This is a fan translation of Agent of the Star Corps (Агент Звёздного корпуса) by the Russian science fiction author Leonid Kudryavtsev.
I claim no rights to the contents herein.
Chapter 5
There didn't turn out to be that many objects in the container. But everything inside was necessary to Michael in his current position.
The first thing that caught his attention was a box with a plastisymbiote.
He sighed with relief.
Disguise was no longer going be a problem. His face would be unrecognizable in half an hour.
Michael glanced at the professor.
He was still standing by the alcove with his hands lowered, as if a biorobot that had completed its programming. Michael had a feeling that the professor could remain standing like that for three days in a row.
He probably would, if given the order.
"Return to your office," Brado ordered. "Sit in a chair and wait for orders."
The professor turned obediently and left the bedroom.
Michael returned to the container. He pulled out the box with the plastisymbiote, removed the lid, and placed it on the windowsill. The sun was already over the horizon, but its light was still sufficient to trigger a reaction. In the box was a block of a substance the color of a coconut kernel. Exposed to sunlight, it started to expand, bubble up, and darken. Several minutes later, the block took on the color of dried clay. Now he could make use of the plastisymbiote.
But now yet. A little later. First he had to finish examining the container's contents.
Item number two: an all-credit card.
Michael took it from the container and examined it carefully. Right, the card had a sizable amount on it, but no more than that. He might be able to buy an average-sized asteroid with it, but definitely not a planet with a breathable atmosphere. Not even close.
Michael estimated that the money would allow him to keep playing hide-and-seek with the Ragnites for about two weeks. In fact, he had no more than three or four days. So there was more than enough money. He had the all-credit card and some cash.
He could move on to item number three.
It was a unigun. A small reliable "toy" with multiple functions. Something more serious than a beamer.
In point of fact, a unigun was a compact arsenal. Sure, he would never be able to shoot down a spaceship with it, even against well-armed professional soldiers it was next to useless. But it could easily be used to fight off a few dozen centurions and beamer-armed mercs. If one knew how to use it, of course.
Michael carefully examined the switches on the back of the barrel. The tiny indicator located in the same place was glowing red. The unigun was charged.
Excellent.
He also thought that with gear like that he could easily be on a free trader ship leaving the planet in a matter of hours. Assuming he decided to run, of course. But would he?
And would that escape play right into the enemy's hands? Of course it would. Maybe that was what the Ragnits wanted in the first place. To have him leave the planet without figuring out why Haka had been killed and what he'd managed to discover.
On the other hand, what could he do alone on this planet, even with some gear? His opponents were also well-armed, plus there was a great number of them.
If only there was a Super in my place… Michael thought.
He threw another glance at the plastisymbiote and, pulling a cigarette from his pocket, lit it up.
No, he wasn't a Super. Just a Star Corps agent. True, any ordinary Human would envy his reaction speed. Also his sense of smell was keeper. And his eyesight. He could see better and farther than that same ordinary Human. But that was it.
He wasn't a Super and would never be one. He'd never be able to solve integral equations in his head or teleport. An attempt to wash his hands in hydrochloric acid or gargle molten metal would be fatal to him. And so on and so forth…
Except there was no way there would be a Super in his position. Even before the great interstellar bloodbath, Super only participated in a few of the most important operations, but when the total war began, it was quickly decided that their place was in command positions.
Sure, a single Super could defeat dozens of opponents in hand-to-hand combat, but by taking command of a ranger squadron, they could win a battle and deal significantly greater harm to the enemy. That was why, as soon as the war began, all the Supers immediately found themselves in chairs of commanders.
Then ceasefire came. But a ceasefire wasn't really a peace, just a period of rest before another fight. That was why the Supers were still at their posts.
As such, the composition of the Star Corps had changed. Now its agents were ordinary people. True, thanks to the training system developed by the Supers, they had certain unusual qualities, but no more than that.
Michael placed the cigarette butt into one of the dirty cups and once again swept the contents of the container, laid out on the table, with his gaze.
He realized suddenly that he had to make a choice now. What would he decide? Try to flee the planet or stay, knowing that he had virtually no chance to get out of the trouble the Ragnites have stirred up.
Only recently, in the heat of battle, when there was no path to retreat, he'd known that he was going to fight to the end.
Now he had a real chance to escape this "quiet" planet. There was his training to consider…
Of course, that training hadn't been put together by idiots. If he died, then Earth wouldn't learn of it any time soon. That way the Ragnites would gain more time that might turn out to be more than enough to complete the operation that had begun on Abausa. Michael had no doubt that said operation was an important one.
After all, one had to have a very good reason to start a shootout in broad daylight in the capital of a neutral planet, all to kill a single Star Corps agent.
What reason?
That was the crux of the matter. Michael couldn't think of a single good reason. Besides the hypothetical information Haka had supposedly learned.
