Chapter 1

Pain. It was my one and only faithful companion the last months. Uninvited, importunate, all-consuming. Only memoirs allowed me to distract and be forgotten for some time. I am Vasily Ivanovich Kamentsev, the colonel in resignation, the former employee of the second management of KGB later the teacher in the Russian Academy FSB. Two months ago to me eighty nine years have knocked. Instead of my favourite reading the novel, now here I lie not movably and I listen attentively to monotonous hum of the medical equipment and I try not to think of the heated nail in my right side. Cancer of the fourth stage – here my final, last ruthless opponent. It the opponent could not be converted, bribed or played. It was only possible to wait and look how he defeats me and slowly kills.

I waited. Thoughts consigned to the past where there was no this pain, and there was smell of typographical paint from the shabby books about spies, burning desire of adventures in soul of the rural boy. Then there was army, military discipline, clearness. It was pleasant to me. And then this improbable, dizzy chance. «The citizen Kamentsev, the qualities shown by you are of interest to the state security agencies» – the words pronounced by the major that has come to hold at me exam in practical firing. The excellent sports discipline imitating combat or tactical conditions. Here not only the accuracy, but also speed, ability to quickly estimate situation and to work with shelters are important. The dream which is wrapped up in the folder with signature stamp «Top secret» became for me, routine work and service on for the rest of the life. Then there was law school, the diploma with honors. And then – fifty years of service. Fifty years of smart operations, invisible wars, interpretations and recruitments. Family? It for me could become vulnerability. Love? The distracting factor. I had work and service for the benefit of the huge country. Great and powerful country. To me it is unimportant what politicians and traitors have made with it. It is important that people, the people which I protected have restored its former greatness and could get up from knees. And traitors were and will be always. And the end at them, at all one.

I never thought that I will live so long, I will train three Heroes of Russia. I suspected, the last years that there is with me something is not right. But to doctors did not go. And sense? Year, well has lived and it is good. Now to me the loneliness in sterile chamber has come. I had nobody who would hold me by hand or came to visit me. No, it is not necessary to feel sorry for me. I am guilty, but what now to do. Yes you excuse my senile grumbling. Long I was silent and with anybody could not talk and tell the tall tale which has happened to me.

Being in the best Russian military hospital, I died. But I waited for it every day, and here the door has opened. My Lenochka has entered. The young nurse, with kind, but tired eyes from the next heavy change. Red hair, and ridiculously stuck fervent bow on the head. Big blue eyes, chubby sponges and pleasant aroma of flowers.

– Vasily Ivanovich, is time, – its voice was soft as summer rain.

I have silently nodded, having hardly raised the head. It has brought to my lips glass glass with water, has put two capsules on palm. Ritual action, as on me, senseless. But Lenochka asks, so it is necessary.

– Thanks, Lenochka, – having croaked I have told, swallowing of bitterish pills. Its touch was cool and fleeting. It has left, having left behind the pressing feeling of the missed opportunity. «Eh, here if …» – I have begun thought, old as the world. But suddenly it has broken. It was not explosion or heavy blow of pain. It was similar to as though the Universe for moment has blinked. Chamber, pain, old body – everything has disappeared. There was no pain, there was no tunnel at the end of which waited for me light.

When consciousness has returned to me with feeling of improbable, amazing ease and huge inflow of forces. I have opened eyes. I lay on something firm and cool. Not on hospital bed. On floor? I have slowly risen and have sat down, the movement I were given unusually quickly, without crunch in joints, short wind and back pain. I have carefully looked round. No, not chamber. Some technical room similar to advanced garage. Walls from metal, on the right about wall, there was column similar to tribune, and on it multi-colored bulbs flickered. In the middle of tribune the bluish screen shone. It soared in air, these are holograms with unclear schemes. Air smelled of plastic, ozone, lubricating oil and the burned-down conducting.

