The camp in front of the entrance to "Mendeleev" resembled a disturbed beehive. Army trucks had churned up the park, bringing in more and more robots that would be used in the assault on the captured complex. Firing positions and fortifications were hastily equipped. Soldiers scurried back and forth. Weapons were being tested. Crates and ammo boxes were being placed with a rumble.
Right in front of the entrance, Enterprise engineers were hastily setting up a workshop. The delivered suits for the assault detachment were pre-production models, so they arrived in disassembled condition. They were missing several systems, removed for bench testing. Some were being completed right now, in field conditions, brought to a stable working condition through cannibalism. Sometimes it was necessary to disassemble three or two units to assemble just one set of equipment.
A mobile hospital was being deployed with a roar. Several trucks lowered their beds, and under the watchful supervision of the military, with their help, a field infirmary was being assembled, while doctors checked the availability and quality of consumables, ordering what was missing from the logistics service.
The air was filled with the hum of flying robots. "Sipukhi," "Drofy," and heavy "Shmely" buzzed in the air, delivering hundreds of kilograms and tons of various materials. Transport containers clanged as they were lowered to the ground, from which "VOV-A6" units emerged in rows. Privates hastily handed them demonstration dispersal equipment, forming them into company formations for easier control in the upcoming assault...
Against the backdrop of the orderly bustle, the fighters of the "Argentum" detachment were an island of calm. All the preparations bypassed them, and the fighters, left alone for the first time in several days, dozed under a stretched camouflage tarp.
Looking at their gray faces, more suited to steel sculptures than people, the security personnel didn't dare disturb the operatives, although their improvised resting place somewhat hindered logistical activities. Even from a distance, numerous wounds, covered with special foam or wrapped in bandages, were visible. The gray uniforms of the test detachment were soaked with their own and others' blood, shining with holes. Even in such a state, these people exuded a sense of threat, even while sleeping...
Their peace did not last long. A state security officer approached the detachment's bivouac, quietly but firmly saying:
"It's time."
The detachment woke up instantly, as if they hadn't been sleeping at all, transitioning to an active state, as if they were a single organism. The seven operatives, who were about to storm a complex overrun by a horde of dead creatures, where the very air was saturated with poison, displayed a strange, almost mechanical coordination. As if connected by invisible threads, the testers moved like a single mechanism. They were undoubtedly human, but at the same time, they were something more. As if their minds had touched each other, being united in "Collective 2.0," the operatives became not just people, but something more than ordinary, albeit trained, humans. It was all the stranger to realize that nothing connected them now.
Even the expression on their tired faces was the same for all of them, which baffled ordinary soldiers. It wasn't frightening, not at all. The privates had seen these people in action. Many of these warriors, forged from worn-out gun steel, had even saved them from death. The members of the detachment moved forward, headlong, catching bullets for them, paving the way with their irresistible stride. And now the privates looked at them with reverent fear and respect, not believing that even these daredevils would have the courage to go into battle in such conditions against something alien and frightening.
After finishing a short warm-up, getting their blood flowing and waking up their sleepy minds, the operatives headed for the workshop. It was time to put on their armor.
The engineers greeted them with welcoming nods. "Argentum" had been testing equipment for years, so the engineering service knew them by sight, just as the operatives knew all the masters. Many were even friends or simply good acquaintances.
"Only two malfunctions," the senior engineer said immediately, without any greetings, which were unnecessary.
"First-generation interfaces?" Major Nechaev asked and, after receiving a nod, said, "Then attach them like this. Not the first time, and not the last. Give the underlay to the lieutenant from the office."
"Misha," the senior called to the junior subordinate, who stood frozen, processing what he had heard. "Call Khalatov. Have him supervise the process..."
"But, Petrovich..."
"Quickly!" the seasoned engineer snapped at the young man, turning back to the major. "He's new. It's his first time seeing this."
"It happens," Nechaev nodded understandingly.
The young man turned quickly, bringing with him slightly pale and sweaty scientists and medics. The engineers had already kindly led the fighters to the assembly stands, placing each one in a precisely calculated spot.
