Path book 1 Igor chapter 8-1

The colonists accepted most of the innovations well, and some even enthusiastically. Such, for example, as exits on foot raids. This is when teams of colonists, with minimal equipment and provisions, had to perform certain tasks in the wild part of the colony. They organized a sweepstake on this, and the whole colony was happy to watch the ordeal of the next lucky ones, inventing exit scenarios on the go. These scripts were then sent to my grandfather by mail, and he used them without a twinge of conscience. Such raids, with my easy submission, began to be called partisan, and the raiders, respectively, were called partisans. And all this is for a while and in the spirit of competition.

Of course, the colonists couldn't be compared to the regular army in terms of training, but grandfather trained them not against the army, but against pirates. These brothers were never famous for their preparation, but they took on numbers and bestial cruelty. The five of them suddenly piled on top of one another, robbed, killed, took women and children as slaves, and fled. That's the pirate tactic. The mercenaries, of course, will go through the colonists like a knife through butter, but how many of those mercenaries... The military does not like to become a mercenary, whether among humans or other races. The attitude of the regular army to mercenaries is appropriate, as to the degraded, who betrayed the idea. The attitude of the regular army to mercenaries is appropriate, as to the degraded, who betrayed the idea. That's the way it is with all the Citadel races, and I agree with that.

Together with the brothers, a whole crowd of classmates and friends are currently studying. Even those who had no intention of joining the corps said they wanted to learn how to be strong and skilled. I have to keep an eye on my homeworld while my brothers protect everyone. In general, the youth in the colony maintained an active position. Something like, "We want to fly to the galaxy, see, learn, and definitely return home. The native world deserves to flourish, and for this it needs experienced and skilled residents." Every morning they flock to our village and, after intensive training under the supervision of their grandfather, they run cross-country, every day for a different distance. Oh, the enemies and the various tatis will wash their faces in blood, coming to our colony in three years. I flatter myself that this will be enough to make my dream come true....

Two more weeks have passed

Today we went fishing. There's only a week left from our extra holidays, and somewhere inside I already miss my classmates. The guys called, they were wondering when we would appear — I told them that soon, wait. I'm not much of a fisherman, I don't have what I need for this activity — the silent patience to wait for hours for a bite. I love catching big fish with my hands, but fishing with a fishing rod is not my thing. Come on, whatever, I'd rather sunbathe or read while Grandpa and Azanti are sitting with fishing rods. Our artist turned out to be an excellent fisherman! She has a lot of patience, as well as attentiveness, and the ability to wait for the right moment. So Nasar and I let it down in this regard, well, that's okay, it's not a big deal.

We go upstream and there, in a large pool on the river, we catch mud workers. They are bigger in the river than in the Mirror, so you have to fish with gloves. If he grabs it with his claws, it won't seem enough. They were called mud workers because of their gray color and their habit of burying themselves in sand or mud along the armor. The water in the river is cold, twenty-five degrees, despite the heat, and you don't dive for a long time. Nasar generally climbs onto the rocks after a couple of dives, his teeth chattering. At 39.4, it's bitterly cold in this kind of water, but the stones are hot, and he warms up quickly. There were screams downstream, we exchanged glances and ran to look at what was happening. There, grandfather was shaking along the shore, the rod in his hands bent almost into a ring, the line stretched so that the ringing could be heard. Azanti was jumping nearby with a net in her hands.

"Grandpa, grandpa, pull to the shore! I'll take him in a net!"

"I can't, it's too strong, it's coming out!" the grandfather wheezes, but slowly and surely pulls the fish to the shore.

Azanti saw her in the clear water, her eyes became five kopecks, and she felt scared, turning into fear.

