Chasing the Fate

Fate.

Doom.

Destiny.

What role do these concepts play in a world that is a constant interplay of multi-layered phenomena, all threaded together by time? From the energies within atomic nuclei, through the laws of physics, to galactic superclusters and vast cosmic voids – stretching even further to phenomena that dwarf human imagination and the collective scientific experience. The unknown remains so only because we currently lack the means to understand it.

If time, as a factor of fate, accounts for the unique sequence of past and present events, the sum of which exists here and now, then beyond this, the future does not yet exist. It hasn’t arrived yet, leaving any energy with the space to choose – whether it’s a direction, a point of application, or a step forward.

Humans were destined to measure everything around them with the tool of knowledge gifted by evolution, and so they invented numbers. By quantifying reality with these numbers, humanity took the next step, beginning to consciously influence the order of things, directing their energy and amplifying its power as they advanced.

But what is fate itself? A series of random coincidences or a plan, meticulously crafted by an unknown architect? Is it even possible to grasp its essence and unravel its most mysterious riddle – the future? Most importantly, can we engage with fate, armed only with the human mind?

No number in the world is enough to count how many times humanity has approached this riddle or tried to avoid it. Some say that you can’t escape your fate. But what if you could switch places with it?

* * *

The timeworn two-seater aerocar gently descended through the stratosphere of Jangala on autopilot. Somewhere far above, our transport shuttle hung in stationary orbit, while below, a thunderstorm front grew larger, churning like foamy grey milk. All around, the bright blue cocoon of the upper atmosphere sparkled, draping the sky above us in ultramarine.

Satisfied, I admired the result of the turquoise electrolytic polish I had applied to the tip of my pinky. My titanium prosthetic hand gleamed with new colors, the thin layer of turquoise on the mechanical fingers shimmering in the sunlight. I stretched my hand toward Mark, who was sprawled lazily in the pilot’s seat.

“What do you think? Nice color, right? Just like the super-ocean on Cyconia.”

“Are you feeling alright?” Mark raised an eyebrow, glancing at me. “I’m starting to worry. First, a spontaneous manicure, tomorrow it’ll be high heels, and the next day you’ll get a polymer breast and run off with some old bureaucrat. I always knew hanging around rich folks would ruin you, but this is something else…”

“You’ll never leave me alone, I’ve accepted that,” I sighed. “At least a manicure is a small joy. You have no idea how sick I am of dragging this fragile body around. I waste so much time on nonsense — eating, sleeping, bathroom breaks… Mornings are a constant struggle, and now my neuro-interface is acting up again…”

“You’ve barely hit your thirties and you’re already whining like an old lady,” Mark chuckled. “Even our old man, at one hundred and fifty, is full of energy — or at least he does a good job pretending.”

“When your brain gets pickled in a vat with neuro-drivers, I’ll make sure to scrub it with sandpaper,” I shot back. “Then we’ll see how energetic you feel.”

“You’re just tired because you stay up late,” Mark lectured. “If you took care of your body like Ivan does his tin can, you’d forget all about sleep problems.”

Once again, an unbearable itch in the back of my head reminded me of the glitchy neural interface, which flared up a couple of times a week, sending magnetic noise into my brain. I vaguely remembered this happening only during the first few weeks after Takashima reset the firmware, wiping the ad-imprinting. Or maybe it was the intense marathon of those days that damaged something in the synaptic drive?

Still, if I had tried to slip past customs on Captaine, I probably wouldn’t have needed help from that burnt-out Japanese hacker. And I would’ve loved nothing more than to strangle whoever thought it was a good idea to broadcast ads into people’s dreams…

The neuro-interface was the pinnacle of computer miniaturization. A membrane hidden under the skin of the head connected the user to the information web. A small tag, covered by synthetic skin, allowed direct connections to various devices via a wire. But the main feature of the interface was its ‘synaptic integration protocol’, which allowed it to transmit signals directly to the body’s nervous system. Medicine’s potential increased exponentially thanks to this tech.

“Remembering your messy, sleep-deprived face in the mornings,” Mark continued, staring at the horizon, “I totally get your desire to transfer into a mechanical chassis. But you know the laws of the Confederation — we can’t upgrade our bodies more than fifty percent. If we’re lucky, the cyber-inspectors will just rip out the implants and replace them with cheap printed synthetics that you’ll have to pay for at triple the price. You know that here on Jangala, they’d throw you in a ‘tank’ for ten years just for overmodding, right?”

“I don’t care about ‘tanks’, and to hell with the inspectors,” I scoffed. Though I was well aware I had been walking a fine line at the fifty-percent limit for years — barely skimming by each body scan with nothing more than a suspicious glance from the authorities…

We were only a few kilometers away from our destination. I began piecing together the scattered bits of information about the planet, which I was visiting for the first time.

