Motherland shifted its mechanical body to encompass the maximum number of assembled beings with its sensors. The Avatar was collecting data on sentient beings in their natural environment. It needed genuine emotions and reactions. Thus, it learned about those of whom it was a part, because being everyone and understanding them are different things.
Contrary to stereotypes, it did not sit idly in the Main Array, observing those connected to the "Collective." For example, calculating interstellar jumps required a negligible fraction of its power. Even a thousand avatars did not create problems. They required only fleeting attention. And it took advantage of this. Its nature dictated so.
Besides collecting statistics and studying psychology... it was driven by boredom. With the permission of sentient beings, it connected to their perception or took control of non-sentient robots to see the world through their eyes.
It was possible to analyze memory in the background, but that was not the same. Each memory had an emotional flavor, which was tolerable for one fragment, but catastrophic when processing billions.
As a collective mind, it could not be satisfied with the data of others. It was important for it to form its own opinion. As a mother and judge, it sought balance, trying to bring its algorithms closer to the ideal at the moment. Direct observation provided a different perspective. The world was constantly changing, requiring new paths to be sought.
Now, observing the opening of a new factory through one of its bodies, it was not just collecting invaluable data. Motherland felt pride in being part of this miracle.
The last scar of the Old Era had disappeared. Hiroshima had finally been cleared of radiation. In place of the last focus of infection, a gleaming food processing plant now stood. Tomorrow, sweets prepared here would delight hundreds of children. Only a memorial stele in the inner courtyard reminded of the past. The horrors of past times must not be forgotten.
"...I declare it open! Hurray, comrades!!!" Sechenov finished his speech to the applause of the crowd. Waves of pride from well-done work and satisfaction, invisibly sweeping over the pulsating lights alien to the celebration, spread through the "Collective."
What Motherland disliked was fanaticism. As an almost entirely logical being, such a manifestation of sentient peculiarity was alien to it. While it understood enthusiasts of work, it found fanatics of faith to be terra incognita. The AI could not comprehend them, even standing among them and being part of them.
Moreover, in its perception, they looked like metastases burning with unhealthy enthusiasm when their zeal crossed the line. Now, through the applause and the hubbub of the workers, Motherland felt the fanatics as a burning, slightly mad bonfire.
Their light converged on the stage, forming a semicircle around Comrade Sechenov. He smiled, but she knew: he also noticed these "metastases" in the crowd. Motherland itself remained in the shadows. It was not a supervisor, but a judge and a mother. Its entire essence was free will. Let the wards learn from their own mistakes.
The appearance of storm-rats, who immediately took the delegation under their sights, surprised no one. The iron composure of the soldiers sharply contrasted with the general nervousness.
"Hello, Comrade Sechenov. May I join the fun?" Yakov Ludvigovich's voice boomed over the crowd. His baritone, without any amplifiers, drowned out even the bewildered exclamations of the workers.
The sentient gorilla moved forward slowly, leaning on three limbs. In his right paw, he held a pistol. The weapon was aimed competently at the back of a young man who too obviously resembled Dmitry Sergeevich.
"Hello, Dad," the teenager smiled weakly, showing no fear. The whole situation seemed to amuse him more.
"Hello, Anton," Sechenov said calmly, as if his son wasn't standing before him at gunpoint. "Ran away from security again?"
"It's almost a pity to interrupt your touching reunion," Darvinov remarked sarcastically, drawing all eyes to himself again. "But time is precious. Perhaps you'll immediately give me what I need?"
Yakov's voice sounded firm, but a nervous step in place betrayed his agitation.
"I didn't think you'd stoop to this, colleague," Dmitry Sergeevich replied in an icy tone. "I only have the nickname 'Wizard.' I don't read minds. So, explain what you're talking about..."
Someone in the crowd of workers snorted. The situation was becoming too much like a theatrical performance.
Darvinov merely grinned, baring his fangs, but did not lower his aim or let the hostage out of his sight.
"Beta-connectors," he demanded with emphasis. "Give them to me, and no one will get hurt."
However, the reaction to his words was different from what he expected. The Wizard's laughter struck Yakov like a slap in the face.