I have looked at the hands. Young people. I have clenched fists. Strong. Has looked at wrist on it were – not hours, and some difficult bracelet with the blinking badges. I have examined myself. On me simple, but at the same time strange clothes from gray, elastic material. Suddenly in the head the name has emerged. Others. Sergey Vasilyevich Mironov. Age thirty five years. Citizen of the Russian Empire. What?! How empires? Here has so put, here correctly say that history always revolves. And here I was overflowed by avalanche of other memoirs, scrappy, but they flew in my consciousness as falls: «technician-navigator of the third class … starprobe vehicle „Scythian“ … The guild of free dealers … delivery time expires through …»

– Mironov! Do you play the fool again? – the sharp voice from corner was distributed.

In doorway there was person in similar clothes, but with stripes on shoulder. Angry person. The instinct perfected for half a century has worked instantly. The old personality has faded into the background as the agent on appearance at the moment of danger. On surface what was known by Sergey Mironov has emerged.

– Checked stabilization contour, – I have heard the new, velvety and steady voice. – There was anomaly. All are normal.

– Anomaly? – the person has sniffed. – You have in head anomaly. The Scythian sails away in two hours. If yours gravikomp does not work, the captain will throw out you in lock without space suit. Move!

The person has left. I have slowly risen to the feet. The body obeyed ideally. Has approached the next brilliant unit housing and has seen the reflection. It not my person. Unfamiliar. Confident look, firm chin, shock of nutbrown hair on the head and on my face there was no fatigue of the old man. Thoughts have rushed whirlwind. Then memoirs. So, now the 3158th year. I in the future?! So, star ships. Free dealers. It was not similar to my world, it resembled the fantastic story from the book of my childhood more. But it was the reality. Rough, technological, smelling of lubricant and for some reason, I felt threat.

But somewhere in depth under layers of others memoirs, my old, familiar feeling has moved. That that I tested, receiving the first task. Not fear. Passion. Burning, inadmissible passion. My mission turns out, has not ended. I was given one more chance. But who? And why? Why to me? I have turned to gravikomp: I already knew how it looks and what I need to do. My fingers have stretched to the control panel. «Anomaly …» – I have whispered about myself, and corners of my new lips have trembled in similarity of smile. Adventure of which I so dreamed in the village, reading the shabby books of the Soviet fantasy, has just begun for me. And, it seems, it is deadly as this feeling did not abandon me. But now at me was, young body, sharp mind and long experience of old wolf of the operative.

«Well, – I have thought, studying holograms of navigation routes. – Let’s begin with gravikomp. And there we will look».

I felt how in my breast strange mix begins to boil: chilling horror of the event with me and wild joy. I was alive. I was in some game again. Game. For some reason this only word which turned with most has begun in my head. I, already as Sergey Mironov, walked along narrow corridor of «Scythian». The cargo shuttle «Scythian» did not remind smooth interiors from old fantastic novels from within. Yes, cargo about it has prompted me Sergey’s memory. This shuttle was the real slogger, the cargo space ship, the long-distance truck driver. Plowed space, transporting in itself various goods. The smell of such shuttles was their business card: caustic ozone ashes from the fused conducting and contacts, sweetish stench of the retsirkulirovanny air spoiled by the disinfector and the ubiquitous, almost calming smell of lubricating oil. Walls, floor and ceiling were from gray metal. Everywhere – chaotic web of the cable routes covered with trellised panels, the blinking indicator bulbs (red, yellow, green – as traffic light signals for devoted) and hatches with inscriptions, part from which my new memory deciphered: «Reactor compartment – it is DANGEROUS!», «Emergency lock – number three».

I went, and each detail was noted, developed in my head, and then was displayed on shelves as proofs on table of the investigator. «Professional habit, Vasily Ivanovich» – I have grinned about myself. Old habits were stronger than new body. The latrine was my first purpose. Not from physiological need, and by operational need. The agent should know all details the of new appearance. Well to get used to role and not to give itself to open. I have to be natural and not cause suspicions differently failure. The latrine was very quickly as on one of doors the photograph has been pasted. Where the man dressed in black overalls celebrates the need standing. The compartment was close, shining from the chromeplated surfaces. I was locked, has rested hands against sink and for the first time have attentively looked at myself in mirror.

