Sergeant Underman woke Kier up early in the morning. The henchman wore his official brown uniform and looked fresh and cheerful. Unlike his bodyguard, the young vor had slept badly. Kier didn’t like waking up early, and now he was feeling completely broken. His head was aching, his hands were shaking, and he was as thirsty as the devil.
“This will help you, my lord,” Underman said maternally. He held a small silver bucket in his hands, a bellied champagne bottle sticking up from it.
Kier unstuck his eyes with an effort and raised to one elbow, mumbling some gibberish. The bodyguard caught his thought and opened the bottle. The bottle expelled the cork into the air with a pop and the youth hungrily pressed his lips to the foamy drink.
Champagne in the morning is drunk only by aristocrats and degenerates, thought Kier, remembering a phrase he’d heard somewhere.
“I’m Dr. Finishoff,” said a cheerful voice. A thin, elderly man in a white robe with a long, hooked nose stood in the doorway to Kier’s room. Without waiting for reply, he came in and added, “The senior doctor of Count Vorsmith.”
With annoyance, Kier pried himself away from the bottle and stared at the intruder. Dr. Finishoff gave him a critical look and stated, with his finger raised, “Excessive consumption of alcohol is harmful for your health, my lord!”
“What do you want?” Kier asked coldly. After several sips of champagne, he felt much better.
The man in white enthusiastically rubbed his hands.
“I am here on behalf of the count, your father, my lord. I must examine you for serviceability in the Imperial service. Here, take this.” He held out a small plastic container with a red cap. “You need to pee in here, my lord. Now!”
Kier groaned and tried to get up. He managed to do it on the second try.
“Be careful, my lord!” cautioned the family doctor of the Vorsmiths, full of care. “There are shards on the floor!”
“Put on your boots, my lord!” joined Underman, who was not at the least surprised by the bottle Kier had broken. “I will give immediate orders to have it cleaned up.”
The youth had a quick thought of walking barefoot on the shards to avoid joining the army, but he subdued it. Judging by the count’s behavior, even the absence of arms and legs wouldn’t save Kier from the Imperial service.
And my feet would hurt! thought Vorsmith-junior, putting on his heavy boots.
Finishoff didn’t give his noble patient a chance to have breakfast and declared that the examination must be conducted on an empty stomach. The doctor led yawning Kier and Underman through the deserted labyrinth on the first floor; eventually stopping in front of a massive iron door. It was painted white and adorned only with the simple engraving: Dr. Finishoff. Inside was a fairly large, windowless room filled with all kinds of medical equipment. The doctor frowned and fiddled with his crispy robe.
“Well, let’s get it over with, my lord.”
Finishoff made Kier strip to the buff, after which the embarrassed youth was put into a universal medical scanner. Underman serenely watched the procedure. Lying still on a flat, hard frame inside the closed capsule, Kier was feeling like the living dead. At this moment, a medical needle pierced his vein and he cried out from the sudden pain.
Then Finishoff stared at a screen nearby, where the results of various analyses were displayed.
“Tremor. Here goes a symptom,” the doctor commented. “OK, no cirrhosis, and the eye retina is pretty weak, testosterone level is normal …”
Kier, who could clearly hear Finishoff, got a bit anxious.
After enduring all the medical manipulations, he was at last free and got dressed.
“So what is your verdict, Doctor?” Vorsmith-junior asked impatiently, as he wanted to leave the unpleasant room as soon as possible.
“The diagnosis is pretty wide,” the doctor said cheerily. “Vegetative-vascular dystonia and the first signs of myopia are obvious. I would also point out the habitus toward the asthenic syndrome and chronic alcoholism. Some lasting treatment is recommended.”
“Are you serious?” asked Kier, frightened. He considered himself a pretty healthy person. “I’m not good at medicine.”
“Fortunately—I mean, unfortunately, there are very few who are. And talking about the prognosis”—Finishoff thoughtfully shook his head—“in your case, it is still indefinite. In principle, even some vulgar pimple can lead to exitus letalis.”
“That means I’m not good for the service?” Kier wondered aloud.
Finishoff grimaced and said, “The count’s will was expressed most explicitly. You are fit for military service, my lord!”
“But you’ve said yourself, just now,” said Kier, catching at the straw. “Syndrome, dystonia, long treatment.”