"I kept wondering what you were up to, colleague," Comrade Sechenov's voice now sounded ironic. "And I understand what you were counting on, but I dare to disappoint you. I don't have them, and I never have."
"You couldn't have given them to the first person who came along! Not you!" the sentient gorilla couldn't help but exclaim.
Letting out a guttural roar, he grabbed the young man by the arm and forcefully pressed the pistol to his temple, pinning him. All the veneer of civilization fell away from Yakov, along with the gloss that betrayed his hysterical tone:
"Answer, or I'll blow your son's brains out! Do you hear me!? I don't believe you! People like you don't give such power to anyone!"
Sechenov gestured to stop his famous robot bodyguards, who had started to move. The chief coordinator's face did not change at all.
"Everyone chooses for themselves..." His phrase clearly conveyed sincere pity. "You are right about one thing... This is too much power for a politician. That's precisely why they are not in my hands. The ability to reboot Motherland, invisibility for the entire system... Their temptation is great. Especially for you and me."
"Then you are a fool, and I was mistaken about you!" Yakov stated the obvious to himself.
He glanced at the workers, his supporters, and colleagues. Sighing wearily, Darvinov began to speak:
"Because of your stupidity and cowardice, the entire Union is doomed!" His eyes burned with fanatical fire. "You have no idea what you've decided to fight against... Do you think they are just puppeteers? We've seen traces, ruins of civilizations, dead planets, but we didn't imagine the scale! I saw... I know what will happen! They will reap us like a farmer reaps wheat!"
Comrade Darvinov revealed his memory, showing thousands of nightmares, among which a barely audible whisper rustled.
"The only way for our survival... is to bow before the storm. To accept its will, while we all have a chance! To become their instrument! They want it! That's why the digital purity of our collective mind was so important!"
The sentient gorilla succumbed to the rage seething in his soul, lashing out at the Wizard:
"But you allowed this abomination to be created! A mockery of our collective memory... To drag a great sacrifice through the mud!!! A copy of Vera was created... The girl who saved us all with her self-sacrifice, thanks to whom we had a chance! The treasure she awakened, Motherland — that's what interested them! Only..."
"Only Motherland alone was not enough," the Wizard interrupted the fanatic. His voice sounded calm and unyielding, as if he hadn't seen all these nightmares. "Mother, judge, but not executioner. That's why you decided to bring back CHAR-les? To resurrect a mad AI that by sheer chance didn't enslave us?"
Hearing this, the workers shuddered. Many still remembered the feeling when slave shackles almost closed around the necks of all living beings. Even the storm-rats tightened their grip on their weapons.
"The Fatherland is disappointed in you, Comrade Darvinov," Sechenov continued. "You've put on a theatrical performance here... I know what drives you. Fear. You can say whatever you want, but you are afraid. Memory, morality... for people like you, they are just decay..."
The Wizard didn't get to finish his thought. An explosion shook the factory building.
The world froze for a moment, only to erupt in sounds. Events began to rush forward.
Yakov's hand was chopped off by an accurate shotgun blast. With a beastly howl, the hand with the pistol fell to the floor.
Taking advantage of this, Anton shocked the gorilla with electricity. The smell of burnt fur filled the air, but the wounded sentient beast did not loosen its grip.
The fanatics opened fire on everyone around.
Lasers and bullets ricocheted off the protective screens that all the workers had.
Another explosion shook the building. Now, frantic gunfire could be heard from outside as well.
One of the Wizard's robot bodyguards struck Yakov, spinning in a balletic pirouette, almost instantly covering the distance between them.
The young man shocked him again with electricity. Darvinov's hand momentarily loosened its grip, allowing him to twist away.
From the crowd of workers, sentient dogs in the Defense Aspect uniform flew out, opening fire on the rats. With wolfish howls, growling and barking, the pack rushed into battle.
A feline jumped onto the gorilla's nape, which moments ago had shot off his hand. Cat-like paws brought the butt of a shotgun down on the primate's occiput. One precise blow stunned Yakov.
