Part 1

The unit of technical support

Chapter 1

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"Take it."

Olga pulled the edge of her scarf up to her nose. Despite the long-legged jacket lined with some kind of fur, the cold wind seemed to bite into her bones. It was no wonder since Olga had always been skinny, and meager rations did not help her build up a layer of fat. It seems that in this shitty universe, human life costs a small fortune, and everyone eats only prison rations. In fact, no matter where and with what she was fed here, the food invariably evoked strong associations with prison rations. And the food was always given in iron bowls with inventory numbers of two or three dozen digits.

"Sign here."

"Know it."

Olga pulled the ears of her knitted hat lower. Her almost shaved head was constantly freezing. Sluggish, wistful thoughts barely stirred, like the snapping fish in a frozen aquarium. The 'host,' a huge aunt, looked sternly at the skinny girl. Olga stared at the aunt in silence, wondering who it could be and why she was signing off on some kind of statement for the newcomer. And where, in general, fate had thrown her. The prison ship did not bother to enlighten the prisoner about her future fate and ignored her timid questions.

The landscape around was bleak, industrial, strangely similar to the usual steppe in winter. There was a lot of sand, a lot of ice, a lot of concrete, and blind boxes of buildings scattered without any order. Or at least seeming order. Chimneys that exuded black and white smoke into the dark sky. Power lines, or something strongly resembling them. Metal trusses and bundles of wires, sagging heavily. If you try a bit harder, you can convince yourself that this is the real Russian steppe. You just don't have to think that most of the buildings don't have a single window, that the lattice trusses are twice as high as usual, and that instead of cars, you see monstrous constructions that look like steam tractors with trailers. And you don't have to look at the flying skull with three bird's feet hovering over the transmitting side's head.

"Well, that's it," the acolyte said grimly, without any enthusiasm, measuring Olga with a critical eye. As if checking to be sure she was worthy of escaping his custody.

The girl shivered silently, feeling the pain in her shoulder and ribs on her right side again. Her acquaintance with the asshole in the gray robe had begun with him beating her for not reading the prayers hard enough. Olga would have loved to spit in his porridge or hit him on the head with a pipe cutter, but she had already realized that the attitude toward religion here was... specific attitude here. Accuse her of heresy, and things would end badly. She had to swallow the humiliation and learn the prayers.

"Take it," the man in the robe grimaced, and the skull scribbled on a sheet of paper with a feather, apparently recording the act of transfer.

The acolyte's angry face clearly said: "now she's your responsibility".

"I accept," the aunt muttered, handing the acolyte a folder of signed documents without any reverence. The folder was very old. The golden eagle on the top cover was almost worn off, losing its solidity and turning into a smudged spot. The robed goat handed the file to the skull, which picked up the burden with its third iron claw and sagged down considerably, trying to keep the weight down. The motor in the yellow-and-white head buzzed like an angry bumblebee. The red lenses blinked rapidly, clicking the hidden mechanisms.

"The Emperor will Protect," the jerk folded his arms across his chest, crossed his thumbs, and stared into the gray sky with lean piety.

"Truly it will Protect!" The aunt repeated his gesture, but with much more sincerity.

"Protect..." whispered Olga, following the general example. Fortunately this time she was not confused and said the correct word in the local language, not confused with Russian.

There was no Emperor in the sky. A thing flew by with a low rumble, leaving behind it a distinctly anti-environmental streak of coal-black exhaust. A large star flashed with a cold light, hovering motionless just above our heads. Probably a satellite or some kind of orbital structure.

After performing the obligatory ritual, the man, without saying goodbye and without dignifying his companions with an extra word, went back to the flying machine, which looked like a fantastic airplane that despised aerodynamics. At any rate, Olga never understood how one could fly with such short, thick wings. Judging by the rumble and clatter that this bucket of spare parts made in flight, it did not understand either, and moved solely by the grace of God.

Olga sighed heavily, adjusted the tarpaulin strap on her shoulder. Along with her clothes, the girl had been given a duffel bag, a hundred liters' worth, before boarding. But the novice's luggage was languishing at the bottom of the bag, not weighing her down. It's a bleak future, she thought. This was not a tale of the triumph of progress, but a tale of the great construction site of communism. At any rate, the clothes issued by the captenarmus on the ship with the bars, the evil guards, and the constant prayers could immediately and without re-stitching be used in any movie about the horrors of GULAG and forced labor.