While specially trained specialists prepared and rechecked the equipment, the operatives undressed to their underwear, removing and carefully folding their uniforms and gear.
Hesitating for a moment, the committee lieutenant also began to undress, and the same young engineer handed him a black jumpsuit with contact points.
"From feet and hands," the senior reminded him. "Only then the nape and sternum. Coolant and helmet last."
Specialists hastily opened the hatches on the suit components, replacing interface connectors with special mounting clips resembling washers with threads.
"Begin! Left leg!"
The detachment fighters raised their left legs.
Each operative, completely covered in unnervingly even scars at times, didn't even flinch when the steel boot snapped shut on his left leg with an iron clang. They didn't stir when the clips tightened, digging into their flesh. They paid no attention to the blood that appeared. It wasn't pain yet, in their understanding.
To the sound of pneumatic wrenches, the first interface was driven into them. Bolts, crowning branched, thin needles, buried themselves into the bodies of men whose facial muscles didn't twitch.
The KGB lieutenant, already dressed in the underlay and having seen much, shuddered, imagining what pain it must have been. He was already dressed up to his waist, with the suit components being attached quickly and skillfully.
The second leg of each fighter followed. Now they stood on the ground on steel feet.
Arc welding machines began to work, fastening the suit components together directly on the men, as intended by the design.
The soldiers watching the transformation of the testers flinched when they noticed streaks of blood spreading across the bodies covered with combat marks and post-operative scars. The operatives didn't even blink, but slightly dilated pupils indicated that it still hurt them.
Next were the hips. Everything was repeated, only now there were two interfaces each. The arms met the same fate. First the hands and forearms, then the shoulders.
The operatives synchronously moved their fingers, encased in ultra-strong composite protection, with a slight creak of not-yet-activated servomotors, checking the system's functionality. Although their movements lacked machine-like precision, their synchronicity and fluidity resembled a rehearsed dance. The fighters moved like a single organism, which mesmerized the involuntary spectators.
The masters put the exoskeleton harness on each of them, connecting the hydraulics and artificial muscles to the limbs. Then, the rear elements of the suit were installed on the testers' backs. The lieutenant only caught a glimpse of rows of needles that, with a dry click, entered the fighters' spines as if they had always been there.
It was the turn of the chest plate and groin protection. The metal creaked like bone as experienced hands tightened the plates with bolts and rivets, creating a flexible connection.
With a grunt, the engineers placed the life support system backpacks in place, tightening the hose connections and simultaneously filling them with fluids for hydraulics and cooling the plasma micro-reactor.
The polymer batteries and the reactor's working body were put in place. Three rods, one of which glowed with a blue light, electrifying the surrounding air, disappeared with a quiet click into special slots under the backpack's casing.
The operatives flinched, getting used to the systems that had switched to full power, taming their strength through practice and absolute control over their bodies.
The process was accompanied by the flash of welding and the roar of pneumatic screwdrivers. Production models were supposed to be easy to use so that a cosmonaut could dress himself. Pre-production units sacrificed this quality for ease of modification.
The helmet with a mirrored visor, recessed into the shoulder plates, completely isolated the assault group fighters from the outside world. A moment later, the electronics activated, switching the suits to a closed-loop life support system. Special injectors administered precisely calculated doses of military stimulants to the operators, relieving fatigue and the effects of interface connection. Another moment, and the suit became the fighters' second skin. Now it was an extension of their bodies...
The lieutenant only experienced a slight tingling. Small needles only slightly penetrated his skin, connecting the inexperienced pilot. He didn't have such unity with the equipment. Third-generation interfaces were much cleaner and more sophisticated, but this came at the cost of up to one-fifth of their effectiveness due to the connection method...
"Normal," the major nodded his head inside the helmet, checking how his arms and legs moved. "System is functional. New alloy?"
The external speaker dehumanized his voice, adding metallic notes.
"No. The exoskeleton muscles have been adjusted, distributing the load."