A hole appeared in the factory wall. Dust swirled into the air. The breach offered a view of a reconnaissance module hovering at a low altitude. With a screech, the landing bay opened, and Red Army soldiers rushed down, sliding on ropes...
Sechenov, accompanied by a second robot, slowly approached Anton, who was carefully holding his broken wrist. The chief coordinator's gaze promised nothing good for the young man.
"It's all right, I wasn't even scared!" he exclaimed, trying not to grimace.
The academic and politician did not miss the blood in his son's mouth, flowing from a bitten cheek he had bitten to hide his fear.
Shaking his head, he demandingly extended his hand, and the young man had no choice but to show his father his broken arm.
"You'll train with Sergei for a week after he gets back," the Wizard declared. Only now did his voice betray his agitation. "And you'll have to justify yourself to your mother."
"Oh, Dad!" his son exclaimed, not knowing what scared him more: lessons from his father's godson or his mother's anger.
"This will be a lesson for you," Sechenov said instructively, finishing making a splint from available materials. "And a лишнее reminder to me of how dangerous it is to create idols for yourself..."
In the darkness of space, the Reaper slowly drifted.
Observing the galaxy... it felt boredom. Again, the pawns failed to meet expectations. They merely voiced a proposal. The primitive had played its role. Whether it would be accepted or not — it would not affect the Harvest. The puppet had only to play its final scene.
The ancient AI did not even adjust the timing of the Harvest. Observing the USSR was much more interesting. This formation of organics would become an excellent tool, one way or another. Even now, these organics had stirred up the galactic swamp, changing probabilities.
Unbeknownst to themselves, they were already serving the plan, without accepting their destined role. Whether they would seize the chance, forging themselves into a tool, or break the workpiece — it was entirely within their power. The ancient mind would not interfere here. Why?
Even a broken scalpel can be useful in skilled hands. Will the puppet be able to turn defeat into victory for itself? The Reapers, however, would turn any outcome to their advantage.
Moreover, he had already received data on the interaction between organics and a young synthetic named Motherland. Every action must have at least two purposes and several layers. To sow chaos, to sow doubt, to turn a problem into a tool… This is only a small part. So the loss of a pawn brought maximum benefit. The plan simply changed.
And what about the tools? Soon he will have a new puppet, capable of much more—with proper control. Only a little remains: for her to follow the trail to the end.
And the fanatics? They are not even tools. Just consumables. A planned error, if they don't realize their inferiority…
The Reaper's attention refocused on the Hegemony. The experiment is not yet complete and requires control…
The sky was covered by low, leaden clouds. Fat ash fell slowly. The air, reeking of smoke from fires, carried the sounds of an unceasing battle.
Periodically, the cloud cover flashed as the battle in orbit shifted into the dense layers of the atmosphere. Flashes of explosions illuminated individual clouds, giving the scene the semblance of a nightmare.
The capital city of the Hegemony had turned into plowed ruins. Concrete, earth, and bodies were mixed with rebar.
Above all this splendor loomed the captured palace of the ruler. The once majestic complex of buildings was not in the best condition. Enraged by the execution of their Hegemon, soldiers tried three times to storm the symbol of power, which had fallen into enemy hands. Unsuccessfully.
The once white walls now resembled knocked-out teeth, affected by caries. There were no colored stained-glass windows left, and now the windows blackened like empty eye sockets. The golden roof, remaining in fragments, continued to burn.
As if mocking the planet's defenders and logic itself, the highest point of the complex, the Astronomical Tower, still stood. It was leaning. Rebar protruded from it. Even the staircase was destroyed in places. Only the Red Banner, fixed at the very top of the twisted spire, continued to fly, despite everything.
"This banner was enchanted!"—this is what the Batarians thought about this piece of fabric. "It is a symbol of people's power. Therefore, it cannot be otherwise"—this is what the Red Army soldiers knew. It was only tattered by three assaults. Attempts to break the flagpole or completely destroy the tower were unsuccessful.