“Is it true what they say about the wild ways here?” I asked Mark, changing the subject. “Sheriff-run communities, private security companies, armed cargo convoys — like some kind of Wild West?”

“Any frontier looks like that. Laws here are enforced not by a three-volume rulebook, but by a hefty gun,” Mark said, raising a finger for emphasis. “They even have gunfights down there.”

“Wait, are you saying they strut down the main street in chaps and hats, spurs jingling, and shoot each other with six-shooters?” I imagined a dusty street between wooden houses, the black mouth of a saloon barely swinging its doors, and a tumbleweed rolling slowly between the duelists. “The only goal in a duel is to shoot first. No one’s going to stand there waiting to get shot.”

“So, you’re saying they actually strut down Main Street, spurs jingling, dressed in chaps and hats, unloading Colts at each other?” I couldn’t help but picture it — a dusty street lined with wooden houses, the dark mouth of a saloon with its creaky swinging doors, and a lone tumbleweed lazily rolling between dueling gunslingers. “In a duel, there’s only one goal — make sure the other guy doesn’t get a chance to shoot back.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t play duels,” he added, nodding. “In our pair, my job is to think. Yours? Shooting out of the window.”

Satisfied with the turquoise highlights on my mechanical fingers, I stated:

“You do what you want, but I’m not staying here long. We’ll finish the job, split the loot, and I’m out. I’ll buy a blimp over Venus, disconnect my neuro-link forever, and spend the rest of my life gazing at the golden clouds. You and the old man can keep my weapons locker; I’m done with people, and that includes you.”

After venting my frustration at Mark, I stared ahead past the windshield, where the distant disk of the control hub finally peeked over the stormy horizon. Mark raised an eyebrow, glanced at me over his sunglasses, but kept quiet. He knew better than to argue when I was in a mood, and he also knew that with a little charm, I’d melt like ice in the sun…

Once again, a cold draft crept along my legs — something was blowing from below the seat.

“It’s leaking again, below here,” I muttered, leaning down to inspect the floor beneath my feet. “Can you feel it? The car’s falling apart mid-flight.”

“It’s just your imagination, restless soul,” Mark replied wearily. “The *Shinzengi* is in perfect shape. Grandpa overhauled it just two weeks ago, checked it with a compressor and everything.”

“No, something’s definitely leaking, from under the seat. Right here,” I insisted, running my hand along the floor, trying to find where the thin, cold air was seeping in. The sensations were dull, muted — the prosthetic couldn’t replicate the full range of tactile details that real skin could.

“Alright, alright, when we get back, I’ll have the old man check it again,” Mark said, using the same tone a tired parent might use to promise their child a toy, just to stop their whining…

After a long descent, we approached our destination. In the distance, piercing through the cumulus clouds, stood the towering spire of the Museum. Its top was adorned with clusters of colorful signal lights, navigational antennas of all shapes jutted out from its sides, and just below the rounded cap of the station, a flat dish-shaped air traffic control point slowly rotated. Shuttles and gliders buzzed around like fruit flies swarming a ripe fruit.

The voice of a dispatcher blared from the cabin speakers:

“Civilian *Shinzengi Motors*, number four hundred, frequency seventy seven-seven-o-one, you are entering Museum Complex airspace. Per safety protocols, please confirm handover for automatic docking.”

“Confirmed, you can take over,” Mark replied lazily, pressing a few buttons on the dashboard.

“Docking bay forty two,” the voice replied. “Prepare for inspection. Safe landing…”

“Inspection? What’s that about?” I tensed up.

“Drugs, explosives, the usual,” Mark waved dismissively. “The bigwigs here don’t invest much in automation. They mostly buy the simplest systems, and even those are used ones from Earth. It’ll be a breeze.”

The navigation system calculated our route, and our glider smoothly dipped into the clouds, following the computed glide path. Every time the machine switched to autopilot, I felt uneasy, like we were handing our lives over to the machines. What if something went wrong, and another shuttle, or worse — a heavy cargo ship — appeared out of nowhere? In the thick clouds, you wouldn’t have time to react. You wouldn’t even have time to gasp…

* * *

This lush green planet was named “Jangala”, a word from ancient Sanskrit that means “uncultivated lands” — in other words, jungles. At the end of the last century, when humanity was searching for habitable worlds to ease Earth’s overpopulation, Jangala was one of the first planets to be discovered. However, it was only a few years ago that people finally managed to reach it due to its great distance from Earth. Jangala became the sixth and youngest planet in the Sector, passed over in favor of more attractive worlds for colonization.