"Grandpa, how big he is!" and she froze, clutching the net to herself. Who did they catch? We need to help... I sit cross-legged on the shore, combat mode, mentally reaching out to the stream inside myself. And here it is, my biotics, my nerves are buzzing, I glow with a blue-green dim light, a seething ocean of energy wraps around me like a whirlpool. I really want to spread my wings wide, but it's too early. I look at the water and feel a mighty fish in it, this aquatic creature is one and a half meters long, maybe longer. I wrap her in bundles of power, squeeze her, feel her struggling in the grip of biotics, and slowly begin to pull her out of the water. The main thing now is not to lose concentration, not to let yourself be knocked down, otherwise a fish that has fallen into the water can jerk violently, and even injure grandfather. My head popped out of the water, then my whole body, and I slowly dragged it to the shore and let it go over the pebbly beach. From a height of one and a half meters, the fish flops onto the shore and begins to beat. Grandpa takes a stone, comes up from the side and hits her hard on the head. The creature stretched out and trembled slightly.

"Ugh!" the grandfather says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "What a hulk! Who is this, my little ones?" Nasar, slowly walking around the fish, answers.

"Leaftooth, Grandpa!" It's never been this big before, you're the first! We need to give the head to Master Gartog, he will process it and hang it over the bar with your name on it. Master Gartog is the same Krogan, the co-owner of our club, a passionate hunter, fisherman and bartender at the same time. The entire bar in the club is covered with the heads of various animals, fish, and birds. All the city hunters, if they shoot something unusual, drag it to him, he embalms it and hangs it on the wall, with a description of whose trophy it is.

Our fish's head will soon decorate the wall in the bar! Snuffling and grunting, the four of us load the fish onto Grandpa's bike. He has a huge one and looks like a flyer, not a bike. One seat behind the driver and two in the fairings on the sides at the back. It immediately subsides, the mass converter changes the tone of the hum.

"Wow! How much weight does it have?" Scratching his head, Grandfather says. "Tell you what, my little ones, I'll take him alone, I'll come for you later, and you'll wait for me here. Ok?"

"All right, Grandpa" I answer. Azanti and Nasar simply nodded in agreement. Grandfather flew away, and we went to the backwater to catch mud workers. Azanti, I know a recipe for fried mud crab legs that you can soak in oil. Let's go cook. The kids are still coming.

November 2360

Early in the morning, I do my morning workout — this is my usual morning activity, for four years in a row. In the window, in the light of the lanterns at the intersection, you can see a large group of boys and girls of all races, who are warming up under the guidance of their grandfather. I would have joined them, but Grandpa told me it was too early. Despite the fine drizzling rain and the cold air, no one stopped classes. The grandfather moves at a distance of five meters from the line of young people, and they synchronously repeat all the movements after him — an absolutely fascinating sight. Somewhere out there, in the ranks, are my brothers and their friends Tanir, except Ivan, as well as Bina and Basma. The predatory plasticity of military gymnastics performed by the order is something I have never seen in my previous life. It seems that this is not an old soldier and a crowd of young people aged 13-14 years, but a pack of some kind of predators or primitive hunters dancing a strange, fascinatingly dangerous dance in absolute silence.

It may seem — what do humans and Turians have in common? Completely different species. And military gymnastics is suitable for both them and people, because the way to move is dictated by weapons. But it is the same for all races of the Citadel Space, there is even a single standard for calibers, types of mass generators, containers with metal mold powder. The handles are replaceable, with the possibility of fitting a certain type of arm, and must be included in the delivery package.

In general, the Bioware was rigged up with ammunition — a metal bar, from which a piece is chewed off and a bullet is formed ... Nonsense! In reality, there was no bar — there was a plastic container with metal powder, which was squeezed into a formatter, and in it, under the influence of a mass field, a bullet of the right size and shape was formed. And most importantly, for high-quality weapons, the form chamber could change and form bullets of different shapes, weights and lengths. The compression force for sintering powder also changed, this affected the type of bullets: armor-piercing, shock or, for example, petal. It wasn't until I got to know railguns in this world that I figured out how to heat weapons. The heat source turned out to be a form chamber — it created the heat that needed to be removed. In civilian models, a powerful radiator served to remove heat, but in the military, thermal clips were used. Indeed, why would a hunter shoot in bursts? However, my father's carbine served as an amazing example of mixing civilian and military products. This "Mantis-B" was not only bicalibre, that is, it had two barrels, under 6.5 and 11.3 mm, but also had, in addition to the radiator, a nest for thermal clips, which was limited by the laws of the Citadel. Therefore, the nest was tightly screwed with a special plug... but, as the folder says, if a reasonable person's hands are not growing out of his ass, then it's easy to turn a civilian model into a military one. And thermal clips are standard for all types of weapons, from pistols to heavy machine guns. He could also fire bursts, though only from 6.5 mm, but with four types of bullets, while his pulse power was regulated: from 1 to 2.5 kJ for 6.5 mm and from 10 to 15 kJ for 11.3 mm. The large caliber had only two types of bullets and could not fire automatically. In general, megapushka!