"Olla," the aunt said unfriendly, looking at the girl with the same sour expression on her face as the man.

"Olga," she corrected mechanically and cringed, realizing that she had said too much again.

"The accompanying documents say 'Olla,'" the woman said sternly. "So it's Olla. Order above all."

The aunt was more like a retired bodybuilder. She was powerful, cubic, brutally strong, even at a short look. And she was dressed much better than Olga, in some kind of quilted overalls with a hood. Where anatomically there was supposed to be a waist, a tarpaulin belt with many pockets for tools encircled the powerful belly. On her left shoulder was a phosphorescent blazon with some kind of symbol, like the letters 'S,' 'C,' and something else.

The plane howled and rattled as if a bucket of nuts had been thrown into its spinning womb. And took off, though it seemed impossible. Olga glanced at the short-winged menace, suppressed an automatic desire to cross her eyes in relief. Instead, just in case, she performed an aquila, almost dropping the bag from her shoulder. She looked at the bodybuilder, waiting for instructions.

"Let's go," said the aunt, unfriendly.

Olga followed her thick-gloved hand. The sardelle-shaped fingers pointed to a tractor that stood literally in the middle of the frozen-sandy steppe. The machine was smoking and shining its only headlight.

"As you command," Olga sighed, adjusting her bag again.

From the concrete landing pad to the tractor, It didn't seem far away. But it was a long way on foot, and in oversized boots that hung off her legs like chains. Inside the truck was cramped, uncomfortable, and reeked fiercely of chemicals and gasoline, which was called 'promethium' here. But at least the engine filled the cabin with invigorating warmth, so much so that the girl even took off her hat. She took off her mittens and rubbed her cold palms together. There was not a crumb of nail polish left on her cropped fingernails, her skin cracked and burr-faced.

Oh hands, my poor hands...

"You will call me Bertha," said the aunt, performing complicated manipulations with three levers and five handwheels. "Mentor Bertha."

The vehicle creaked terribly and started moving. Judging by the way the miracle truck shook, the word 'shock absorption' was completely forgotten in the distant bright future. Any bump under the high wheels transmitted a painful jolt directly to the ass of the passenger.

"Yes, Mentor..."

"Behind my back, our assholes call me Big Bertha or BiBe. Behind my back, because I could kick their teeth in."

"I got it, Mentor. I will not follow their shameful example."

Bertha looked suspiciously at Olga, but the girl was warming up conscientiously. She had the bliss of a kitten on a warm stove on her face.

"Five hundred and sixty-seventh maintenance squadron. You'll get the bracelet later. Remember. Five, six, seven."

"Yes, I did."

"You're a junior novice. You'll be in my vehicle, a canister loader. We'll see about that. It's a simple job, responsible. But first, three days of training. You'll master the equipment."

"As you command," Olga agreed. "I will. I will master it."

Bertha looked at the novice again. The woman's eyes were unexpectedly beautiful, with very clear whites, almost no blood vessels, and contrastingly bright irises. The elven eyes on an orcish face.

"Do you have any idea where you're going?" Bertha, the orchid girl, suddenly asked.

"No," Olga admitted honestly. "I was sent here from the prison ship."

"Prison?" She didn't understand. "Don't say it out loud."

She snorted with contemptuous indignation.

"What are you talking about, you little fool? Calling monks the jailers.

The girl rubbed her fingers, which did not warm up and seemed wooden.

"Sorry, Mentor. I don't understand the rules yet, but I try very, very hard! For the Emperor's light to warm... uh... illuminate my soul! Ja... the monks said I must atone for my sins," Olga paused and dared to add quietly. "But I had no sins."

"So you're not a volunteer?" Bertha seemed very surprised.

"No."

"And not from in a penal brigade?"

"No. I didn't do anything," Olga breathed on her fingers to warm them further. A slight vapor dispersed through the rattling cabin.