“Have I said that?” exclaimed the doctor, suddenly a bit mad. “You’ve misinterpreted me, my lord. You are as healthy as a pedigreed bull!”
Having parted ways with the slippery doctor, Kier, despite his lack of appetite, had breakfast in his room and collected some personal stuff. Underman made him wear a uniform, this time it was dark green with the golden epaulets of a Special Corps ensign.
* * *
The heir of the Vorsmiths’ county left for the Aurora Borealis Base with his bodyguard at noon. Neither his father, nor anyone else, saw him off. Kier’s future service place was situated at the coast of the Northern Ocean, not far from Zassadar. As the base was situated in the zone of ever-frost, far away from other populated localities, reaching it quickly was possible only by air. In winter, one could get there over land, but in summer all the land near the base transformed into a massive swamp. Thus Kier was transported in one of the count’s helicopters.
The flight was long. The count’s personal pilot steadily flew the rotor-driven machine to the north, as Sergeant Underman excitedly explored its battle capabilities. Listening to some of his bodyguard’s comments, Kier understood that the helicopter was armed with a rocket weapon, different defense systems, and the most sophisticated navigation and scanning devices.
Kier turned on his Porta-Sat comm, hooked onto the net, and checked the data on the location of his future service. Most of the information about the Aurora Borealis Base referred to the big oil deposit and oil pipeline that were situated nearby. All this rich enterprise was owned by Heartland Oil. Many civil servants were listed at the Aurora Borealis Base, who apparently worked for the oil company.
Interesting. What relations connect the Special Corps, Heartland Oil, and the Vorsmiths’ county? Kier thought. The answer, of course, won’t simply be found on the comm-net.
The cabin of the count’s helicopter was comfortable to the point of having a soft couch with pillows and a blanket. Kier pulled off his boots, got comfortable on the couch, and soon fell asleep—this time without using the services of alcohol anesthesia.
Several hours later, having slept well, the young aristocrat woke feeling cheerful and jolly. When he looked at the illuminator of the helicopter, he saw the destination of his compulsory journey.
On one side, there was an immense brown-green plain, cut in two by a small river that flowed slowly from the southwest. A giant metal pipe, glistening in the sun, protruded from the northeast against the water current. It ended near picturesque rows of oil derricks far in the east. Above them, a torch of a fantastic size was flaming.
On the other side, Kier saw the Northern Ocean, with its quietly rolling lead-gray waters. The ocean and the swampy plain were divided by a long, low mountain range. The sharp rocks of its craggy cliffs ruthlessly carved into the breaking the ocean waves, not giving them an opportunity to get further onto the continent. In only one place was the unbroken line of mountain peaks open, and there the turbid river and ocean ran toward each other. At the point, where it seemed a monstrous cataclysm was inevitable, the path of the two waters was blocked by a cyclopic building; a dam, built out of hyper-concrete and serving as a conduit between the mountains. It astounded Kier’s imagination from his position in the ‘copter high above.
Approximately two hundred meters high and more than ten kilometers long! Kier recalled the information he’d recently read. A little bit above sea level was a giant hole in the dam through which the river water escaped to the ocean.
The count’s helicopter started a smooth descend and the smaller details of the landscape became visible. The megadam not only had an impressive height and length, but it was also fifty meters wide. Kier noticed ant-like people and machines that were slowly moving on its plain top. He also saw satellite dishes perched atop the flat surface, which was punctuated by rocket complexes and artillery guns.
Inscriptions were all over the dam in giant letters engraved in the hyper-concrete. From the side facing the ocean, one could read the name of the arctic base—AURORA BOREALIS—in an ancient pre-Imperial language. Under the inscription was a giant image of an ugly bear, plodding somewhere. That threw Kier into confusion, until he remembered the “bearish” origin of the word “Arctic.”
Or did the ancient builders mean something else? Why was it built, anyway? The young vor was puzzled. It was only possible to completely discern this incredibly huge imagery from a marine ship or from the air.
There was a no less exciting inscription—LABOR MAKES HAPPY—on the side of the dam facing the land.
Who did they mean? Kier continued his speculations. Civil servants or the local oilers?
Meanwhile, the pilot easily set down right on the flat top of the mega-dam, a section of which was an airstrip. The Aurora Borealis Base was meeting the newly-arrived ensign as a V.I.P. Ice Morosev, the commanding general, and a dozen armed soldiers from the Special Corps, awaited Kier near the helicopter stairway in the manner of a guard of honor. The flag of the Empire, blue with a juicy purple circle in the middle, was proudly fluttering in the fresh sea wind.
