A King Word And a Gun Read online

  YURI HAMAGANOV

  GROND-IV: A KIND WORD AND A GUN

  Copyright 2018 YURI HAMAGANOV

  All right reserved

  First edition: July 2018

  Cover Design by Alexandra Brandt

  Edited by Michelle

  No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

  GROND SPACE DYSTOPIA series:

  GROND-I: THE RAVEN HIGH

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06XCFT4D1

  GROND-II: THE BLITZKRIEG

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B078X14W2F

  GROND-III: ALL THE KING’S MEN

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07CQ1MTGZ

  GROND-IV: A KIND WORD AND A GUN

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07G2RGW6P

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Оглавление

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE: COCAINE

  CHAPTER TWO: SAILOR’S DAY OFF

  CHAPTER THREE: UNLAWFUL ENTRY

  CHAPTER FOUR: GROUNDWORK

  CHAPTER FIVE: BLACK FLAG

  CHAPTER SIX: RED SUN

  CHAPTER SEVEN: LEGEND

  CHAPTER EIGHT: DUNGEON IN THE SKY

  CHAPTER NINE: WAR DRUMS

  CHAPTER TEN: NO MAN’S VOID

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: RUN THROUGH THE JUNGLE

  CHAPTER TWELVE: WONDERLAND

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SOMETHING FUNNY IS GOING ON

  PROLOGUE

  Olga’s diary

  December 1, 2094. 23:15

  Let’s start with the most important thing. Two minutes ago, a significant event took place—the Council of Five was officially announced, a new management structure called to unite the remnants of the Supernova Corporation under a single command.

  The former governing organizations were incapacitated in the conditions of a global catastrophe and the Civil War, and now the complex, ineffective, and outdated system of the Presidential Council is being replaced with a new emergency management structure operating under unlimited powers. The rigid group, in fact military dictatorship, was established by the five richest and most influential space capitalists, uniting the extraterrestrial possessions of the Supernova and a few remnants of its earthly property.

  Like everyone else, I just found out about the Council from the last news release. In general, it is nothing unexpected—Joseph predicted the high probability of this event three weeks ago, accurately indicating the composition of the future government. So, the Council consists of five people, each of whom represents his or her family.

  The Big Five—it’s natural that now they are ruling everything. They are space capitalists, for whom the appearance of Grond became a source of superprofits and an excellent opportunity to deal with Earth’s competitors. They took full advantage of this opportunity, having won a brilliant victory in the transient and bloody Civil War of August 2094. The earthlings were totally destroyed, and all the rest, who declared neutrality and were waiting for the opportunity to join the winners, found that their status had significantly changed. They are no longer masters of their once vast estates and rich enterprises; now they are just auctioneers without voting rights and with a low percentage of profits, wholly and entirely dependent on the five richest and most influential families. There may be some who don’t like this state of affairs, but the Big Five don’t care—they now completely control the fleet, the army, and the special services of the Supernova Corporation. Everything is logical, everything is predictable, and everything is as it should be.

  My comrades didn’t show any concern in this regard; Uncle Joe’s prediction was once again confirmed. The Big Five and our valiant crew are now allies—behind the scenes, of course. In the end, it was our work in San Francisco that helped them gain victory. The information was just brought to the crew. The captain didn’t make any comments, and I pretended that I don’t care. But I do care.

  I'm worried about the head of the Council. Arthur Eisenberg and his chief assistant worry me.

  I still can’t forget the conversation with Prima in the Museum of Aviation. At first, I hardly remembered our meeting, but then, after the events on Earth, and as Jenna Donovan strengthened her position day by day, I began to reflect on that episode more and more.

  Four months have passed since my first and last meeting with Jenna, when her fire support allowed me to get out of Honolulu alive. Since then, I still wander around in space as the Bolshevik engineer with sergeant shoulder straps, and Miss Jenna has continued to run up the career ladder, eventually reaching the position of chief assistant to the all-powerful Mr. Eisenberg.