"They're completely screwed," Bertha said indignantly, spinning a big wheel wrapped in leather cord. "Soon they'll be sending children to us," she paused, then added angrily, more to herself than to her companion. "I'll tell everything to the commandant, and we'll write a complaint together. We'll have a look at your case."

Olga got warm, curled up in a ball inside her jacket, and pulled her mittens back on. She wanted to cover her eyes and doze off. The tractor rolled briskly forward, bouncing on bumps, occasionally the headlights of oncoming cars slid over the cab. On the left side was something that looked like a forest of gas flares, very high, almost a mile high. On the right was an embankment, just like a railroad track, with gravel and semaphores. Though the truck rumbled relentlessly, the engine rumbled more quietly than an ordinary internal combustion engine. An outlandish helicopter flew over the tractor, gliding too fast for Olga to see the details.

"Ork shit," Bertha cursed, not sure why or for what reason.

"Where are we going?" the novice dared to ask.

"Five hundred and sixty-seventh maintenance squadron," the woman explained slowly, almost syllable by syllable, as if for a feeble-minded. "Radial-12"

"Will they feed me there?" Olga squeaked softly.

"Are you hungry?" Bertha muttered.

"Ugu."

"You will." with unexpected good-naturedness informed the aunt. "There are forty thousand ways to die in the Epidemic Squad, but they don't starve you."

"Is it supposed to be like that?" she asked cautiously, pointing to the blinking pictogram on the dashboard. The tractor's control panel was austere and minimalist, and the red gear symbol stood out especially ominously.

"No," the bodybuilder wiggled her mighty shoulder irritably. - The spirit of the machine isn't happy. When we get there, the "pinion" will please and placate him.

Bertha waved her right hand as if she were trying to imitate half an aquila and muttered something incomprehensible. Apparently, the mysterious "pinion" was not to the mentor's liking. Well, thought the girl, just everything seemed normal - and here you are. You mustn't forget, they're all crazy here, all of them. You say the wrong word, and hello.

Time passed sluggishly, there was no clock in the cabin, and the constant twilight settled overboard. It seemed to Olga that the jolting journey lasted twenty minutes, but it might as well have taken a couple of hours.

"We're almost there," Bertha said, spinning the wide wheel dashingly.

Olga pulled herself up higher, fidgeting in her chair, whose upholstery had deteriorated to the point of being a symbol, the idea of steel-framed upholstery. Ahead of her loomed an enormous structure, strikingly different from the standard and faceless boxes. The structure resembled a hangar in the form of half of a barrel cut lengthwise. Above the 'barrel' rose several lattice towers, united into one complex by large bundles of wires and cables. Bundles of parabolic and lattice antennas stuck out to all sides of the world, some rotating at different speeds. All the construction was flanked by red lights to warn against collisions with aircraft. Given the height of the structure, the precaution seemed appropriate.

Around the hangar ran a complex system of concrete lanes, not roads, but rather 'tracks,' overpasses. When the tractor got out on one of them and tapped its wheels on the old slabs, Olga noticed numerous dents in the concrete surface. Heavy tracked machinery had clearly been driven here. Through the thin walls of the cabin a long, mechanical howl could be heard. A dreadful siren sounded. The howl rattled her teeth and made her want to crawl into a very deep hole. The siren sounded again, and then there was silence. After the siren wailed, the usual background noise seemed distant and unimportant.

"We made it," Bertha said with satisfaction. "But we must hurry. Hold on."

Olga couldn't hear her very well. The alarm was still ringing in her head and ears. So when the tractor rushed forward like a spurred one, galloping over the joints of the slabs, the girl almost bit her tongue. She was shaking and reeling like a frog in a ball, to the point of bitterness in her throat.

"We're here."

Olga fell out of the cabin, not thinking straight and trying her best not to vomit. With a lot of effort, she stayed on her feet, almost unsteadily. Her empty stomach knotted in devious knots, bile felt like it was gurgling somewhere under her tongue.

"I brought it," Bertha reported dryly to someone. Or not reported, but informed, just dry and unfriendly.

"The novice is weak these days," said a thick bass blurred shadow, a couple of heads shorter than the mentor, but just as broad in the shoulders.