At first, the settlement process was slow. While the atmosphere of Jangala was suitable for humans, it was oversaturated with carbon dioxide, making it necessary to wear respirators to breathe. The planet’s high CO2 levels had turned it into a vast expanse of thick jungle, and almost year-round tropical rains flooded the land, turning millions of hectares into impassable swamps.

The first colonists had a hard time. The clearings they burned and cut for their fragile settlements would be overrun with relentless weeds within weeks. The housing modules dropped by transport shuttles would sink into the swamp or become entangled in vines like a fly in a spider’s web. On top of that, huge insects swarmed the area. Although, to the colonists’ relief, these creatures found human blood unappealing due to its chemical composition, they still caused endless discomfort by crawling into clothing, filling every nook and cranny, and spreading a terrible stench. These bugs carried a host of bacteria to which humans had no immunity. A single slip-up, like eating food without thoroughly cooking it, almost guaranteed a mad dash to the nearest restroom.

Yet, despite the hardships, Jangala’s ecosystem had a magnetic pull on scientists — biologists and botanists flocked to the planet like moths to a flame. The planet was home to a stunning array of wildlife, and its flora was mesmerizing. Entomologists from all over the Sector arrived year-round to study the insects, butterflies, and bugs. Ornithologists marveled at the brightly colored birds with their extravagant tails and multiple wings. Geneticists weren’t left out either — their labs were abuzz with research on the swamp creatures, which had incredible immune systems and astonishing regenerative abilities.

The wild, untamed lands beckoned to humanity, and soon after the first settlers, inventive corporations followed, eager to sell anything from thrills to fresh air. While Jangala was unsuitable as a family vacation spot, it was perfect for adventurous safaris through the jungle. Tourists could either capture rare butterflies, prized by collectors and worth a fortune, or gear up for a hunt against the Jangalian ripper, one of the deadliest swamp reptiles.

Adventurous elites brought their wealth and demand for comfort with them. Astute managers from *Weightless Dynamics* quickly seized the opportunity, hiring contractors to construct floating platforms. Cargo shuttles from Earth began streaming through the Gates, loaded with powerful astat-hydrogen engines, fuel, and gas aerostats. Before long, a dozen massive flying cities hovered in the planet’s middle atmosphere. Up there, it was cold but comfortable. There was no overwhelming CO2, no annoying insects, and by raising the platforms just above the clouds, one could even avoid the torrential rains.

Supply created demand, and these orbital platforms quickly became a booming success. They rapidly expanded with modular housing, shops, and small industries. Underneath, more and more aerostats lifted them higher and supported their growing infrastructure.

Now, we were approaching the largest platform — over a kilometer and a half in diameter — hidden from view by the thick rain clouds. There, in the bustling hive of human activity, vendors sold souvenirs, clothing, and food. Luxurious hotel suites catered to wealthy tourists, and the restaurants offered delicacies from all corners of the Sector. This place had become a showcase for the planet and a key transportation hub for all routes to, from, and through Jangala.

Renting space here was exorbitantly expensive. Only the wealthiest corporations could afford to set up shop or live on these platforms. Everyone else, those less fortunate to rise above the clouds, had to survive below — constantly battling Jangala’s untamed biosphere on the frontier.

* * *

Meanwhile, our glider cut through the rain cloud like a mole tunneling through soft soil, slowly drifting toward the massive docking bay. The Museum’s titanium hull curved smoothly out of sight, while to our left and right, rows of brightly lit openings peeked through the downpour. The place was a whirlwind of activity — compact gliders and small cargo ships floated in and out of the structure, while shuttles and agile cargo drones emerged from its depths, disappearing into the mist.

We hovered in place — our automatic system had placed us in line for one of the docking bays. From the cloud above us, a torrential downpour fell like water from a bucket. Streams of rain ran down the windows, and the stark contrast between the bright blue sky we’d just left behind and this grey, rainy world made the dull ache in my head intensify. From a nearby bay, a plump, blue-and-white cargo ship slowly floated out, hovering on a dozen engines. As it passed, I made out the large white letters: *Почта России* — “Russian Post”.

“This ever-present Russian Post… They’ve even made it out here,” I grumbled. “You know, I can’t even remember the last time I saw a DHL or Amazon truck. Has the Post taken over the entire Sector?”

“They’ve been the freight monopoly for a couple of years now,” Mark explained. “They bought out every company they could, and those they couldn’t, they crushed. The Department of Defense funnels them more money than you could ever dream of, Liza. They’ve been running errands for the military for as long as I can remember — secretly hauling everything from weapons and explosives to toxins. Back during the war, entire fleets of their ‘carrier pigeons’ flew back and forth over Captaine.”

“Why are they still called ‘Russian Post’?” I asked, intrigued. “That country’s been gone for ages.”