  I’m aware that far from everyone is delighted with this state of affairs—in the higher circles of the Supernova Corporation, Miss Donovan isn’t the most desirable person. They consider her a dangerous upstart, a plebeian who found herself among the masters by pure chance. But I don’t understand the reason for such an aggressive attitude; after all, three years ago, the Donovan family was among the leaders of the Corporation, having lost their status after Electra Donovan’s raid on the High House. At that time, many thought that the Donovans were over, but Electra’s sister had her own opinion about this.

  A little more than a year has passed since she announced herself at the political Olympus, unexpectedly having displaced Lincoln from her post. She clearly decided not to stop there, and now Jenna Donovan is in the top twenty most influential people in the solar system, the right hand of Eisenberg. Yes, officially he has a whole suite of assistants, recruited mainly from the Eisenberg clan. But in actuality, he relies on her as the best specialist for the most difficult cases.

  A catastrophe of a planetary scale, the death of great cities and entire states, billions of human losses, a Civil War that split the Supernova Corporation—nothing could prevent her rise. It doesn’t matter what happens, she always knows what to do, appearing exactly where she is needed. Jenna's actions in October and November were simply brilliant. She masterfully used a few surviving cosmodromes, continuing evacuation in almost hopeless circumstances when all others had abandoned this disastrous affair. Her reputation as a firefighter in critical situations is so impressive that persistent rumors have circulated that she herself will join the Council. But it hasn’t yet happened, and Jenna is still Eisenberg's right hand.

  Why did Prima meet me then? To convince me to help them take a stand against Jenna, who, despite Grond, continues to search for their colony and may succeed. Prima tried to drag me to her side, laying out her assumption as her main argument—it was Jenna Donovan who organized my abduction, kept me locked up for thirteen months in a private prison, and then announced a reward for my head when I showed up in Freeport. Could Jenna do that? Yes, she could; she had enough power. I can agree with that. But Prima couldn’t explain to me why she would do this. She didn’t clarify her motive for that possible crime. Revenge for her sister? I didn’t believe it then and don’t believe it now.

  Miss Donovan doesn’t look like someone who is obsessed with revenge. Those who knew Electra personally, for example, Anastasia, didn’t know at all that she had a sister; it doesn’t appear that the sisters were bound by a strong bond. In addition, if Jenna wanted to take revenge, she could kill me and leave my corpse at the station. After the fight, no one would be surprised. So, her motive can’t be revenge. What then?

  Prima’s second assumption was that Jenna wanted to establish contraband production of water purifiers and so kidnapped the plant operator. This is also unlikely: the operator is useless without a factory, and it wouldn’t have been possible for anyone to steal the plant unnoticed, even Miss Donovan. So this possibility can also be rejected.

  What remains? Why would she have organized my abduction? No matter how much
I think, how much I sort through the options, it’s all the same. I can’t think of any logical explanation why she would need me to be abducted. Then why do I worry? What if the kidnapping was organized by someone else, for example, someone from the terrestrial capitalists that have now been defeated? That would be a very convenient option, and I’ll be glad to accept it. Because otherwise, if it isn’t paranoia and Prima is right, then I have one of the most powerful and dangerous people as an enemy. That would be good cause for concern.

  Let’s say Jenna really did it. But, if so, then why didn’t she finish the job? Almost two years have passed, and there have been no more new attempts for my scalp; moreover, it was Jenna who saved me in Honolulu. Amendment—she didn’t save me but saved Ryoko, providing fire support in exchange for saving a valuable person. It was nothing personal, just business.

  Well, Lestrade, your investigation again gave nothing? It is clear that nothing is clear. Does Jenna want to kill me? Did she change her mind? What should I do next? Nobody knows about my fears; I didn’t even tell Elena and Joseph. Should I tell the captain? I'm afraid that then the truth about Arina Rodionovna and her comrades will come to light, and I can’t allow this. So, it’s necessary to keep quiet. Perhaps, it’s best to do nothing, to just wait for the further development of events . . . after all, the Bolshevik is now the safest house for me.