What had he stumbled on? Why did the Ragnites believe this intel to be so important that they'd thrown all caution to the wind? Maybe it had to do with the round two of the bloodbath. Indeed, a ceasefire couldn't last forever. And if the Ragnites were preparing to violate it, then the balance had been upset, which meant that they now had an advantage they hoped would allow them to win round two.
Michael's training required him to immediately leave Abausa. About a week later, he would reach the nearest planet with a transition tunnel to Earth. Only Super could use such tunnels. So Michael would send a request and wait. When a Super appeared, Brado would relay what had taken place on Abausa. The Super, being a genius, would figure out what had really happened and take measures. Assuming it wasn't too late by that point. In such a case, the Ragnites would gain over a week. Possibly enough time to start the second stage of the bloodbath.
Or maybe it wasn't the case at all. Maybe Haka hadn't learned anything important. Maybe the Ragnites had simply decided that it was suspiciously calm in this part of space. Again, two Star Corps agents operating there for nearly a year, and doing it successfully too. So why not neutralize them? How? Very simple. Kill both of them. Only this time something hadn't gone right, and they weren't able to intercept Michael. After learning that he was back on the planet, they'd sent a squad after him, which was their second mistake.
Instead of quietly getting rid of the Star Corps agent, the mercs of the Ragnites, being morons, had started an unnecessary shootout in the middle of the city, messing everything up. Maybe now the Ragnites were busy racking their brains and trying to figure out how to resolve the situation without a significant loss. Maybe they no longer cared about Brado at all, far too busy with their own problems.
Still, Michael's gut was telling him that the first possibility was the more likely one. That something extremely important and dangerous was behind these events.
And that meant…
Yes, I'm staying, Brado thought. It's decided. At least until the situation clears up a little.
He glanced out the window.
The sun was setting over the horizon like a large half-dead goldfish. The streets of the Alien Quarter, which in a small way reminded him of an amusement park, were gradually emptying out, dressing in the veils of shadows, taking on a mysterious and slightly disconcerting look.
For a moment, Michael wanted to be as far away from this planet, this city, and all the dangers awaiting him there as possible, but only for a moment.
Enough, he told himself. You've made your decision. So get to work. Don't drag it out.
He picked up the plastisymbiote, which seemed like ordinary plasticine to the touch. Of course, unlike plasticine, it possessed the inner warmth of a living being. But that was all.
Michael spent some time kneading the plastisymbiote until it took on the shape of a patty. Then, taking a deep breath, Brado closed his eyes and pressed the patty to his face.
The sensation was unusual. Michael was even frightened a little. What if the process didn't go right? Then the plastisymbiote could easily fill his nostrils and mouth, get to his eyes and dissolve them, or even worse. But soon the fear vanished. All that remained were the sensations of warmth and calm. That meant that the symbiote was successfully merging with the skin of his face. It was time for molding.
He mentally pictured a face, an ordinary-looking face of an Abausian, emphasizing the large eyes. From what he knew of the molding process, forming them would be the most difficult part.
Immediately after that he felt the skin on his face boil. No, its temperature had barely changed, maybe only growing warmer the tiniest amount. At the same time, he could feel its entire surface seethe, like the surface of a stormy ocean.
The eyes. If they didn't turn out to be right, he'd have to repeat the molding. And the nostrils. Michael could hold his breath for about four minutes, no more. Approximately two of them had already passed.
He continued. It was difficult to hold the original face he'd begun the molding process with in his mind. He wondered if he ought to change something in it. It looked far too much like that of the receptionist of the hotel he and Haka had been staying in. But he knew the folly of such a path. He'd start by changing one detail, then another. And he'd never be able to stop with the result being something utterly ridiculous.
No, he'd finish what he started. Especially since not much time remained.
Two minutes later, nostrils formed, allowing Michael to breathe. But the process wasn't done yet. It took Brado several more minutes to complete it.
Finally the final strokes were done. The molding was over.
Michael stood there with his eyes closed for several moments, trying to calm his breath. Then he did open them.
Now that his eyes had changed, his viewing angle was different, significantly wider. Michael figured that it would be uncomfortable for a time, but he'd get used to his new eyesight in a few hours.
He noticed a round mirror on the wall that looked like it hadn't been dusted in five years and walked up to it. Picking up a towel that was lying on a chair for some reason, Michael wiped the mirror and tried to examine his reflection.
That was quite an appearance!
He stared at the mirror, trying to evaluate the work, finally deciding that it turned out pretty well. The reflection was that of a genuine native of Abausa. True, he did look a lot like the hotel receptionist, but there was nothing to be done about that anymore.