“Brand recognition, Liza — it’s everything. People used to joke about them, made up all sorts of stories. But who’s laughing now? It’s like that old saying… How does it go? ‘First, they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.’”

“Mahatma Gandhi,” I recalled.

“Exactly!" Mark raised a finger in emphasis. “The country may be long gone, but the name remains. And if you need to move large shipments quickly and reliably, who are you going to call first? Right! The folks who used to be the butt of all those jokes.”

At last, the bulky cargo ship disappeared into the thick mist, and our path was clear. Our aerocar floated inside the bay. The wall of rain seemed to be sliced away, and within seconds, our glider touched down, its shock absorbers softly meeting the worn metal floor. The doors slid open, and Mark swiftly hopped onto the deck. I pulled on black leather gloves over my bio-titanium prosthetic hands to avoid attracting unwanted attention, then followed him out. A registration bot immediately rolled up to us, politely requesting our documents. My ID was with Mark, and while he went through the scanning process, I took a moment to survey our surroundings.

We were in a brightly lit hangar, towering at least fifty meters high, curving smoothly into the distance in a massive parabola. Before the mission, Mark had meticulously studied the blueprints of this flying complex, constantly repeating something about the docking semi-ring. Now, seeing it in person, I could appreciate the scale. This place could easily hold an entire fleet of ships. Life bustled all around — robots scurried back and forth, carrying bundles, bags, and crates. Shuttles arrived and departed, while the air was filled with a chaotic symphony of voices, mechanical clanking, the rustling of materials, and the roar of engines, all accompanied by the occasional gust of wind howling through the open spaces.

Not far away, a small group of elegantly dressed individuals, looking like black-and-white penguins, stood waiting for their flight. Two pilots, in front of a sleek, cigar-shaped liner, were locked in a heated argument, gesturing wildly with their hands.

The bot finished processing Mark’s credentials and rolled up to me, its mechanical voice announcing, “Ma’am, please remain still. I will perform a scan for prohibited items. Explosives, weapons, narcotics…”

“Knock yourself out, you hunk of metal. I left my guns, drugs, and bombs at home.”

Ignoring my sarcasm, the bot completed its scan and dutifully buzzed, “Thank you for your patience. Have a good day!”

“Yeah, you too,” I muttered as the bot rolled away to scan a shabby cargo truck that had just arrived at the neighboring platform…

We were finally here. Now it was time to scope out the situation and finalize the details of our plan — this was the most crucial part. Without close attention to detail, the whole operation could fall apart.

I confidently headed toward the exit of the hangar, with Mark following behind. At the end of a wide corridor, a dozen shiny elevators gleamed, and a group of elderly tourists was approaching, trailing behind their guide. I couldn’t help but smile — they looked like a flock of ducklings following their mother. When they noticed me, their chatter quieted, and their eyes darted away. My dark, rough appearance stood in sharp contrast to the prim and proper visitors of the station. My leather jacket, gloves, black t-shirt, faded gray jeans, and military boots clearly made them uneasy — I must have looked like a criminal. They averted their eyes and walked past, pretending not to notice…

Back on the ship that was now floating far above us, Uncle Vanya had suggested one of his brilliant ideas: why didn’t Mark and I disguise ourselves as rich tourists, blending in with the crowd? After all, we’d done it before on that Arctic liner. Within minutes, Mark was already admiring his reflection in a three-piece suit, but when the old man handed me a red evening gown, I just twirled my finger at my temple in disbelief.

I wonder what those refined tourists would think of me now if I were dressed in a glamorous evening gown? People were always wary of modified humans, and my military-grade titanium prosthetic limbs would have definitely raised eyebrows — not just from the tourists, but from every cop we passed as well.

* * *

This massive floating Museum began as a research complex, funded by one of the fabulously wealthy elite, shortly after the discovery of a few artificial stone structures on Jangala. To this day, it remains unclear who lived here — no remains have ever been found — but the evidence suggested the inhabitants were humanoid. As archaeologists dug deeper, they unearthed pottery, household items, pieces of forged armor, and jewelry, all made from materials similar to those used by humans on Earth — clay, copper, gold, limestone — though with slight variations due to the different isotopic nature of the planet.

The true archaeological boom occurred when an artifact known as the “Book of Fate” was discovered in the underground ruins. This “Book” consisted of a dozen jagged metal plates, each hovering a centimeter apart, made from a previously unknown super-heavy yellow metal. The periodic table gained a new element, yet at first glance, the find seemed unimpressive. That is, until someone looked directly at one of the plates. Then, strange hieroglyphs would begin to appear on the surface — visible only to the observer. These symbols would quickly form what looked like words, constantly shifting, appearing, and disappearing. The combinations of symbols were always different, some repeating, but translating this kaleidoscope into any Earthly language proved impossible. To complicate matters, the symbols couldn’t be captured by any technical means, and those who dared maintain eye contact with the artifact for too long reported hearing voices in their heads, whispering in an unfamiliar language.