  So, it’s decided. I’ll wait. I'll wait and steadfastly watch my red-haired girlfriend. If Jenna is really following my tracks, then what is preventing me from tracking every step she takes in response? Now we need to learn more about her rapid take-off. It’s too bad that I can’t contact Prima again; she certainly knows more than she says. If Jenna is really my enemy, then I must learn all her strengths. Maybe then a weakness will open up.

  Why is nothing known about her childhood and youth? Why do they all hate her? For what? And how did she build such an incredible career, despite all the obstacles in her way? How is this possible? It is as if someone is helping her—someone unknown but very powerful. But who? I have one stupid idea about this, but it's impossible. Absolutely impossible . . .

  Author’s note: I apologize in advance for any mistakes in the text: English isn’t my native language, and I have to translate my writing myself. And even though the text has been edited, some annoying mistakes can slip through. Errors happen :)

  CHAPTER ONE: COCAINE

  An interim landing on Cocaine Station wasn’t part of Olga's plans; it happened by chance.

  She arrived at the next nameless base of the Union, one of many bases that are now being built everywhere, without any adventure and with just one intermediate stop. Engineers are consistently in short supply, and the practice of transferring specialists to the most complex sectors, which is pretty boring for all the Bolsheviks, continues, forcing Olga and her colleagues to rush back and forth through various holes in near space. First, Chernova drove off somewhere on the dark side of the moon, then Twins departed to the shipyard, and upon their return, Olga had to pack her luggage.

  Having reached the point of destination, worked there for two days, and received, at last, an order to return, Olga finds out that the Bolshevik left for someplace in the Third Radius. The distance between her and the ship is now just over 1,350,000 kilometers. The shuttle won’t fly that far, so she has to travel independently. “Let it be,” she says. She gets a temporary travel certificate, a subsistence allowance, and a ration from the commandant’s office, then goes aboard the cargo rocket.

  This type of vehicle doesn’t provide special places for passengers, so Sergeant Voronov spends the next seven hours in an open hold, fastened to the container along with five other fellow travelers. Having swallowed a tranquilizer, Olga hangs half asleep, through a cloud of erotic dreams realizing that the rocket engines are working intermittently. Apparently the transport is overloaded and most likely won’t arrive on time at its destination. The dreams come to an end and her fears are confirmed. Having finally arrived at transport terminal №38, she has to watch the retreating positional lights of the military transport, which was supposed to take her further.

  She doesn’t want to wait for the next ship, and for a couple of coins she continues her journey aboard a small postal ship, literally aboard, tightly clinging to the hull; there is no more room left in the small hold. Having saddled the postal rocket, she visits thus the thirty-ninth, the fortieth, and the forty-first transport terminals, which, in her opinion, are no different from the thirty-eighth. At the forty-first terminal, she might have been able to get on the ship if she hadn’t been put in the guardhouse—because of communication problems, Olga’s documents aren’t able to be confirmed here, and they mistake her for a border crosser, a saboteur, and a smuggler.

  Six hours later, having left the cell, she discovers that the transport has departed, and the mail rocket doesn’t go any further in the right direction; here, it makes a turn and leaves for Belladonna-Five, a private colony, where it will be possible to get another transport. After considering the possibility of capturing the rocket, Olga rejects this tempting proposal and decides to go to Belladonna-Five.

  During the fourth hour of flight, the girl sits on the hull of the mail rocket in absolute emptiness, looking at the stars and Earth. The third planet has changed dramatically over the last few months—Grond changed it.

  The night hemisphere meets her with unusually dark outlines of continents. The scattering of lights familiar in her childhood years is in the past. The cities have disappeared, and the outlines of the large rivers and coastlines have changed; now this world no longer belongs to her, or to anyone else. Now this world belongs to Grond.