Michael returned to the table. He put the all-credit card into his pocket. Then he retrieved the beamer and placed it next to the unigun. He had to choose one of them. He had no intention of shooting that night. Before getting to combat, it would be nice to do some reconnaissance, to figure out the alignment of forces arrayed against him. Therefore, there was no reason to carry both deadly weapons with him.
He finally decided on the beamer.
If he did end up having to shoot, his enemies didn't need to know that he had a more powerful and dangerous weapon. At least not yet.
Putting the beamer into his jacket's inner pocket, Michael moved on to creating his new ID card. True, centurions would be looking for a Human, but it was possible they would also be checking the ID of suspicious looking Abausians as well.
It was impossible to say who would look suspicious to them.
Fifteen minutes later, the ID was ready. According to it, Michael's name was Hras Bark, and he lived in one of the regions far from the city.
All right, Marlborough is going off to war, [Footnote 1] Michael thought. And where is it that I'm going first? To take a look at the Ragnites, of course. Dangerous? Sure. But that's the job.
He placed the ID card into a pocket, then carefully put the remaining objects back into the container. He added the tree leaf he'd taken from the hotel to them and returned the container into the alcove. A few minutes later, the final screw was tightened, and the wardrobe was back in its place.
He could leave.
Oh, right, the professor, Michael remembered. I need to restore him to his normal state. God forbid someone decides to pay him a visit and finds the man in a deranged state.
He went to the office.
The professor was sitting on the sofa and looked a lot like a life-sized wax figure. One wondered why someone would need such an idiotic-looking wax figure.
Michael sat in the chair across from him and said quietly, "Listen, professor, you're going to wake up now. But first you need to remember that no Human came by today. You haven't seen any Humans in a long time, Do you remember?"
"Yes, I remember," the professor replied in an even voice.
"The only living being that came to you today was a local you hired as an assistant. To clean the rooms, do the dishes, monitor the instruments. His name is Hras Bark. He came from a village, and you hired him for a very cheap wage. Do you remember?"
"Yes, I remember."
"And another thing. That's purely for you. In reality, Hras Bark is not going to do anything of the sort. Moreover, you're only going to remember that he exists when someone comes to your home or starts asking about him. Like centurions. Do you understand?"
"Yes, that is what I will do."
"Excellent. And now you're going to wake up. The first person you'll see will be the very same Hras Bark."
"Hras Bark," the professor repeated obediently.
"Great.
Michael spoke the code phrase.
The professor awakened. It probably looked like the awakening from hibernation of an insect larva. For a time, he sat there completely motionless. Nothing was happening, but Michael could sense that the professor was no longer a wax figure. He was a living person once more.
His face was smoother, his eyes had intelligence in them. His hand twitched. He lifted it to his face and looked as it as if it was something unusual and interesting.
After that he looked at Michael. As if taking a mental picture. Then he turned away.
A moment later, he rose from the sofa and, humming something absentmindedly, went to his lab. He was utterly ignoring Michael.
As he was supposed to.
He left, forgetting to shut the door, and Brado heard him run to one of the tables in the lab, swearing and muttering, "How could I? I couldn't have forgotten about this preparation, I simply couldn't have. But…"
It seemed that this had been resolved too.
Brado rose from the chair and stroked his face with his hand.
He felt as if he'd just done something vile, shameful.
Well, yeah, he'd just made use of another person as if he was an inanimate object, a robot, a tool, anything but a person.
So what?
As if he'd never done anything like it before. He was Human. It just so happened that Humans liked to use others, to play them like toys, control them, turn them into soulless machines. That was who they were. Humans. Nothing to be done about it.
And yet…
Michael wanted to wash his hands. As if that could help matters. As if that was capable of wiping that idiotic program implanted into the professor five or so years ago. Just because he'd been on his way to Abausa. Just because he'd wanted to study this planet's fauna.
I wonder how the ones that programmed him back on Earth felt? Michael thought. How can they even feel? As Humans doing something important and necessary to protect their planet? Did they have a vested interest in this? Maybe they enjoyed doing it. To turn people into puppets that jerked obediently to the pulls of strings.
He listened to the sounds coming from the lab again.
He heard clinking of glass and the professor's quiet cursing. It seemed he was hurriedly reworking a device of some kind. Or preparing a new drug to replace the one that had gone bad.
No, Brado thought. It simply can't happen. If the people who'd programmed the professor enjoyed doing that, it wouldn't have made any sense. Maybe even the great interstellar bloodbath wouldn't have made any sense either. Because, regardless of the outcome, the Ragnites would've won by forcing us to do what they were already happily doing. Most likely those who actually enjoyed implanting programs into such couriers were simply not permitted to do such work. Probably.
He remembered them, the people working on such problems. Why wouldn't he? How else would he know all those code phrases? Plus he remembered everyone he'd seen at least once.