Scientists threw themselves into the mystery, examining and probing the plates, trying to decipher the symbols by breaking them down, shining every type of radiation through the metal, and exploring every possible lead. Meanwhile, archaeologists doubled down on their excavations, feverishly digging through Jangala in search of more discoveries of similar significance.

The Sector’s Cultural Committee quickly realized the profit potential and wasted no time turning the research complex into a museum. It soon became a magnet for tourists and scholars from across the Confederation. The museum’s collection continually expanded with new finds from the planet’s surface, but the centerpiece of the current exhibition was the “Book of Fate” itself, on loan from the scientists for a special three-day display…

* * *

After ascending the elevator, we found ourselves in a bright, spacious hall. Everything gleamed and sparkled — boutique displays glimmered with color, and holographic advertisements flickered under the high ceiling. It was busy and noisy, like the central square of a metropolis. People wandered in groups or alone, rushing about their errands, buying souvenirs before their trips, or filling their stomachs at the numerous food courts. Cleaning robots weaved through the crowd, polishing the floors until they mirrored the bustling scene around them.

I spotted a large pylon in the center of the hall, adorned with a map covered in symbols, and tugged on Mark’s sleeve. We needed to get our bearings.

“Alright… Shops, restrooms, hotel, spa…” I trailed off wistfully. “A nice massage at the spa would be heaven right now.” I quickly shook off the thought. “Ah, here we go — there’s the main entrance to the Museum, right in the center of the complex.” I gestured toward the escalators disappearing somewhere above.

“How about we grab a bite first?” Mark asked hopefully.

“Didn’t you stuff yourself on the ship right before we get off?” I exclaimed in disbelief. “At this rate, you’ll get so big, Uncle and I will have to toss you into space as deadweight.”

“Come on, give me a break… I’ve just got a fast metabolism. You’ll be the one not fitting through doors before I gain a pound.”

“Business first, Mark.” I raised my leather-gloved fist in front of his face. “You can indulge later.”

“You know I never miss a chance,” he replied with a wide grin, trying to wrap an arm around my waist.

I deftly dodged and calmly said, “Let’s scope out the place first, then stick to the plan. Are the smoke grenades in the car?”

“In the trunk, under the screen.”

“Tactical lenses?”

Mark silently pointed to his eye and nodded.

“Alright then, let’s go. Let’s check out their ventilation system.” With that, I headed toward the escalator…

Navigating through the labyrinth of crowded corridors, we finally reached the station’s central atrium. Packed with richly dressed people, the Museum’s foyer was monumental — flanked by two enormous stone statues of warriors. Their heads were adorned with helmet-like crests, and they brandished tridents, their sculpted armor gleaming. The artist had imagined these figures as the long-gone inhabitants of Jangala.

Wait, seriously? It was a gaudy mix of armor styles from all periods of Earth’s history — a horrible mashup. However, who was I to question the “artists”, especially when the rich strolled past with open mouths, admiring the result? As long as the money kept flowing…

A soft chime sounded from above — our visitor passes, purchased at a ridiculous price, had been scanned and confirmed. We were finally inside the main hall.

The Museum’s domed ceiling protruded right into the clouds, and through the transparent roof, diffused light from the local star filled the immense nave. Through the thick glass of the dome, I could make out faint stars twinkling in the dark violet sky. The walls were covered with artistic frescoes depicting the imagined lifestyle and architecture of the ancient civilization that once inhabited this planet. Once again, it was a wild display of the self-taught, post-avant-garde style — canvas, oil, plastic. Fake mahogany and neon.

To the side, a wide, carved stone staircase curved upward to an open observation deck. Despite the thermal screen separating it from the rest of the hall, a cold draft swept down the stairs.

At the far end of the hall, beneath a stone balcony, it rested — **the Book of Fate**, encased in glass and displayed in the most prominent spot. From a distance, it seemed like black stains drifted across the gold, forming intricate patterns. Two guards stood beside the artifact, their bored expressions scanning the crowd, purposely avoiding eye contact with the Book itself. One of them, half-asleep, briefly glanced at me before his gaze slid away.

“Liza, what do you see?” Mark asked.

“I see the thirty billion credits they promised us, Mark,” I whispered. “It’s here. All we have to do is reach out and take it.”