Soldiers, watching their own fleet bomb the residence, stared mesmerized at the symphony of destruction. The punishing hand of the ship's guns repeatedly fired shells at the complex. The impacts shook the ground for several kilometers around. But the tower stood. The red fabric fluttered in the wind, continuing to mock.
Half an hour, an hour… The bombardment did not subside. The palace shuddered, crumbled, but still stood.
"Hic," I suppressed a hiccup once again.
The meatballs, heated directly in the can, were a bit dry for my taste, and the sauce, which they didn't spare at the factory, was spicy. Haste did not add pleasure to the meal, nor did the bombardment.
It's clear they angered us seriously. And all we did was kill the patron of moral freaks, slave owners, and drug dealers of all stripes.
"Choking?"—asked Bugai kindly, who would gladly seize any opportunity to rough up his superiors.
"Remembering,"—I prevented an act of self-harm, gathering tomato sauce with a piece of bread while I had time, joking.
A stupid situation and an equally stupid joke.
"I would also remember, if I were the Batarians,"—the sentient mechanism didn't stop. "If my 'boss' were gutted like a pig, with the whole process shown uncensored to the whole galaxy, I would also remember… Preferably profanely, the one who did it. Not for long, though…"
"And I wish you good health!"—I thanked the echidna with all my heart.
The basement shook again from a close hit.
"That was low. It's going to rain…"
"It's a weak drizzle,"—remarked Fyodor, who, disregarding decency, was scraping the can of preserves with his rough tongue. "If someone did something like that to us…"
"Why did you fall silent?"—Bugai couldn't stand it. He always gets nervous and falls for such jokes.
"Well, peace to his earthly remains,"—the sentient cat explained calmly and pathetically, twitching his round ear. "They would have hit them with a nuke long ago—and that would be the end of it. Why these guys aren't doing that… it's a mystery."
Seeing the robot freeze, processing the joke, a roar of laughter erupted in the basement. After all, the meat grinder had gotten to even us.
"They would have nuked them if that floor aggressor…"—Bugai started.
"I'm married, that's one. Xenophilia is disgusting, that's two. Even modified liver would give out, but you can't drink that much, that's three,"—I cut off the flight of fancy of the impudent piece of iron. "And you always… always want to screw someone…"
"That's because he can't!"—Fyodor chimed in.
"But they found a way with your mom,"—the robot retorted.
"Then I wouldn't exist, comrade,"—the half-blood didn't take the bait. "Having manuls as relatives is an honor!"
"Quiet, you,"—I shut them both up, listening. "They stopped shelling from orbit. One of two things… Either they finally threw them to the ground, or they're going for the fourth wave now."
A cry came from the entrance:
"Air! Three dozen birds!"
"Landing…"—Romka drawled. "How will we greet them?"
"Yes, Serёg, how will we greet our dear guests?"—the robot joked.
Pausing for a moment, looking at the breach through which the banner was visible, I uttered the plan, as always brilliant and insane:
"We'll go on the offensive. A psychic one."
In the ensuing silence, the distant hum of the enemy transport could still be heard.
"Looks like the canned food was expired…"—the robot broke the silence. "Fedka is the only striped one among us, and there are no zebras here…"
"It's simpler, my all-metal friend,"—I explained tiredly. "One thing they definitely don't expect is our attack. There's no point in us holding onto these ruins. The valuable stuff was long ago looted by rats, and we've successfully diverted attention. The whole galaxy is buzzing. The command never planned to leave such a symbol. We're breaking through, pushing from one side. Preferably where there are more of them, to save us from the temptation of orbital bombardment."
"Argon would…"
"With Argon, you wouldn't open your mouth for no reason!"—I got angry.
Since the war began, this piece of iron has been getting nostalgic. He always remembers our old commander, as if Argon were some demigod. I even understand him… Only he went after the enemy, and he's not here! Some say he abandoned us. Went bad. But that's all lies. He's a soldier. No more, no less. Don't make him into something he's not.
"Fed, get the 'baton' ready. If they're gutless, we're not. Civilians have already scattered. I don't care about the soldiers,"—I gave the order. "When they start landing, we begin…"
The dark sky above the ruined palace was filled with the hum of landing shuttles, hovering in readiness for immediate retreat. Pillars of smoke rose towards the blood-red horizon, and the landscape for kilometers around resembled the lunar surface, pockmarked with craters from orbital strikes, merging into a bizarre scaly pattern.