He suddenly realized that there was a commonality in their behavior. Traits that were present in all of them: those instructing him and teaching him the code phrases and those he'd simply seen in hallways, the cafeteria, and the gym.
They always kept separate and treated other people coldly. Not looking down on them, just coldly from a certain recognition of belonging to a different caste, one that wasn't any better or worse than the others, just different.
Then how do they treat the people they're programming? Michael wondered. Do they pity them, despise them, treating them with the same indifference a scientist showed a lab rat? Maybe all of the above. Or maybe there's something I can't even begin to understand.
He looked out the window.
The sun had already set. The street was covered in gloom. It was time to get started.
Passing through the lab, Brado looked at the professor. He was humming something while calibrating a device that looked like an antique meat grinder. He ignored Michael.
Exactly the way it was supposed to be.
Leaving the professor's home, Michael started walking away. In point of fact, it didn't matter to him where to go. He simply wanted to walk a few blocks before getting a taxi. He also needed some time to figure out where to start.
First things first, he needed to pay a visit to the Ragnites. But not right away. They weren't idiots. They knew perfectly well that their enemy was somewhere in the city. He was armed and ready for anything. They might easily assume that he would come to them.
Then first it would be good to distract them. Make them think that he'd lost his mind from fear and was running around in search of a place to lay low, so they calmed down.
But how?
Michael chuckled.
He knew exactly how. Obviously, by visiting an apartment. One of those he and Haka had been planning on using as a safehouse. There was likely an ambush waiting for him there. It would definitely not be quiet. But raising hell was what he needed at the moment.
To make the Ragnites believe that he was thinking only of his own survival and stopped fearing his visit.
And for that he had to choose a safehouse that was most likely burned.
He had at least a block to walk. That meant there was more than enough time to choose the apartment to visit first.
By the time Michael made his selection, a taxi stopped next to him. Brado rattled off the address.
"Do you have enough money?" the taxi driver asked. Based on his slightly turned-out nostrils, he was from a mountain region.
"I do," Michael said.
"Then get in."
Michael did and closed the door. The taxi started driving. After a few blocks, the driver asked, "You're from the countryside?"
"What makes you say that?" Michael asked in surprise.
"You're behaving as if you are. Or one of those aliens. But since your face doesn't look like that of a crocodile, then you must be a country boy. Came to the city recently. Maybe today, maybe a few days ago. Right?"
"Right," Michael said. "From the countryside. Arrived yesterday."
"Good. No need to sit around in a village. I heard the morals are very strict there. Things are a lot simpler here in the city. Want to score?"
"Huh?"
"Score. Means do drugs."
"Nah," Michael said. "I'd rather wait. It's not for me."
"It's fine, you're going to try it sooner or later," the taxi driver said. "Once you do, you'll like it. By the way, if you want, I can introduce you to a nice sponge."
"A what?"
"A woman, you country bumpkin. You got money?"
"Some," Michael said carefully.
"Cool. No point in going to that sponge without money. But she's worth it, I swear. Such body! Such face! Such… everything. Definitely worth it. So want me to introduce you?"
"Not right now," Brado shook his head. "I've got business to take care of."
"Business is first, of course," the taxi driver agreed. "No wonder that address of yours is in a rich neighborhood. Visiting relatives?"
"Yes, an aunt," Michael said, doing his best not to smile.
"An aunt, eh? Is she a widow?"
"Yeah."
"I see. Should've said so. I wouldn't have bothered wasting my time. Going to that aunt of yours then. Well, you're fine without a sponge for now. Just keep in mind, those aunts from rich neighborhoods like money too."
"No, I mean she's my actual aunt," Michael said. "My mother's sister."
"I see. There's no point trying with you." The taxi driver fell silent. A few minutes later, he started humming something mournful.
Then they arrived. Taking the bill handed by Michael, the taxi driver said, "All right, go to your aunt. Just keep in mind, if you decide to score or meet a sponge, no one is going to set it up better than me. Only the quality score and excellent sponges. The name's Luan. Ask any taxi driver, they'll get in touch with me. But it's not going to be cheap. Quality costs money. Got it?"
"Go it," Michael said. "And what if I turn out to be a centurion?"
"You? A centurion?" Luan burst out laughing. "All right, get out of here. A centurion. Remember. When you want to, I'm easy to find."
"All right."
Michael climbed out of the car, which drove away.
The Star Corps agent looked around.
The neighborhood was indeed rich. Each house stood in the middle of a fenced-in plot of land. The one he needed was a single-story stone cottage. It was also fenced in. Next to the gate was a large rockflower bush covered in white flowers that looked as if they were made of gypsum.
It was no more than a hundred and fifty paces away.
He could still go back to the professor's home.
He could still get a taxi and head for the spaceport. The possibility was still there…
No, the game was on. And Michael had no intention of quitting.
Footnotes
1) "Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre" is a French folk song.