“Let’s just make sure no one grabs us by the hand while we’re at it…”

With a subtle thought, I activated the sigma scanner. Over the colorful image my eyes transmitted to my brain, a mesh of 3D tactical data from the lenses layered on top. Now I saw what was hidden from sight — almost at the ceiling, the perimeter of the exhibition hall was lined with concealed automated turrets. A laser grid surrounded the dome encasing the Book. Behind an inconspicuous door was a security room housing a dozen armed guards, ready to spring out at the first sign of trouble.

“Security’s tight,” I reported. “And well-hidden. Six turrets in the ceiling. Behind that hidden door by the colonnade is a squad of soldiers… You said this was going to be easy!”

“Calm down,” Mark muttered. “Looks like the museum’s institute had some extra prep for the exhibit.”

This place was well-fortified, so taking the Book wouldn’t be as simple as walking in and out. The best option, as we had originally planned, was to create a distraction, triggering panic with artificial smoke.

Ventilation… There it was, narrow grates embedded in the wall just a level up. One, two, three…

As I surveyed the scene, Mark, blending in with the high society crowd, nonchalantly circled the room and made his way to the balcony. He leaned casually against the railing directly above the Book, eyes moving thoughtfully from one fresco to another. But I knew the real reason — through his lenses, our old coordinator back on the ship was scanning the security system, reading its parameters, and calculating how much time we’d have once the virus overloaded and disabled the hall’s sensors…

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a shadow above and looked up. My pupils physically dilated — I could feel it. In the fraction of a second it took for my brain to process what was happening, my bio-mechanical reflexes had already kicked in. My legs, like powerful springs, flung me sideways.

At that exact moment, the ceiling crashed with a deafening clang as a mass of metal smashed through, landing precisely where I had been standing. Lying by the wall, I shielded my face as shards of glass and pieces of reinforced steel rained down on the crumbling marble floor.

Suddenly, the wail of sirens erupted, and heavy-caliber machine guns roared from the ceiling. Someone screamed. The pounding of running feet echoed through the hall. Eyes wide open, I watched as a towering three-meter combat robot, unlike anything I’d seen before, strode confidently toward the now-stunned guards standing by the Book. Its grasshopper-like legs propelled it forward with frightening speed. Its upper limbs, bristling with weaponry, sprayed bullets at the ceiling, while the machine’s armored shell deflected rounds with sparks, sending marble chips flying.

The cannon fire echoed painfully in my ears, gradually dying out as the ceiling-mounted guns were taken down one by one. All I could do was watch as the robot, ignoring the panicking people, approached the relic and, with one powerful swipe of its steel arm, shattered the glass case. A long manipulator extended from its chest, snatched the Book, and the artifact disappeared into the mechanical beast’s core.

Without a moment’s pause, the robot turned and began marching toward the staircase leading to the observation deck. A squad of guards, now pouring out from the security room, spread out across the hall, firing bursts from their magnetic rifles. Electric arcs cracked across the robot’s frame, but it paid no attention.

Scrambling to my feet, I moved along the wall, slipping between the chaos of fleeing museum visitors. The robot had already smashed through the thermal barrier and was now crunching up the stone steps, heading toward a booming, heavy sound. I sprinted up the stairs after it, dodging terrified patrons who were rushing down, wide-eyed with fear.

By the time I reached the top of the steps, the robot had already arrived at the edge of the observation platform. Above, a bulky, unmarked transport ship with a lowered cargo ramp was descending. The fiery exhaust from its engines ripped up the metal plating of the platform, scattering debris. With a loud thud, the ramp hit the surface, and the robot lumbered aboard, disappearing into the ship’s dark interior. The transport tilted, awkwardly turning, its ramp slicing off part of the platform, and began to pull away. A few seconds later, a booming crack split the air as the ship fired up its afterburners and vanished into the distance.

Mark appeared at my side, panting, his once-immaculate brown three-piece suit now covered in dust and torn in places.

“Well, there go our billions,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head. “These guys don’t mess around. We could learn a thing or two from them, huh, Lizzie?” He nudged me playfully with his elbow.

Grinding my teeth in frustration, I stood there helplessly, watching as our “Book” disappeared into the unknown…

* * *

Legally and physically, Uncle Vanya was no longer considered human. Bit by bit, he replaced parts of his body with unlicensed mechanical components, transforming into a bizarre blend of industrial robot and coffee machine. All that remained of his human self was his brain and a small section of his spinal cord, preserved in fluid within a hard metal frame, to which he connected more and more modules.

Vanya, ever humble, simply referred to himself as the “team’s brain”. He was responsible for managing our information systems, gathering intelligence, and hacking into any available networks to cover our tracks, confuse security systems, or plant some diversionary “bait” to distract attention. On top of that, he was an excellent doctor and a master at making hot drinks.