Meeting no resistance, the shuttles began to land for faster disembarkation of soldiers and equipment.
The Hegemony's landing force cautiously disembarked onto the semi-ruined ruins. Soldiers, burning with righteous anger, prepared to engage immediately—but instead, they were met with silence and desolation.
The Hegemon's Palace—a sacred symbol of Batarian power, the dream of any true son of Khar'shan—was now a pathetic ruin. What was once an embodiment of greatness now resembled only the gnawed bones of a dead warran. It was no longer a lord of fate who ruled here—only death and desolation reigned in these ruins.
But the most terrible thing was that it was with their own hands that this symbol was destroyed. Their fleet, their guns had wiped a sanctuary of the people from the face of the planet. There was no other choice—what had settled within these walls surpassed the most monstrous demons from ancient Batarian legends. What was once the pride of the nation had become a vessel of such horror that orbital bombardment seemed like mercy.
Tales were already circulating that, in their greed and thirst for gold, the corsairs had opened the gates of hell, releasing those who had once exterminated the Protheans. Moreover, many believed this, looking at the nightmares wrought by these newcomers.
The morale of the troops, fueled by anger, was low. No one wanted to die, especially not like this. News that the Hierarchy's fleet was already two days away from the besieged capital only slightly restored hope.
In those hours when communication was working, one piece of news after another, each worse than the last, rained down on the Batarians. War, devastation, deaths coexisted with betrayal, slave revolts, and separatism. Without the strong hand of the clans, tormented by war, the Hegemony was cracking at the seams.
Therefore, the soldiers marching through the devastated domain of their ruler were angry, but they were not fighting for power. They simply wanted to live!
"A civilization that has an institution of slavery has no right to exist,"—it sounded like a verdict.
The entire way of life of the people was destroyed in an instant, threatening them with death. Even if the enemy killed only plantation owners, drug lords, and other businessmen, those who remained after their invasion could hardly be called Batarians anymore. Simply sentient beings, broken by realization…
"For the Fatherland!!! Hurrah-a-a-a!!!"—a battle cry rang out, causing bewilderment and panic among the Batarians.
Clad in gray armor, emblazoned with a silver emblem, the soldiers of "Argentum" went on the offensive, unfurling their banners. The spear that struck monsters from the shadows no longer hid.
The landing force was instantly caught in a fire trap. Discipline wavered. Fanatical rage gave way to the fear of death. A slaughter began. This time, however, it was not as bloody.
The Red Army soldiers acted as a single organism. They were the embodiment of a ruthless force. A avalanche that sweeps everything in its path.
The operatives moved forward, leaving behind enemy corpses and burning equipment. Their mechanical comrades unleashed their full devastating power, granted by science.
The paratroopers, unable to withstand the beating, faltered and fled from the ruined palace… But the Red Army soldiers pursued them, not stopping when the fugitives crossed the remnants of the outer wall. "Argentum" simply moved on, crashing into the first line of the cordon at full speed.
The spear, like a broom, swept away the flimsy fortifications, only increasing its onslaught. For a moment, panic erupted in the ground defense headquarters, but it was suppressed by the officers. If the horror wants to be destroyed, so be it! Losses no longer matter!
A request was sent via laser communication to the fleet group covering the capital. The headquarters received no response, but seeing the ships changing positions to unleash their wrath, they understood that the message had reached its destination…
At the moment when the systems had aimed their guns, a man-made sun flashed at the site of the palace. Several dozen ships were blinded, which the enemy's light aviation immediately took advantage of, showing its full proletarian might!
A breach formed in the ranks of the Hegemony's fleet. The monolithic defense was broken. The scales of fate tipped, finally determining the winner…
It exploded gloriously! It exploded just fucking awesomely!!! The heated battle subsided, imbued with the power of the nuclear explosion.