Barely coming to his senses after the landing, and now realizing what an honor he was receiving, the young lord fearlessly got out of the ‘copter. Remembering some video, he dashingly saluted somewhere in the area of his ear and shouted, “Ensign Vorsmith reporting to duty, sir!”
The general, wearing a spotty beret and Special Corps green uniform with lots of chevrons, stepped forward and returned an equally careless salute. Kier tried to somehow stand to attention, but the commander waved his hand, showing that all the formalities were over. Kier was relieved, as he had a very limited notion of how an Ensign should behave in the presence of a senior officer.
In his turn, Underman greeted Morosev. It seemed to Kier that they’d met before.
The general released the guards of honor and called for his new subordinate to come with him. They walked toward a nearby sentinel in a green uniform and grasping a machine gun, who stood by a small section on the megadam top covered with red-painted metal. The phrase “No passage! Only for the base commander!” stood out in large white letters on the painted, blood-red metal background. General Morosev pushed a button on the comm hidden in his pocket. The metal plates split in two and slid aside as if by magic, and then a lift cabin emerged from below. The commander made an inviting gesture. Kier took a full breath of the fresh sea air and stepped inside the lift. Underman and Morosev followed him. The commander didn’t have an escort.
The high-speed lift that was taking the three men somewhere into the belly of the megadam turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. The scuffed metal doors had been hiding mirrored walls, a soft carpet, and even a comm-terminal. Multiple buttons gave off a romantic amber glow, creating gentle shadows.
The lift stopped, and the doors opened directly into the general’s personal cabinet. To Kier, the space somewhat resembled the cabinet of Dr. Finishoff, where he’d spent several unpleasant minutes this morning, as there were also no windows in this large room. He noticed a big bottle of cognac and a pair of faceted glasses standing on a massive metal table near the working comm-net. The only real difference Kier could see in the two cabinets was that instead of medical equipment, here there was a tremendous number of weapons; it seemed the general had a soft spot for such things. Under a ceremonial portrait of the acting emperor, the official emblem of the Special Corps—a pair of stylized lightning bolts enclosed in a circle—hit Kier’s eyes. Beneath was the official slogan of the Special Corps in the ancient language: Vis pacem, para bellum.
If you want peace, get ready for war, Kier translated.
“Your bodyguard can wait in the anteroom for now, Ensign,” Morosev interrupted the youth’s speculations.
“He is right, Sergeant,” Vorsmith-junior encouraged the cabinet owner. “Nothing threatens me in here.”
Underman hesitated, but then decided against having an open argument with the base commander and silently went outside. Kier and Ice Morosev were left alone.
The general threw his spotted beret on the table and started an exchange of courtesies. “I’ve noticed that you’ve gotten a bit cold up there, my lord. Let me offer you some cognac. This is the genuine thing from New Athens.”
The youth nodded in consent.
After he, at last, got the opportunity to examine Morosev, Kier was surprised. The general of the Special Corps and commander of the Aurora Borealis Base didn’t fit the image of a true military man. He was a short, elderly pud, with a large, bald head that could no longer be hidden under the uniform beret. The fat, well-groomed fingers, combined with a cordial, sanguine face, made Ice Morosev look like a kind old man from a kid’s fairy tale.
Meanwhile, the general filled both glasses half full with cognac, grunted, and drank his portion in one sweep. Then he handed the glass to Kier and said, “I suggest you dress warmer, Ensign. Today we have really great weather. It’s sunny and the wind is low. Usually, it’s much worse. However, you should know better as a weatherman.”
Kier took a careful sip of cognac and coughed.
“Well, I graduated from the Military-Meteorological College by correspondence, and my knowledge is pretty … hmm … theoretical.”
“I see.” The general appeared glad to hear that, for some reason. “Although, we have our own weather station, we receive almost all the essential information on weather from the orbital satellites. The qualified technicians are working on the data processing. So even a complete dumbass can be a senior weatherman.”
Kier, appalled at such an insult, shivered and blurted out, “And how do you know about the orbital satellites? Do they actually exist? The Earth is as flat as a pancake.”