After the initial shock most people felt upon meeting him — understandable given his appearance — his natural warmth and kindness quickly won them over. He had a way of creating a cozy, homey atmosphere, like a grandfather welcoming guests. He would politely offer a seat in a plush, old-fashioned armchair, casually serve a refreshing drink, and from somewhere within the depths of his metal belly, he’d pull out a ceramic mug filled with fragrant amber tea, with a few tea leaves floating like tiny boats on the surface. Vanya often made friendly jokes and had a habit of telling stories and cracking jokes, whether the moment called for it or not.

Biologically, Vanya was well over a hundred years old, and the only place he could call home was our ship, the Viator. Because of his many implants, planetary laws strictly forbade him from setting foot on any surface, so the ship had long since become his permanent residence. This, however, didn’t bother him at all. In fact, he had turned it into a haven of comfort and charm, transforming the old, decommissioned cargo ship into a true sanctuary. The corridors and cabins were lined with ridiculously expensive Kinosurian rugs with intricate patterns — Vanya had managed to amass an entire collection. In the living quarters, plants, cacti, and small shrubs from all over the Sector thrived in ‘smart pots’ bolted to the floors.

His zest for life and love of learning new things pushed him to take up one hobby after another — from knitting to making plush toys, from assembling complex three-dimensional puzzles with thousands of pieces to mastering the art of cooking, from painting to carving wooden figurines. The half-dozen mechanical manipulators he had could outperform even the most skilled pair of human hands, and he had materials and ingredients delivered directly to the ship by courier services.

Uncle Vanya clearly enjoyed his strange life, moving around on a pair of rubberized treads. His sustenance came from liquid glucose, paired with power from battery cells that he recharged every few days from the ship’s energy system.

The only thing shrouded in complete mystery was his past. Vanya steadfastly refused to speak of it, keeping that part of himself locked away like an impenetrable wall of silence…

* * *

The glider’s hatch was raised, and I lounged in the driver’s seat with one leg hanging out, idly turning the dial of an ancient satellite radio, listening to the crackle and hum of atmospheric interference. Mark was nowhere to be seen — after shaking off the dust from the museum fiasco, he had gone off, as usual, to fill his stomach. Eating was one of his favorite pastimes. Forget feeding him bread, he’d rather gorge on some exotic delicacy. It was as if he’d made it his life’s mission to try every dish imaginable.

Outside, in the vast hangar visible from the parking niche, a flurry of activity erupted. Not long after the incident, planetary police swarmed in from all over the hemisphere. One after another, blue-armored vans arrived at the station, unloading dozens of officers. In their blue uniforms, strapped with belts, wearing white helmets, they strutted around the floating station, checking IDs, questioning the guards, and generally putting on a show of efficiency. Their presence seemed pointless after the firefight was over, and it gave the impression they were simply using the situation as an excuse to escape the stifling surface of Jangala for a while. Hard to blame them.

From the radio came a voice singing:

“… Дорога, вдаль идущая, –

(“The road stretching into the distance—)

Наш первый шаг в грядущее.

(Is our first step into the future.)

И звёзд, и земли целина…”

(The untouched vastness of stars and earth...“)

“Finally!” I exclaimed and flicked the switch to transmission mode.

“Uncle, can you hear me? We’ve hit a little snag. Someone broke into the Museum with a combat bot and snatched the artifact right from under our noses. A heavy *Rat*, probably an eighth or ninth model, picked them up from the roof in the chaos. No identifiable markings…”

Through the static and atmospheric noise, Vanya’s raspy, distorted voice came over the line:

“I’ve tracked all their moves. That uninvited guest ran off to Jangala’s dark side, where a large Confederate *Goliath* picked them up five minutes ago. The *Goliath* waved its wings and jumped — there are still quantum disturbances from the hyperspace jump. The electronics on the surface within a thousand kilometers are fried — he was hovering way too low. You wouldn’t believe the mess in the comms right now.” A warm chuckle drifted through the speaker. “This is the biggest event this backwater’s seen in ages. Everyone’s scrambling, and no one knows what to do.”

I absorbed the information. A matryoshka-situation, huh? The “Book” inside the bot, the bot inside the transport, and the transport inside a military battleship — the Confederation’s flagship no less — and now the ship was speeding away into a hyperspace tunnel, with a trajectory that would take Vanya weeks to decrypt, despite all his technical prowess.

It seemed the military had stolen the museum relic. Not just stolen it — they had used a Confederate *Goliath* with a one-of-a-kind jump drive for the job. Quite the effort for a simple museum piece, wasn’t it? The whole story didn’t add up; there was a disconnect between the pieces. I stayed silent, but Vanya continued:

“Don’t worry just yet. Nadya and I found something interesting while combing through the flight logs. We tracked the cargo ship’s takeoff point — it landed in the jungle yesterday and stayed there for almost half a day. I’m sending you the coordinates now, Liza… Take a look with Mark, see if you can find anything. Meanwhile, I’ll dig through the *Goliath*’s jump data and see what I can unearth."