  Periodically, Olga gets tired of sitting motionless, and she gets up to take a few steps along the rocket. It seems to her in those moments that she has saddled a blue whale that is carrying her somewhere across the ocean. She has reached the end of the line: the groups of lights ahead aren’t stars—it’s Belladonna-Five and several other colonies of her cluster. She is not the only one who is going to moor here; an automatic truck is approaching the station on the other side. Olga sees its beacons.

  “What?!”

  On the truck’s nose, the brake engines flash, but too briefly and asynchronously; some of the engines don’t work at all. As a result, the truck just slows down a little and turns to the station on the larboard, finally losing control.

  “Bang . . .”

  Of course, there is no bang. There is one more flash, this time bright and long. According to Olga's calculations, the speed at impact is 175-180 meters per second. Making a ballistic calculation of the trajectory, she’s convinced that most of the debris will pass away from her small ship, but she still presses against the hull, reducing the chance of encountering any small piece of steel or ceramics.

  The fire that breaks out briefly is out within a few seconds; Belladonna-Five slightly changes the parameters of its orbit as a result of the impact and now moves on like a crumpled and burnt tin can. Olga doesn’t know exactly how this station is designed, but, apparently, the blow fell into the residential compartments, close to the commercial pier. Her rocket also seems to believe that: a series of shocks are rolling, and the ship begins braking, this time in normal mode. They have nowhere to moor now; the fuel is running out and the recipients of the cargo are most likely dead, so the computer decides to stop right there, remaining outside the debris dispersal zone and now following a course parallel to Belladonna-Five, in anticipation of anyone who will pick it up. This prospect doesn’t suit Olga; it's time to raise the pirate flag and take control of the rocket into her own hands.

  From a distance of six kilometers, she clearly sees the scale of the catastrophe—at least ten deck sections have turned into frosty scraps of metal, most of the berths have been destroyed along with the ships, and in the void hang several bodies. The automatic beacon sends a distress signal, but in these circumstances, it’s a mere formality, no one will respond to the SOS signal from a non-wealthy private station; right
now, the entire solar system is sending out a distress signal.

  The hacking of the CPU of the old mail rocket took 190 seconds. During this time, activity begins on the warped hull of Belladonna-Five. The surviving repair robots creep out of the hangars, here and there welding lights flash, and the manipulators pull up the largest fragments to the station.

  Take control of the ship—done; now she needs to get rid of the cargo. Opening the hold, Olga takes out the containers, fastens them with a cable, then attaches a beacon. Judging by the inventory, there is nothing particularly valuable inside. All the cargo must be received on Belladonna-Five, and somehow the cargo will get there, the sergeant thinks, by sending a pocket to the station with a strong push. Her second task completed, now comes the most difficult—she needs to replenish the fuel reserves.

  Belladonna Five’s main fuel tanks survived, but Olga can’t get the mix of water and lunar dust. She has too little money, and besides, the owners might not even sell to her a kilogram; fuel is especially important for them now. Maybe she could steal it? That’s not an option either. The approaches to the fuel depot are probably mined and are blocked by the automatic cannons. There would be no warning for the thief; they would immediately shoot to kill.

  A particularly large fragment, unnoticed by Olga earlier, appears from the hull of Belladonna-Five: a broken repair boat. The impact was strong: a fragment now moves along the expanding spiral around Belladonna-Five to eventually leave its gravitational field. The repairmen have a lot of other work and pay no attention to this heap of scrap metal, but for Olga, it could be useful. The girl makes a jump to the wreckage, inspecting the broken boat from afar. The head part, together with the control unit, is missing, cut off like a scalpel, but the feed, engines, and fuel tanks are in place. The boat won’t be able to move independently, but it can share some fuel, and this won’t be considered stealing. According to the old naval rule, the fragments of a shipwreck belong to the one who finds it, in this case to Olga.