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Chapter 9. How not to carry out rescue operations.
Igor (Mendoir, June 2361)
We, the whole class, are going camping, to the wild part of the colony. A crowd of youngsters, diluted with older guys, with my grandfather, a teacher, and our classmate until the end of high school, Sayomkha Vais. On his shoulders is a compact but rather heavy backpack with a sleeping bag and groceries, a three-liter flask with water, salt and spices; on his belt, in a magnetic grip and a plastic pencil case, my praying mantis-В. My favorite is a Claw on my hip, and a communicator bracelet on my right arm. I'm wearing short breeches and a tank top, a windbreaker rolled up and strapped to my backpack, a baseball cap on my head, and on my feet are my pride-powerful, metal-studded pigskin boots with thick, fluted soles. We plan to spend a week or more in the foothills. As my grandfather explained, we are going to field training to introduce us to survival in the wild: what you can eat and drink, how to hunt and fish properly, what plants and for what you can use.
"I will prepare you, and you will prepare everyone else, and so you will pass this baton to the younger ones!"
"That's right!" We shouted together.
The sun is hot, even though it's still early in the morning, and dust is spreading along the trail and settling on my shoes. The echo of footsteps, reflecting off the rocks to our right, rushes and flies away into the canyon of the river. The Rattlesnake River rumbles about thirty meters below, among scattered rocks and fragments of rocks. It is bitterly cold, because it originates from the glaciers of volcanic mountains.
"At least someone told a rhyme or a counting book to simplify walking." I hear someone's voice from behind, I think it's Nasar.
"Do you want a poem?"
"Come on, Shepard!" a voice is heard from the front of the column.
"Then listen up!"
We're foot-slog-slog-slog-sloggin' over Africa
Foot-foot-foot-foot-sloggin' over Africa
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up and down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
The people pulled themselves up and walked more cheerfully. And I keep going...
Seven-six-eleven-five-nine-an'-twenty mile to-day
Four-eleven-seventeen-thirty-two the day before
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up and down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
Their faces are thoughtful and determined. The column keeps pace. I continued chanting, and my words echoed over the column, echoing off the rocks.
Don't-don't-don't-don't-look at what's in front of you.
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again);
Men-men-men-men-men go mad with watchin' em,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
Try-try-try-try-to think o' something different
Oh-my-God-keep-me from goin' lunatic!
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
Count-count-count-count-the bullets in the bandoliers.
If-your-eyes-drop-they will get atop o' you!
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up and down again)
There's no discharge in the war!
Everyone got into a rhythm and walked along to the verse.
We-can-stick-out-'unger, thirst, an' weariness,
But-not-not-not-not the chronic sight of 'em
Boot-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
'Taint-so-bad-by-day because o' company,
But night-brings-long-strings-o' forty thousand million
Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again.
There's no discharge in the war!
I-'ave-marched-six-weeks in 'Ell an' certify
It-is-not-fire-devils, dark, or anything,
But boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
"What a powerful verse!" A loud voice is heard from the front of the column. "Whose is it, Shepard?"
"Hartman, is that you?" I shout back.
"That's right, Alex Hartman!" I hear it in response.
"It's a Rudyard Kipling poem, darkness! It's called "Dust"!"
There was laughter in the ranks, and the people cheered up.
"She's like that, Shepard! Thanks, I'll read it later!" Alex screams.
"Igor! Is there anything more fun?" Azanti shouts loudly from the end of the column.
"Do you want to have more fun?"
"Yeah!" the whole column shouts in unison.
"Come on, burn it, Shepard!" Hartman shouts from the beginning. He is echoed by loud laughter from the column. And I'm starting!
Если долго-долго-долго,
Если долго по тропинке,
Если долго по дорожке,
Топать, ехать и бежать,
То, пожалуй, то, конечно,
То, наверно-верно-верно,
То, возможно-можно-можно,
Можно в Африку прийти!
А-а, в Африке реки вот такой ширины!
А-а, в Африке горы вот такой вышины!
А-а, крокодилы, бегемоты,
А-а, обезьяны, кашалоты,
А-а, и зеленый попугай,
А-а, и зеленый попугай!
Smiles sparkled on their faces, and I continued....
Если только-только-только,
Если только на дорожке,
Если только на тропинке,
Встречу я кого-нибудь!