My father said that after comparative tests of the carbine, as a promising type of sniper rifle, the military seized it with a pincer. But the politicians fucked it up, the senators were strangled by the toad to arm the infantry with guns for eight thousand credits. So our marines are running around with fucking M7s for eight hundred credits. It's shit, of course, it can't shoot at all without thermoclips, but it's cheap. And the carbine went into production as a civilian hunting rifle, with a sealed socket for thermal clips and the automatic firing mode turned off... but, as they say, if only there were hands!

When a local gunsmith in Gagarin brought a batch of these carbines for testing, the folder, howling with delight, took Dahi with an Anchor and sped off like a madman! He returned clutching a suitcase with a carbine to his chest, as happy as if he had won the lottery instead of pouring twelve grand into a cannon. The others looked just as pleased, and it was often possible to observe, for example, how Anker would take it out of the trunk, lovingly stroking it, unfolding it, putting it to his shoulder, aiming, then folding it and putting it back in the trunk, softly muttering something affectionate in Batarian. Just like with a child. At the colonial hunting forum, Dad boasted about what a cool cannon he had managed to buy — and the excitement took hold of the people! Over the next six months, the merchant sold twelve batches of such carbines, so now the entire male part of the colony and half of the female part go with them, and the dealer gave the Dad a fifty percent discount on everything, as a favorite customer. My grandfather, by the way, has the same carbine — his father gave it to him immediately after the decision to stay.

I hear my grandfather's voice, which means that gymnastics is over, and now the young people will run away to cross-country. I wonder how much Grandfather will solder them today? Well, at least five km, that's for sure, they haven't run less for a long time. Jokes and laughter can be heard, slaps and the rustle of light boots on wet grass — young people lined up in a column and ran into the forest.

And for some reason, I remember a dream I had recently. At first, I see an unusually beautiful Asari in him. Of all the beautiful blue ladies I've ever seen, they look so much like a succubus. She looks at me strangely with her unusual blue eyes and smiles. She has eyebrows, though they're painted, but that's what quite a few Azari do, especially those who live near people. For some reason, I don't feel emotions. Who is she? Is it really Liara?..

Then, strangely, with a gap, I see a once beautiful city, now littered with rubble, with burnt trees standing here and there. We are walking in a large group, consisting of representatives of almost all races, through a beautiful park in the past. The park is filled with smoke, and the acrid smell of burnt wood is mixed with the suffocating smell of burnt plastic and flesh. This terrible stench of burnt meat seems to permeate everything around, it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, it makes you want to spit. The sentients walking nearby are armored and heavily armed. I see several Turians, humans, Asari, and a Quarian, and she is not in a space suit, but in the usual light armor of the Alliance, only on her legs converted to the ankle of a Quarian. The park ends, and a pile of debris appeared out of the smoke — what it was originally is not entirely clear. There are bars of reinforcement sticking out everywhere, with pieces of concrete remaining in some places. The ground begins to shake rhythmically, as if from the steps of a giant, the whole group immediately spreads out and hides between the rubble. Camouflage cloaks flash by, and instead of a group of sentients, it's just a mountain of debris again. The beautiful Azari and I are sitting under the same cape, her lips are moving, I am reading over them — she is whispering a memorial prayer. She turned to face me, and under the glass of her helmet, I see her eyes full of pain. Wet tracks ran down her cheeks. I touch her helmet with an armored glove and say something that I don't understand myself, as I'm deaf. I touch her helmet with an armored glove and say something that I don't understand myself, as I'm deaf.