The man looking at me was stranger, but … suitable. I was twenty five years old, but I looked on all thirty. Height about hundred seventy eight centimeters, as I in youth, but the body which was brought much more down, sports and strong. Not the muscleman, and it is rather runner on average distances: big shoulders, but without excess weight, muscle appeared under gray fabric of overalls accurately, without excesses. The person with correct, even a little aristocratical lines which, however, spoiled (or decorated?) couple of small scars: one thin thread over the right eyebrow, another – hardly noticeable on chin. «Working marks of Sergey Mironov» – I have assumed. Hair are thick, chestnut, randomly falling on forehead. And eyes … Blue. Bright, cold, as winter sky. In them there was neither shadow of pain, nor fatigue. There was caution. And unrestrained interest. The interest of the wolf who has got to new pack. «Well, Sergey Vasilyevich, – has addressed I reflection mentally, in the old manner. – Let’s get acquainted».

In ten minutes I have left latrine and have gone to the command bridge. The door with hissing has driven off aside, having opened panorama from which at me, for moment has intercepted breath. The bridge of «Scythian» was the small, filled-in muffled blue light. In the center there was big black leather chair of the captain, massive, with the cracked upholstery in which sat to me back of people. Before it there was main projection screen now showing the scheme of the ship and the counter of the return time before flying away. On each side there were three working consoles drowned in metal panels with flickering holograms and physical buttons, probably, in case of failures. Suddenly memory has prompted to me that the team consists from five people and one robot synthetics. My new memory gave names and positions, but not characters. Time to fill to me these gaps has come.

I have looked at the captain. Boris Lavrov known as the Beard. He sat in chair, having turned away from all, and muttered something in audio communication. The man under sixty, strong, as oak stub. His well-known beard, gray-haired and dense, resembled overgrown bush more. Weather-beaten face, with grid of deep wrinkles, especially around eyes which have been blinked now, studying indications. On it there was worn brown leather jacket which is put on over overalls – obviously personal mascot. From memory has emerged: the former military pilot of the Galactic Fleet of the Russian Empire, is fired for insubordination to the idiotic order. Flew on the Scythian twenty years. It is severe, but is fair, hates paper work. The in board if not to climb with councils for ship-handling.

I have translated the look to the right. There was the first pilot and the specialist in communications. Wow, woman. By the ship? And how stereotypes? And chick-pea of what is I. I in the future. Memory to me was quickly prompted, what is her name, by Alice Korshunova. High, thin, with sharp features and hairstyle under the boy of color of voronov covered about twenty eight years. Her long fingers flitted over the touch panel, adjusting something. The look concentrated, almost fanatical. I managed to get from memory scraps that she the brilliant graduate of civil academy of the Russian Empire, has run away from the prestigious passenger cruiser on this zhestyanolyot in search of the real flights and adventures. It is reticent, sarcastic, with the ship on first-name terms. Intellectual. Means, she is potentially valuable ally if to find with it common language.

Near it there was flight engineer. Gennady Sysoyev or just Gena. That that shouted at me in my compartment. Stocky, powerful, with hands of the smith and the person who, apparently, has forever stiffened in expression of slight irritation. By sight he was about forty years old. Now he dug in the open ceiling hatch from where sparks poured and the vile swearwords rich with technical terms and demotic expressions flew. There was also its file in my memory: the technical genius, can repair the hyper engine piece of chewing gum and blue insulating tape, but here its reports are continuous nightmare for accounts department. Rough, but clever fingers. The old friend of the captain, they together were at war. It is necessary to come into contact with him, but it is careful.

Shooter/attack plane. Vladislav Kozhin known as Kim. He sat on folding seat at back wall, cleaned something sorted, most likely, some weapon. By sight thirty or thirty five years. It is wide in shoulders, with shortly short-haired hair and quiet, almost dead-pan of the mercenary. The smooth movements perfected. The former soldier of the military case, has become mercenaries after its division was left without support and only he has survived. It is silent, speaks, only on business. Looks at all including on the captain, appraisingly, as on potential threat or the purpose. Professional. It is very dangerous. But its loyalty can be bought – not money, but respect for his skills and clearness of objectives.