То, тому, кого я встречу,
Даже зверю, верю-верю,
Не забуду-буду-буду,
Буду "здрасьте" говорить!
The chorus was picked up by almost everyone, and clear children's voices flew through the foothills.
А-а, здравствуйте, реки вот такой ширины!
А-а, здравствуйте, горы вот такой вышины!
А-а, крокодилы, бегемоты,
А-а, обезьяны, кашалоты,
А-а, и зеленый попугай,
А-а, и зеленый попугай!
The people cheered, and laughter was heard. And I sing the last verse.
Но, конечно-но, конечно,
Если ты такой ленивый,
Если ты такой пугливый,
Сиди дома, не гуляй!
Ни к чему тебе дороги,
Косогоры-горы-горы,
Буераки, реки, раки,
Руки, ноги береги!
The whole company, including the adults and the grandfather, has already picked up.
А-а, зачем тебе море вот такой ширины?
А-а, зачем тебе небо вот такой вышины?
А-а, крокодилы, бегемоты,
А-а, обезьяны, кашалоты,
А-а, и зеленый попугай,
А-а, и зеленый попугай?
"Oh-oh-oh! Shepard! That's a song! Whose is it?" Hartman's voice again from the front of the column.
"From an old movie! Very old, taken in the twentieth century! "About Little Red Riding Hood" is called! Do you hear, Sanya?"
"Got it, I hear it! Thank you, Igor!"
"And let's sing it again?" Azanti shouts from the end.
"Yeah, come on!" the others join in.
"People, let's sing in chorus! Did you remember the verses?" One of the grown guys is shouting.
"What is there to remember?" laughing, someone commented from behind.
"Igor, sing along!"
We sang again, and then again.... And then there was a rest stop, where we cooked food on a portable heater, brewed tea and just rested. In the late afternoon we reached the pass. Here, a rattlesnake had gnawed through a canyon in the rocks, and above it, on the other side of the river, a rope bridge was thrown — two ropes made of synthetic fiber stretched over each other. Slowly, one by one, they crossed to the other side of the river and went in the opposite direction. There, after a couple of kilometers, the trail curved and rose from the river to a plateau overgrown with forest.
"That's where we'll stop," Grandfather told us.
Two weeks later
Moons hang over the camp, flooding everything with an unreal yellow-blue light — the faces of the intelligent ones have a surprisingly scary color! But the color scares, probably, only me, in whose memory horror films about zombies are stored, the local population is not spoiled by such creativity. The lucky ones! Bonfires are burning in the camp clearing, a late dinner is being prepared, laughter is heard, guitar is strumming, one of the elders is singing softly, and those sitting next to him are singing along. The perimeter of the clearing is surrounded by thorny bushes, which were specially planted by adult "partisans" last year, setting up a kind of summer camp. In a small passage, with their backs to the lights, the guards sit with vipers on their knees and stare into the darkness. A couple of days ago, the same guards shot nazumi who came to the noise. His scrubbed and treated hide is now hanging on stretchers and is almost dry. Someone has to carry her home. Although, as they say, it doesn't carry its own burden.
There are delicious smells: spices, grilled meat, porridge and herbal tea. Under light reed canopies, datapad screens are lit — people are reading or writing notes, and there is a lively exchange of opinions.
In two weeks, everyone was tanned, their faces were weathered, their hair was burnt out, and the whole crowd turned blonde or brown-haired, although there were no brunettes. Light-skinned Nasar turned the color of coffee with milk, and there was very little milk there, only bright blue eyes and a snow-white smile burned on his face. The Azanti turned dark orange. I got tanned too, and my hair turned copper-red when it was sunburned.
I'm sitting on a log that serves as a bench here, and I'm cleaning my praying mantis. Centuries have passed, and dust is still the main enemy of weapons. The ultrasonic cleaner in the multitool hums softly, causing displeased grimaces from the Turians, but there is nowhere to go, they endure. It's much more unpleasant for them to clean themselves, although there are no options here — the owner cleans his own weapons!
There are a dozen muklik skins in my backpack. When we get back, I'll ask my father to sell it through friends on Earth and buy me an engineering omny-tool. A fancy one like my father's is very expensive, but it's simpler enough for me — I'll order one like the corporation's technicians. By the way, civilian models do not have an omni-blade, that is, not at all, and for self-installation the term is 10 years of hard labor! When I asked my grandfather why it took so long, he told me that omni-blade wounds are usually fatal, and a civilian doesn't need a weapon to kill. If you're wearing this, then you have malicious intent! For a civilian, a knife that can be carried completely freely is enough for his affairs. They say the Japanese even carry their swords openly. Just like the Turians.