“Thanks, Uncle,” I replied. “I’ll give you a shout when it’s time to boil the kettle.”

I switched off the radio…

Since humanity ventured beyond the Solar System, the increasing distances between communication points required a completely new approach to data transmission. Long-distance transmissions were done via directed laser beams, and for interplanetary communication, these beams were packed into high-density energy packets and sent through Hypergates. Outside planetary atmospheres, light-pulse technologies were used for broadcasting — bright flashes of light, unaffected by radio interference or cosmic radiation, spread out like a fan, ensuring the message reached its destination.

Uncle Vanya, a technician from the old school, skillfully used modern technology against those who pushed it forward. He equipped the *Viator* with a pair of micro-satellites that could be deployed if needed, and he installed a high-frequency radio on the glider, complete with triode amplification and dynamic signal encryption. We could exchange information with almost no interference from astronomical objects and without worrying that someone might intercept our transmissions.

However, there were other radio enthusiasts in the ether besides Uncle Vanya. One of his signature moves was to fill his broadcast frequencies with old songs, which he called ‘Soviet’. Some sounded naive, others silly, but all of them were undeniably uplifting. They grabbed you by the collar and inspired action. There was something otherworldly about them, as if they were written by beings free from human flaws.

The only downside of these radio broadcasts was their limited range. Beyond the stratosphere, the signal started to fade, and when the altitude of a stationary orbit outstripped even the reach of the micro-satellites, we had to switch to light-pulse communication…

My thoughts were interrupted by two police officers approaching the glider. One stood back, legs wide apart in an official stance, while the other stepped forward, gave a curt salute, and said in a formal tone:

“Junior Sheriff Willard, Special Police of Jangala. Ma’am, may I see your documents?”

“Of course, Officer, just a moment,” I said quickly, patting my pockets. Then it hit me like a bolt of lightning — I had forgotten to get my ID back from Mark! I lightly tapped the area beneath my cheekbone to activate my communicator. Nothing but static — looked like they had jammed all frequencies in the station. Just wonderful. Now I couldn’t contact Mark, and he couldn’t contact me.

“I think my documents are with my friend,” I said with a forced, casual smile. “We could wait for him here. He said he’d be back soon."

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the officer replied. “You’ll need to come with us to the station.”

I rolled my eyes — this was the last thing I needed. Once again, my disregard for bureaucracy had bitten me. "Always carry your documents!" I lectured myself after every time something like this happened, and every time I ignored my own good advice…

Locking the glider, I followed the officers out of the parking niche, and we made our way deeper into the station. The winding corridors led us to the local police outpost, a hive of bustling cops rushing in and out, escorting janitors, waiters, tourists, and even a few grimy homeless people — apparently, even vagrants could find their way into places like this. Among the detained, I spotted a couple of well-dressed gentlemen gesturing wildly as they tried to explain something about stock trading, a board meeting, and a missed interplanetary charter flight to a stubborn officer. From a nearby room, the sound of someone getting chewed out over a speakerphone echoed down the hallway.

We passed through the corridor and entered one of the small interrogation rooms. A young, green-looking officer entered with me, closed the door behind him, and gestured for me to sit in the metal chair. I complied. From seemingly nowhere, a blue tablet appeared in his hands, and he sat across from me, removing his helmet to reveal a head of light blond hair.

“I’m Junior Inspector Nichols. And you are…” He flicked on the tablet and started reading the screen aloud: “Elizaveta Alexandrovna Volkova, born 2124. Place of birth — planet Kengeno X, Simerian District Hospital… Modified body: forty percent. Hmm… In ‘39, you were found at the gates of the Kanidi orphanage on Captaine-4, suffering from severe amnesia… Skipping forward… Adopted by Alejandro Santino a few months later… Oh boy… Then the trouble started: minor hooliganism, theft, disturbing the peace, assault…”

“All debts paid, I’m clean as a whistle,” I said, leaning back in the chair. “You won’t find anything interesting.”

“May 2139… You ended up in the orphanage right after the Great Exodus from Kengeno? No, not quite right after,” He looked at me over the top of the tablet. “By the way, my uncle was there — he worked in the rescue service when it all went down. They couldn’t even get off the planet — there weren’t enough ships. They barricaded themselves in the town hall, waiting for help that never came… How did you survive? ”

“Can’t you just check my ID? ” I sighed wearily. “Why are we going through all of this? ”

“It’s not every day you meet a survivor of the Great Exodus, ” he replied with a slightly apologetic shrug.

I cleared my throat and said, “Alright then, Junior Inspector Nichols, you asked for it…”