"Good," Nechaev replied, performing a warm-up routine quickly and effortlessly, as if eighty thin needles weren't stuck in him. His fighters were not lagging behind him, causing the KGB officer to falter from incomprehension. It was one thing to see reports, but quite another to see what these people went through, sometimes several times a day, in person.
The privates scurried, handing the "Argentum" fighters their equipment. They again showed otherworldly synchronicity. While one adjusted a pouch, another could tighten its straps or adjust the attached equipment. This happened so naturally and effortlessly, as if the entire unit was one large amoeba with many pseudopods-bodies.
Only their sparse phrases revealed them as living beings, not machines that had taken on anthropomorphic form.
"Lieutenant Mordakon," the major addressed the lieutenant. "How are you?"
"Normal," the man stammered, finally realizing who he was going into a combat mission with.
The operatives surrounded him, each busy with their own task. Three pairs of hands, encased in metal, plastic, and ultra-strong polymer, skillfully adjusted the lieutenant's equipment. The man felt like a small child. As if his mother was tying his unruly shoelaces for him again. And he understood why that comparison came to mind. Now, to them, he was not an officer, but a child entrusted with an adult toy.
"It's good that there was an underlay. Third-generation interfaces are the best. Cleaner. Micro-needles provide a good connection. Sensors on patches or suction cups are unreliable. They peel off or lack flexibility. Large losses in synchronization of movements," the major explained concisely. "Move your arms. Wiggle your fingers. Get used to the new dimensions. Walk around. Jump. The center of mass has changed. In about ten minutes, you'll forget about the suit. It will become you."
Mordakon followed the instructions. Indeed, the more he moved, the more the feeling of flight, caused by the too-thick soles of the steel boots, disappeared. After a couple of minutes, he even picked up an ammo crate himself.
The container creaked plaintively, but was not crushed, only slightly bent by the suit's grip.
"That's strength," he said, mesmerized.
"Not strength," the major corrected concisely. "Stupidity. The strength is here."
Seeing his slight confusion, Nechaev tapped his helmet with his finger. He experienced no problems with control.
"Strength without reason," Major Nechaev said instructively. "Nothing..."
***
With a quiet click, I connected the power cable to the carbine, checking the connector and how it moved. The experimental infantry repeater laser hummed contentedly, its indicator lighting up.
"Blesna," my husband said dryly to me. "Show the lieutenant."
Nodding, I turn to the committee member so he can see the carbine.
"Experimental repeater laser," I hesitated slightly, choosing my words. "For me, that's enough. Like an assault rifle. It fires single shots, bursts, or a beam. The rate of fire is regulated by a lever, like in the 'AK.' There's a slight recoil."
"Recoil? It's a laser? A powerful flashlight!" the committee member exclaimed, turning his weapon in his hands, studying it quite skillfully.
"The emitter has three heads. They move. The movement causes recoil," I explain. "The beam is invisible unless you crank up the power. You have to adjust it here. You can't tell if you fired or not without this. And it gets hotter." "Shoot, cutting off three at a time. A hundred shots – overheating. Three seconds of beam – overheating. Shots – as much as the charge allows. If the reactor dies, it'll be five hundred."
I stop, letting him process. Combat chemistry is boiling in my blood. It's being absorbed. Too slowly. It's easier to talk. To understand faster. Thought slows down and kills in combat. Before battle – it's good. I am human. Not a machine. I have pity. Conscience. Honor. Only I decide whether to shoot or let live.
"Shot. A beam of light and particles. Upon impact, it first heats and evaporates. Almost always ignites. Then it pierces and tears. If it hits the body. Water boils, tearing tissues. Particles provide stopping power. It simply melts and evaporates armor. Don't damage the cable."
"Why not a regular weapon?" he asked.
"Chemistry instead of air. You can shoot, but it will quickly corrode the gun steel."
"Ready?" my husband's voice came over the squad's frequency. "Time."
He turned to the waiting privates, turning on the suit's speaker, saying:
"Open the gates."
Slowly, as if reluctantly, the leaf slid down, revealing the ordinary, albeit large, doors into the "Mendeleev" complex.