Suddenly, a clear voice is heard from the guards:
"Wait, who's coming?"
A man's voice is displeased from the forest, you can hear what the Turian is saying: Yes, I'm standing, I'm standing! They're nervous!
"Identify yourself!" flying away from the guards.
"Partisans, we're leaving the raid. We went out to the camp, but it was busy. Who are you going to be?" They chattered out of the darkness. The Salarian! They're the only ones who talk so fast.
"We're kind of partisans too. Welcome!"
Adults come out of the darkness in a line: first comes a tall dark-skinned Turian with a bright white, glowing tattoo on his face, followed by two Salarians — one with bright orange, the other with light green skin. Behind them are three people of the most ordinary appearance, light-skinned Caucasians, and purple Azari brings up the rear. Adults look tired, they walk hard, people and Asari are covered with sweat and dust stains, carbines are in their hands, Salarians have lungs, a slightly larger model than mine, and everyone else has a good old mantis B.
Grandfather came out of the darkness and in a calm, confident voice invited the guests to introduce themselves.
The Turian pulled himself up, followed by everyone else:
"Retired Admiral of the Fleet! The group of the senior pilot of the transport department of the Rinaris Corporation follows the route. The purpose of the task: to get out of the wild part of the colony to the area of the city of Leonov, without using electronic positioning devices. The group's personnel is healthy and has no injuries, and we are moving ahead of schedule." After that, he listed the members of the group, and the grandfather greeted everyone personally.
"Well done, Chief pilot! Make yourself comfortable, we'll feed you now."
And nothing like that, our Nova's folder is a handsome man! And his comrades respect him, it's obvious.
"Squad! General construction!" Sayomha shouted.
We all ran together to the center of the camp and lined up.
Grandfather came out of the darkness and stood in front of us, hands clasped behind his back in a classic English "at ease" stance.
"Children! That's where our exit ends. You and I have lived together these two weeks in the wild, almost on a forage. You have learned to live without the benefits of civilization, and now you know that a trained intelligent person can survive almost anywhere. You have learned how to hunt and fish, find edible plants, navigate the terrain, and I hope that you will always be able to find the right way! Well done! We'll wake up at dawn tomorrow, break camp and leave, so pack your things in advance, preferably right now. The adults will keep us company. I'm done, break up!"
The kids rushed to get ready, pack their things and get ready for bed. Slowly, everyone calmed down, had dinner and lay down, only the adults could be heard talking around the campfire, and the dishes rattled softly. Everyone sleeps like the dead, side by side, in sleeping bags under awnings.
It's getting light, but the sun hasn't risen yet. We form into a column, followed by a light breakfast and final packing. After we leave the camp, there is an equipped kitchen under a canopy and reed canopies for sleeping. If they don't come in handy, then in a year it will just be a pile of trash. The sleeping bag is rolled up and put away in a backpack, next to it is Azanti's sleeping bag, there are also skins, a flask of water and two albums — Azanti and mine, but the latter is also half-painted by a friend. There are only albums in her backpack, and there are five of them!
"Squad! Let's go!" My grandfather's voice is heard from the front of the column, and we set off. Here is the ferry — two synthetic cables stretched over the canyon of the river, a Rattlesnake boils ten meters below, a fine suspension of water hangs over the river, creating rainbows. Everyone is crowding onto the shore and slowly, one by one, they are moving to the other shore. After waiting for my turn, I go over. Almost everyone has already moved on, only Feron and one of the adults, a Salarian, remain. Feron slowly crosses the bridge, the cables creaking strangely, like crumpled plastic. But the fiber of the cables is flexible and can't creak like that... Nasar distracts me, and I miss the moment when the cable snapped — I only heard a click and, turning around, I see Feron falling, clinging to a piece of cable. There was a collective sigh, and everyone rushed to the cliff.
"Feron! Feron! Do you hear me?" Sayomha screams.
"Yes, I hear!"
"I can see him!" a Salarian is shouting from the other bank. "He's holding on to a piece of rope and lying on a rock above the river!"
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