Olga swallowed, straightened up, leaning her shoulder against the heated side of the machine. The tractor stopped almost at the very gates of the hangar. Each flap was twenty meters high, if not more. Something inside was humming and whistling like a huge steam locomotive. A couple of dozen people, maybe a little more, were bustling around the structure. They all gave the impression of hard workers, extremely busy with a very important job. Something that looked like a forklift with its 'claws' up high was rolling by. A 'servitor,' like a soldier at a parade, walked by, carrying in a large basket of welded metal strips all sorts of small things - gasoline canisters, scraps of wires, and so on. The locals had a passion for grave creepiness. Even the robots were disguised as zombies.

"Cover your ears," advised the shadow.

While Olga wondered what that meant, the siren howled again. Now, closer to the source and without the barrier of the cabin, the sound was physical, pounding her ears and her whole body like an acoustic hammer.

"Yes, the novice is weak these days," the shadow repeated.

After blinking, Olga realized that it was actually a medium-sized, very broad-shouldered man with a bald, shaved head. The cold did not seem to bother the man. Instead of the usual jackets and overalls, he was dressed in some kind of cassock, and with sleeveless chainmail stretched directly over it. The rings gleamed in the spotlight and looked plastic. Instead of a belt, the man had a chain on which hung a skull and a thick book with metal clasps.

"Things are strange with her," Berta said briefly. "We'll have to sort it out."

"We'll figure it out," the monk-like interlocutor replied. "Nothing happens without the Emperor's will, and every action is guided by the path He has marked out for everyone."

"The Emperor will protect," said Bertha piously, folding her arms in a familiar gesture.

Olga took a frantic gulp, struggling to overcome the attack of nausea. She also tried to imitate an 'aquila,' but given her condition, it turned out more like a parody of a dying swan.

"We're leaving now."

The monk looked down at Olga, sparkling with unexpectedly benevolent eyes, almost invisible between the thick flaps of his tortoise eyelids.

"Welcome aboard, child."

"A... Board..." the girl exhaled incomprehensibly as the whistling and noise increased.

And then she went numb when the hangar resident finally began to crawl out of the shelter.

"Mobile squadron number five hundred and sixty-seven of the Twelfth Battalion, Second Road Maintenance and Repair Regiment. Self-propelled purification center 'Radial-12'."

"God, I understood nothing," Olga whispered, staring with dilated eyes at the monstrous armored train crawling out of the hangar.

The huge mechanical snake was made up of wagons ten meters high or so. By eye, Olga estimated that it was no less than five human height. The carriages alternated in pairs - first came the 'cube', which looked like something residential, two-level at least. It had sparse windows and the usual doors with down ramps. Then a deaf tin without a single window, but with wide panels, which, served the purpose of cargo gates and ramps. There were five or six pairs of them. Closing the long track was a gun platform with packs of rockets set vertically. The head carriage, or the 'steam locomotive,' glowed angrily through a narrow window opening in the deckhouse, blew steam through valves at the very rails, and buzzed.

Olga took a breath, wiped her sweaty face with her sleeve. A long telescopic flagpole stretched upward from the locomotive cab. On it unfurled a broad red banner, painted with white symbols, which the girl could not make out because of the darkness. Music began to play, some sort of march dominated by brass and timpani. The rhythmic howl reverberated far into the cold air, and the stars, real and manmade, winked deadly above her head. What was happening was eerily reminiscent of a rehearsal for the filming of a Civil War movie - an armored train was leaving, a red banner was flying, a march was playing, but not a soul on the platform.

"Is a revolutionary commissar with a revolver expected?" she asked.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Haven't you had enough?! Hold your tongue!

"What? What commissar? - Bertha was genuinely surprised. "We are not in the Guard, we do not have a commissar. I'll shoot you myself if I have to. Get aboard!"

"But... How?" Olga looked helplessly at the moving behemoth.

"On the move! Follow me, do as I do!"

"To the glory of Him and our good patron Saint Clarence!" proclaimed the monk. "You're with us now, valiant sister of the Communist Sanitary Squad," and he added, in a lower, businesslike, and quick tone. "Hurry up, child, or you'll be left behind, and that will be treated as desertion."

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