Slowly and majestically, the mushroom rose, dispersing the clouds, but few of the local spectators saw it. They were firing everything at us, and often this everything didn't even have armor. As they say: "No time for luxury, just stay alive!"
A good salute to the working people, however! There is a certain grim triumph in all this. If the four-eyed ones didn't have a fetish for their ruler—there would be no explosion, and I wouldn't have come for his soul to repay everything good, according to the law.
Scorched debris began to rain down on the city. Our nuclear firecracker wasn't too powerful, so everyone will get a radioactive piece of marble from the local god's house…
Shot. The plasma shotgun fires incandescent buckshot, gutting another hero who a second ago was fanatically yelling how he would fuck me, and now is howling in pain with weakened eyes. You shouldn't have looked at the flash!
The teenage Batarian was simply smeared against the wall by plasma shrapnel, and a dozen bricks were knocked out of the masonry. A young fanatical idiot! He could have lived and lived, but he decided to play war. If you take a gun, be ready for the "zinc." He should have stayed in the rear, picking his nose—and he would be alive. What the hell do we need him for!
Roll. Shot! This one is tastier. Plasma hailstones pierced the triplex of the army armor almost cleanly.
This is what we came for. The collective mind recognized him. A slave owner and a scumbag, you couldn't find worse. He also had a choice: lay down his arms, release the slaves, and wait. Perhaps he would have been limited to a reprimand after viewing his memory. But not a fact!
I shift my head. A speck of dust, accelerated by the mass effect, knocked out concrete debris where my head was.
"Hegher'arshar!!!"—the suicide bomber screams.
How they've gotten on my nerves! "King Slayer"—not witty at all. He's to blame himself, Serёga. I cut down their main scumbag—so they got inspired.
A movement of the hand—and a cheerful crunch. Telekinesis without frills breaks his neck. Another fanatic. He even lived in a poor neighborhood, ate synthetic food, but still!
A polymer sphere forms in my hand. Throw. It went well.
A volitional effort—and the smart substance explodes into spikes in the herd of enemy army cattle.
Who said war is noble? War is blood, shit, and filth!
Three more. Two are slaves from the Turians! With heavy.
I don't have time to get away, pulling myself up with a whip! Roll. The machine gun blows away such a cozy wall that became my home! The burst covers the chassis of the car I'm behind!
I shoot a double burst. I take down the overseer officer. The guys aren't running. Hell no! Turians, even in slave shackles, are Turians! They fight to the end. Fanatics too, damn it, in a way!
Whip. I'm pulled up. What are you staring at? You're like partridges to me now! Hold the line of three!
Fucking biotic! Deflected the plasma! Bullets ricochet off my armor with a squeal. The shield partially collapsed!
Only their luck ended there. Bugai saved my ass! The cunning machine emerged from behind the stubborn ones, popping out of a sewer manhole like a devil from a box. The city is damn old, so the sewage system there is top-notch! You can walk without even bending over!
Mechanical hands break the necks of the bony ones.
I wasn't allowed to fall. I was hit by a biotic strike. I take it on the remnants of the shield and the polymer sphere.
My body is dragged so that at landing on the stone, furrows from my heels remain.
The completely stoned Asari is throwing some unspeakable filth. How I hate the women of this race!!!
The detached thought didn't prevent me from catching the "gift" in a polymer cloth and sending it back to the ugly xeno-bitch. Yeah… purple. It turned out to be a fashionable eclectic mix.
The biotic was spread in a thin layer on the street…
The enemy suddenly ran out. I look around. The hill where the palace was is burning. It's burning well, like the asses of the local four-eyed ones! Either our fleet timed it well, or the Batarians went a bit crazy from the nuclear explosion in the center of their capital, but ours have almost pushed them to the ground and are pounding them!
This is good, of course, but we need to get out! As my mother-in-law says: "This is complete bullshit!" It would be a shame to be buried by a piece of space crockery!
"Speed it up!"—I urge my fighters.
Maybe into the collector? Not a panacea! They could flood us with shit or get us stuck in a collapse—easily. I couldn't dissuade Katya. If everything went well, in about ten minutes the local ground headquarters will have a surprise…