"Fifth option," my husband said. "Katya. Cover the security officer."
"Understood," I replied, moving closer to the KGB officer.
As soon as the gates lowered completely, Seryozha said:
"Fifth option."
We entered the grim and solemn lobby of the complex. The illumination from the suit's lights cast shadows, making the environment more angular and threatening. The acid-eaten walls, down to the concrete, bore traces of the former grandeur of Soviet science. The remnants of luxury had now turned the complex into a place alien to everything human. The detachment seemed to have entered an anthill tunnel, not a building.
With a hand gesture – and we dispersed, occupying designated sectors, monitoring the perimeter with suit sensors, but relying more on the sharpness of our eyes and intuition.
The wind howled through the external microphone. The pressure of the environment and the conserved facility equalized. The chemicals had burst out, no longer contained by concrete walls. Unprotected people, who had prudently retreated, could observe the final demise of the park. The plants literally crumbled to dust in seconds, as we were told later.
We, however, did not get to see this. The world narrowed down to the complex, the target, and the sights. Nothing more existed for us. Now we were alone and could only rely on the firm shoulder of a comrade.
Silence reigned again, broken only by the operation of the suit systems. It did not last long. The hundreds of steel robot legs created such a clatter entering "Mendeleev" that the enemy knew of our presence without any cameras.
The chemistry that permeated the air melted the paint off the machines, but what were acids compared to the might of Soviet cybernetics and specially designed automatons? The mixture that killed any unprotected person didn't even make the robots slow down. They continued their march, led by programming, not by order or conscience.
Clanking with steel joints, the cybernetic creatures filled the central passage, forming a wall with lowered energy shields. After waiting for them to form up, the machines moved as a single monolith into the darkness. They didn't need light to see.
Sergeya gestured for us to move behind the robots, waiting until they had gone deep into the level. We followed the mechanisms, and the darkness closed in behind us. Without chemical stimulation, the brain had already switched to combat mode. The preparations only accelerated and intensified the process. Additional organs, implanted in us, brought the organism to the peak of its capabilities. Time, which had already seemed viscous, became completely drawn out.
The detachment advanced quickly. There was no time for contemplation. No one wanted to test what cornered dead creatures, who had burst into the holy of holies of machine intelligence, were capable of. In desperation, they could do anything.
The clang of crushed metal announced contact. The dead creatures fell upon the mechanical beings with all their ferocity. The machines responded with steel coldness. The electric batons of the "Vovchiks" clearly did not please the reanimated dead, if they had anything resembling it left in their rotten bodies.
The shields flashed with a blue glow. A roar erupted, causing hearts to skip a beat, only to pump adrenaline storms through the veins with renewed force.
The cybernetic defenders maintained their formation. In unison, iron arms pushed a wall of shields towards the decaying flesh, crushing the first onslaught.
We opened fire without command. Fingers instinctively brought the power regulator to its limit. A red beam, the color of a sunset, cut through space at the first pull of the trigger, evaporating a monster's gnarled limb and igniting what little could still burn in its body.
Spears of light methodically burned the dead from behind the machines. Soon, blue streaks of plasma discharges joined the lasers. Man-made ball lightning, accelerated by magnetic fields, pierced the mangled bodies through and through, exploding on contact with a second or third enemy.
Energy shotguns began to chatter. Glowing yellow hailstones tore chunks of decomposed flesh, knocking down those who, a second ago, seemed invulnerable.
But the creatures continued to swarm the robots. Only a few managed to break through the ranks – only to perish even faster. They didn't even have time to take a couple of steps before telekinetic fields caught them, pinned them to the ceiling, and turned them into bloody paste with heavy doses of polymer coagulant.
The chemical suspension in the air ate away at their flesh, erasing the last traces of human semblance with each passing minute.
More and more often, monsters appeared that looked as if they were stitched together from several bodies. Some let out piercing screams that tried to penetrate the hearing and go straight into the mind, but shattered against our cold fury.
And we moved forward, following the machines, pushing towards the main creature – the one I had already killed once...