“Now don’t get cocky, boy!” Suddenly Morosev’s tone changed to a menacing whisper, casting aside the mask of a ‘nice’ old man. “I served with your father and have a debt to him. But I won’t let anyone interfere with the base operation! This is a strategic entity, subject directly to the chief commander of the Special Corps. I’m the boss here! The current weatherman is good for nothing now. So there will be no harm coming from your appointment. We will take care of your safety. But you will sit quietly and won’t interfere with a thing. If I find that you are sticking your vor’s long nose where it doesn’t belong …”
Kier almost dropped his glass of unfinished cognac.
He’s got eyes like gun barrels. How deceitful the first impression is, the young aristocrat thought. Although, I could’ve guessed. They don’t appoint weaklings to such positions in the Corps.
“If you, my lord, nevertheless become the next Count Vorsmith, I count on mutual partnership.” The general again wore the mask of the nice old man. “My officers and your bodyguard will help you with the accommodation. Successful service to you, Ensign!”
* * *
While Kier was talking to General Morosev, Underman had obtained the electronic keys to their future apartments.
The base interior appeared to Kier as a labyrinth of narrow, low corridors without windows that were fouled up with stabs, bottle shards, and other garbage. There were obscenities scraped into the walls here and there.
His new habitation, protected with a massive steel door, also cast a distressing impression on Kier. Of course, he wasn’t expecting a posh room similar to the one he’d lived in at the Vorsmiths’ mansion, but the reality turned out to be even worse than the flat in New Roma, where he’d spent most of his life. The young aristocrat’s room was two-by-four-meters wide, with clean, gray walls, a naked stone floor, and no windows at all. The furnishings consisted of a narrow metal bed, a small bedside unit, a chair, and a tiny plastic table with a comm-terminal. There was also a mini-fridge and a microwave. The room was lit with a single, naked, electric lightbulb at the ceiling. In the niche near the entrance was an improvised toilet with a washstand and shower space that were divided by a symbolic plastic door. The air was chilly and damp.
“It’s your day, my lord!” Underman said. “The general was very nice and gave you excellent apartments. The safety is at a high level, too!”
“Are you mocking me again?” Kier flared. “This is a prison cell, not an officer’s apartment! It’s cold, narrow, and there are no windows at all.”
“You are thinking like a true vor, my lord. But you should remember that we are on an arctic base, which is, in fact, inside a dam. The living space here is extremely limited. Most officers must share their rooms with a second person, while you got an individual chamber with all the commodities, which are due to at least a colonel. This is a great honor for you.”
After that, Underman looked into the neighboring room assigned to him and revealed that it was only a little smaller than Kier’s habitation. The satisfied bodyguard then began bustling with activity. He checked both rooms for the possible presence of spy bugs and re-programmed the code locks for his and Kier’s biometrical parameters. Then he started dismantling his luggage, consisting of mini-cameras, microphones, scanners, additional secret locks and other simultaneously tracking and anti-spying equipment. The young lord unpacked his small case in much shorter time.
While Underman was into the security questions, Kier fell on the naked skeleton of the bed and stared into the low gray ceiling. He recalled that he was now below the sea level and felt a rising fear.
Luckily, I do not suffer from claustrophobia. But it may well develop in such a place.
“My lord, you should report your arrival to the senior weatherman,” Underman reminded him. “The working day is still not over and you should get the hang of things.”
“What things exactly?” Kier rumbled discontentedly, but shuffled into the corridor following his energetic guardian.
The future workplace of Vorsmith-junior was situated not far from his apartment, just around the corner of a bending, badly-lit corridor. The usual metal door was decorated with a huge plastic plate. Large gold letters on a red background stated: Senior weatherman, Director of the Hydro-Meteo Center, First Lieutenant Passat Shtillius. Underman pushed the button of the electric bell, but the door remained closed for a long time.
Kier listened closely. Some rhythmical music could be faintly heard coming from beyond the door. Suddenly it opened and a fat, elderly man stood in front of Kier and Underman. For some reason, he was wearing only shorts and beach slippers. It was uncommonly hot in the room, and there was a strong smell of cheap booze. The music from within went louder.
The fat man with his red face shambled a step forward, hiccupped, and stabbed his dirty finger at Kier.
“Wh-who are you?”
“Kier, the Lord …”
“Fuck off, lord!” the fat man blurted and bumped against the door forcefully.
And so I’ve got the hang of things, Kier thought.