and where it was more seriously damaged, the plates that made it up have been replaced. The inner armored hull is completely intact. Almost all the necessary bodywork is present, and the engine — as expected of an old Saks-50, without any modifications — still has about eighty percent of its life left. The wheels are in good condition, though it's immediately obvious they've seen a lot of use, and the price is quite reasonable — just twelve and a half thousand credits.

The only thing is, the booster is a jet! A hydrogen-oxygen one! So, the chances of flying off into space, like on a real ancient rocket, only to be hit in the rear by a burst of something more serious than a handgun from your pursuers, are extremely high.

Even though the salesman, who introduced himself as Arnie Worth, tried to convince me that an armored bulkhead securely protected the liquefied gas tanks and couldn't be damaged so easily, he still couldn't convince me. The "Flea" isn't an Earth Union tank. What kind of armor does it actually have? Even a heavy machine gun, if fired at anything less than extreme range, would tear it apart in no time!

"I understand you're interested in equipment that's best suited for a small team search? And that can accommodate enough people without sacrificing payload capacity?" Arnie Worth asked, popping another fruit jelly into his mouth and offering us some.

This time, Firkh and I didn't refuse either. Even if we didn't buy anything, at least we'd get some tasty treats.

“Well, yes, that’s exactly it,” I nodded in confirmation of his conclusions, which were quite logical: it’s not for nothing that we’ve been circling a cargo-passenger model of a “flea” for a good half hour.

"Then I have an option that's sure to please you!" The salesman smiled conspiratorially and pulled us along to the very entrance of the hall.

There stood a brand-new-looking armored vehicle. A raider-spec one! And with a unique hull, immediately noticeable with its predatory, pointed nose!

"That's it!" Arnie Worth said proudly, slapping the side of the armored vehicle. "You won't find anything better!" He began enthusiastically explaining, almost rolling his eyes with emotion: "The Saks-50 engine and transmission unit installed here hasn't even used up one percent of its lifespan yet! Brand new armored hull! New tires of the most common size - eighty! Full body kit included! Air suspension with the function of adjusting ground clearance on the move - from forty-five to ninety centimeters! A winch that converts into a cargo crane when the telescopic boom is extended, rated for a maximum load of five tons! Combined pneumomechanical drive of the gun turret, all doors, and the six-segment cargo compartment cover!" Pausing to take a breath, Arnie pointed to the massive, at least five-centimeter-thick, plate on the front of the flea: "A pneumatically powered blade with an adjustable attack angle for clearing paths in the city or through vegetation! In the stowed position, it covers the front of the armored vehicle and provides additional protection for the frontal projection of the engine compartment!"

“Only this is a raider in his purest form,” I smiled sourly, interrupting the flow of praise.

No, the vehicle certainly looks great from the outside. That's because of its unique body, the front section of which is constructed without the usual transitions and breaks. It's a single plane, at an acute angle, from the nose to the roof. Because of this, the large frontal viewing windows are positioned at such an extreme angle that they basically don't require the additional protection of the existing armored blinds. Penetrating them is impossible. And overall, the quality is immediately apparent when you look closely at how carefully the riveted outer skin plates fit together. Even on this fake vehicle, there's no junk like so-called "reinforced metal-plastic" or composite. Only steel and light-alloy elements here and there.

If I had to choose based on looks alone, I'd take this "flea." And Swan and Lags too, judging by their glowing eyes...

"There won't be any problems with this kind of plating?" asked Firkh, who also noticed the armored vehicle's overly advanced outer hull.

"No, none!" Arnie Worth assured us. "We've already checked similar hulls. We've taken the vehicles from the bases. This one uses not just one type of steel, but five, plus there are elements made of aluminum alloy and titanium. And there are no RFID tags on any segment... So, to the scanners of reconnaissance airborne drones, the hull still looks like a composite of various pieces of technological junk."

"Aha, technique assembled from scrap and powered by a low-power, low-tech internal combustion engine, or even just muscle power!" Firkh remarked.

And we all laughed at a famous joke. One time, a squad of searchers, driving through the city in a decrepit "flea," caught the attention of a reconnaissance drone belonging to the technocontrol system. They stopped immediately, just in case, as soon as they spotted it, and then moved away from the "flea." But it didn't fly away... It circled and circled above the armored vehicle... The searchers waited and waited, wondering why it was attached to them, then one of them, seemingly jokingly, suggested that maybe the drone's pseudo-intelligence, having reacted to a moving target, couldn't figure out how this pile of scrap metal on wheels could even move. They'd shut off the engine right away... So, the searchers unwound some rope from the winch, harnessed themselves to it, and off they went, dragging their "flea"! And the aerodrone, frozen in the air for the first minute, was gone in a flash! Since then, some units even carry special towing belts with them, so they can mock the dumb machines when the opportunity arises.

* * *

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88447/593824

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP