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***

2004.

* * *

Opened my eyes. Man, my head hurts! I'm not drinking anymore. Who am I kidding? I will, especially beer, especially now.

- Captain? - Bercy came to me. A droid-MP for the seeker.

- Where are we? - I looked around. My head was hurting so bad I had to use my strength.

Bersey, like a magician, pulled out a bottle of beer from somewhere:

- We're on a ship. I had to drag your unconscious carcass back to the Maiden this morning.

That was a good party for my coming of age! Except I couldn't and can't drink at all, which doesn't bother me one bit. The memory, contrary to film and book knowledge, stayed with me. We all got drunk, and we all drank ourselves to death.

- Thanks, Bersey. What would I do without you?" It was much faster and easier to communicate mentally than verbally. Bersih was using the same interface, answering me:

- I have no idea.

I got out of bed and staggered out into the fresh air. It felt better. Bercy came out next.

- Captain? Can I help you?

- Yeah, tell Vigo I'll be right there.

I had to shower and change and go to Vigo's. I left my new ship, the Blind Maiden, on Bercy, and asked the seeker to let the cleaning droids in. This place was a mess. I went down the steep ramp, fixed my clothes and walked towards the guild office. I didn't meet anyone on the way - the whole team of technicians had been drinking, so most of my colleagues were lying in their beds trying to figure out where they were. The toughest ones may have gone to work. Seventeen years is quite an event. Coming of age in a galaxy full of possibilities.

I showed my pass at the entrance and went to the lift. Next to me were some snouts I didn't know, apparently someone from the bottom of the hunter's list. Vigo's office, as one of the top hunters, was upstairs on the fifth floor of the building. The office building wasn't known for its floors.

It was just like a normal office - a staid atmosphere, everything as it should be, but with a noticeable lack of personality. I walked through the right door. Vigo was sitting at his desk, typing something on a terminal.

- Vigo? You called?

- So, how was your morning, Rom? - He took a break from his computer, - no headache?

- I had a headache. I took some medicine and came here. Why, didn't you expect me?

- I thought you'd be out till tomorrow. He's a tough kid. Sit down," he waved his hand at the chair by the table. I sat down, relaxed.

- 'Tell you what, Rom, I think you should get Xandar citizenship. Otherwise, you're a galactic vagabond now, with no papers. Okay guild, we're undemanding people, but if you want to work as a hunter... you do, don't you?

I nodded. Vigo continued satisfactorily:

- Here. If you want to work as a mercenary, you need citizenship. They won't let you into most sectors without it. And if they catch you, you'll get the worst of it for being undocumented. And then you'll have to prove that you're not a repeat offender...

I listened to Vigo carefully.

- И...

- There are three ways to become a citizen. Either be born in the Xandar Republic, or pay a lot of money, or serve in the Xandar army. I don't suppose you have twenty million?

- Negative.

- Then the army it is, Rom. There's no other way," Vigo said. I sighed, thinking. Army-army... And where to? How? By whom? These were the questions I asked Vigo:

- Where to? You know I can do a lot of things. I can fix a ship, I can punch you in the face, I can rip your head off. If I have to.

- I remember how you beat up those blue men, - the chief rubbed his neck, - but this is different. A soldier is not a master of battle, but a simple cog in the mechanism of the military machine. If you want to serve - no questions, but then don't be offended if instead of fighting, you go to clean toilets. I thought to recommend you as a technician on some ship, you have experience and knowledge....

I thought about it. Technician on a ship? Fix it and move on - it's not life, it's a rush. You'll have to make contacts with someone and the service will turn from hell into lying on a thermonuclear furnace....

- I'd rather be a soldier, - I was horrified, - if I'm going to turn the nuts on spaceships - then I'll be lost. And if there's no one to punch, then it's no good at all.

Vigo grinned:

- Why did you join us as a technician without any questions? Vigo held up his hands, "I was once in the army. To be exact, in the Space Troopers. I know a couple of people, if you're up for it, I'll recommend you to them.

Vigo rarely spoke of his past, that he had been in the military - I didn't know....

- I didn't know you were in the military.

- Most of us here are veterans of some kind of war. You know, Rom, - Vigo grinned, - you can't take a man out of his office, give him a gun, send him off to war to kill creeks, and then take away his government weapon and return him to the same desk. It can be very difficult to return to a toothless civilian life. Civilian life doesn't have the same colours. Anyway," he turned to the terminal, "I've sent a letter to Alcolm Malkis. Pack your bags, son, you're leaving tomorrow.

- What, already? - I was surprised.

- Yes. The army likes a lightweight. Tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m. at the recruiting station. There'll be comprehensive testing - brains, psyche, physical fitness... if you're in group seven, you can meet Malkiss. Go get ready.

* * *

I had a lot of weapons. I experimented with them as I did with ships - some solutions were put into ships, some into hand weapons, some into droids. That's how the Blind Maiden came to be - the best ship in the galaxy. The local galaxy was different from the Empire in some technologies. Space, for example. They knew how to manipulate space. I had a hoover on my belt. A thing that looked like a lightsaber hilt that sucked everything into itself - inside was a separate dimension where they kept junk that they couldn't bear to throw away. For example - there were a dozen battle droids, a bunch of weapons, food in stasis pods, a lot of little things. A kind of "balcony", where everything more or less unnecessary was put. The spatial pocket was also for armour - it was simply hidden in a small device implanted in the body and could appear on the fighter at any necessary moment. This was very handy, considering that I had now completed a cycle of experiments with a clean energy fusion reactor.

My experiments were in the interests of the guild, although I paid for them myself and did not share them with anyone. So, for example, I managed to create the Widow, a sniper rifle, a railgun with enormous penetrating power and range. But it could only be used by me in cyberbronn, or by a droid-soldier. The reason was simple - it needed a powerful reactor, a real powerful reactor. But the effect is, you can shoot it for dozens of kilometres. Bullets made of refractory metal heated up to three thousand degrees because of induction during acceleration along the barrel. But this is a side effect - because at its speed of zero to six light, the bullet has too little impact with matter to set it on fire, and a hit creates a powerful impact anyway.

The second creation of the dusky Terran genius was the machine gun.

 As far as I noticed, all of my weapons were... Russian. So one day we had an argument with a gun enthusiast... He claimed that my weapon was ugly, like an artisanal craft. At the same time he showed me some shit covered with plastic panels, obviously in favour of fashion, all glowing... and then I gave him such a beating, even in the presence of Vigo and a dozen technicians..... If you've heard the phrase "fucked up all the polymers", you'll understand the heat of the moment. I swore in forty-two languages, denouncing all their stupid design guns. I made this aesthete explain in person what the point of these panels was, berated him for de-masking the weapon by light, for the awkward, fashionable layout... in general, everyone had to think about it. A weapon is an instrument of murder, and by definition it can't be anything cool or stylish or beautiful. There's no such thing as a good screwdriver and a bad screwdriver. Guns, in any form, are no more beautiful than death, fear, pain, and everything else they bring. A weapon can have no other criterion than lethality and all that goes with it. That's why my weapon was ugly, from a Xandarian's point of view - absolutely nothing superfluous. And that's why to me it was in its own way beautiful, complete, fulfilling. And most importantly, it wasn't aesthetically pleasing, it just felt like a good, quality and effective tool. Unlike the designer crap that the aesthete gave me, it was pleasant to hold in my hands. And almost everyone who knows how to kill their enemies agreed with me.

The machine gun is the pinnacle of my engineering. Scary as a drunken insectoid, but effective - it tore a soldier in heavy armour in half. It was a hell of a machine, to be honest - soldiers with reactors could use it too, as the machine gun itself was a kind of analogue of KPV, only in manual version. Thanks to the absorption of recoil impulse, the shooter was not swept off his feet, and so the recoil was one and a half tonnes. And the rate of fire was not very high - three hundred rounds per minute. But it pierced the 677 Legrand, without armour, through and through. And the enemy soldier had no chance at all, unless he used some metals, which are extremely rare in the galaxy. It tore through everyone like wet paper, for which the machine gun was immediately dubbed "Ripper".

And, of course, the armour. I've been modifying it constantly, ever since I got an implant with internal space in my collarbone. I was the only one who could carry armour in subspace. The reason for that is the underdeveloped technology. The Empire didn't have such things, but when I got my hands on one of these toys, namely a subspace device for hiding my helmet in it, I started to actively study subspace technology. With the assistance of the captain and the seeker. The result of much trial and error was the creation of a truly beautiful implant, which I was implanted with, reinforcing several bones at the same time. Armour, a powerful battle armour, with artificial muscles, made of an alloy of durasteel, freak, and titanium. The armour was great, but I was constantly modifying it. Both the software and the iron - that's how it got clean energy engines. So powerful that in an emergency you can fly to the nearest planet in space and land on it. Or take off from the planet directly into space. Weapons - the wristbands concealed energy claw blades, which could be used for clawing in case of emergency. In the gloves, on the advice of the seeker, made two powerful emitters-repulsors, capable of shooting a charge of pure energy into the enemy. The armour did not constrict movements and covered the body so tightly that one could easily dress in it as a business suit. There was nothing to say about optoelectronic invisibility - such devices could make a big scandal in the galaxy... invisible man, damn it.

Armour and weapons were always with me, always. The armour could be put on in a quarter of a second - it materialised in a matrix, around my body. It wasn't penetrated by almost anything in the galaxy - also a big plus. Though I'm talking about one shot, in combat conditions, understandably, there are a lot of hits. But I've just finished installing two, two reactors at once. With such power supply on the battlefield I can already do much more than without it ...

A separate song was the missile system. It is a mixture of SAM, RPG and ATGM in one bottle - a big tube with control devices and a missile inside - a homing missile, there were a lot of missiles. I didn't invent anything new here. Almost. The warheads were shrapnel, thermobaric, thermal, thermal, cryogenic, light-noise and electromagnetic, and just plain high-explosive. Of course, there weren't many missiles, only a hundred and twenty, but they could take down a Corvette-class ship if they hit the shields first with an electromagnetic and then the hull with a high-explosive or thermal. Cryogenics froze everything within a ten-metre radius to near absolute zero, making the metal as brittle as breadcrumbs.

My entire arsenal was contained in an implant and a device on my belt. My ammunition supply was such that I would go to war without any doubts - making steel balls and cylinders was a simple matter for me. There were a million six bullets of various calibres.

The morning began with inventory and stripping of the Maiden. Armoured suit "Wolf" - one piece, machine gun "Ripper" - three pieces, Railgun "Robin" - three pieces, commando droids - six pieces, grenades with anti-material warhead - five hundred pieces, polyenergetic gun - six pieces, two missile systems. Just-in-case-of-fire equipment - emergency communication systems, life support, a medical droid, and two dozen of my favourite turrets. I didn't bother with the turrets for long - lightweight rapid-fire blasters, in an easy-to-install setup with a self-destruct device, kinetic barrier, and armour. I had grown to love the turret while playing Halfa - there was always a shortage of those things. Once I had the technical base to create them, I got to work on it right away. Turret - a small turret, like a tank turret, but smaller and with a machine gun instead of a cannon. It was mounted on three long supports, like a howitzer on a bed - thanks to them it could rotate in all directions. Built-in systems allowed to react very quickly to threats - to shoot down thrown and fired grenades while still in the air. All the more we can do without those idiocies, like twisting the barrel around until the enemy gets under the sensor. But the system of own-alien was designed to analyse the situation, the trajectory of bullets, taking into account the ricochets and their penetrating abilities. So I could safely throw a couple of turrets on the battlefield, that they would cover me - for a fighter in close combat it is necessary. The turret was on a mini-reactor, an ordinary, cheap one. I didn't take "Widow" - this stupid thing is only suitable for special operations to eliminate well-defended, remote targets.

- Bersey, what else haven't I got?

- I can't know, Mr Roman," the droid replied politely.

- How so?

- Maybe you'd like to take some food? Army rations are good, but.....

- Exactly! - I rejoiced, "Get online, Bersie.

And I began to choose. There was plenty to choose from - there was plenty of food on Xandar. And before they take me away, I'd better get some. They always send you far away from where you were drafted. To Xandar from the Tatooines, to the Tatooines from Xandar. "Tatooine, as I can easily guess, is the closest analogue to the village of Mukhosransk. That's why I started ordering. I sat, looked at the list of goods and took everything and more. All the same, MY space pocket, unlike those sold on the market, can hold a couple of shipping containers. And eating, as far as I understood from the stories about the army, is the favourite niche of any soldier. Money is scarce, and the food supply is a bit sketchy in small towns. The standard ration of a space trooper is not much different from that of a prisoner. You can eat, but...

A case of chocolate paste. Tinned meat from the local ruminant-like animal - ten cases, cereals - six cases, a case of chocolate bars. And, finally, the simple pleasures of life - six dozen sets of underwear that would last a long time, a mountain of boxes of tinned food - vegetables, fruit, something ready-made, like an analogue of the same stuffed cabbage. Topping the list was iron - electrics. The most usual electrics - lamps, lanterns, a transformer allowing to connect household appliances and equipment to the reactor, a sea of all kinds of hardware and a couple of welding machines... A few simple single-board computers, universal, two really powerful motors with LC - such are able to work for a very long time, quietly and create a thrust sufficient to pull a locomotive.

Yes, I was paranoid. But alive and well, ready to face any trouble head on, paranoid. Xandar hadn't been at war with anyone for over thirty years - not that the military threat didn't exist... but it wasn't serious. Xandar's current political climate suited almost everyone, except for some radical but small and weak groups. If there was a real danger of war - I'd go there accompanied by a legion of battle droids....

It took half an hour to get the technical stuff. I wanted to take everything with me. But I basically made some serious changes to my techno-park. Bersi stayed on the ship, and I - took only the device for negotiations with the iskine. I upgraded my tools, again, especially the electronics.

* * *

The state institution, where the new recruits were met, was really a state institution, a barracks. Platz in front of the local recruiting centre was rubbed by two soldiers in the uniform of the Air Force. I didn't have any memories of the army from earth, but I'm sure it was exactly the same there. A few flags near the entrance, neat, well-kept flowerbeds, a three-storey, squat building occupying a large area. And together with the parade ground and lawns - a huge square. Nearby was a car park for ships and relatively inexpensive scooters.

There were a few people rubbing their hands together near the recruiting station. Well, as a man - one was some anthropomorphic cat, the second was a pi*ar-looking major with a ridiculous hairdo and a face that looked like a make-up - somehow unnaturally soft and monochrome, the third was a hulking man. A few more of the regulars kept to themselves.

With a sigh, I entered the grounds and moved towards the building. The weather was good, but my mood was not so good. There was a sign on the door that said the place didn't open until ten in the morning. Another half hour.

I listened to the argument. The pussy was saying something to the guy who had him pinned against the wall. I'd better listen to it, see if they can make a case.

- You're gonna pay for my suit! It's worth more than you! You! - I think the faggot's hysterical.

- I don't even want to get my hands dirty with shit like you.

- You're nothing! - how dare you talk like that!

That's it, I think I'm going to get beaten up. I didn't miss a beat - the big guy made the homosexual fold in half with one punch. As he fell to the ground, he howled:

- "You-you-you-you! I won't forgive you! You'll pay for everything...

The rest of the tirade was interrupted by the big guy simply kicking the homosexual major in the crotch.

I leaned against the wall and watched the free show. I don't like homosexuals, so morally I was on the side of the boogeyman. Then the door of the local military enlistment office opened and a man in uniform came out. A lieutenant, judging by his uniform.

- Stop it! - he shouted.

The big guy stepped away from the howling and ball-holding faggot. The officer, however, lashed out at the big faggot:

- "What do you think you're doing?! - He leaned over the major and helped him up.

That's how it always happens. You fight back against an idiot and you end up guilty. The major, groaning and holding on to his battered husbandry, was escorted to the recruiting centre.

- What's he doing here? - I asked loudly, - such a creature should stay away from normal people. Not much of a chance..." I grinned. The bogeyman turned his attention to me:

- The son of some big shot.

- God willing, we won't have to serve with him. I wouldn't survive that.

- Is that so scary? - The big guy smiled wider.

- I can't kill him, I can't castrate him either, but I won't sleep in the same barracks with a faggot. Roman. - I extended my hand to him.

- Aarn," he shook my hand, "are you from around here?

- No, not really. Just passing through on Xandar.

- Me too," the big guy looked around at the audience, "the concert's over.

Everyone immediately pretended they weren't interested and tried to look away. Aarn looked rather... peculiar. Two and a half metres tall, heavy-set - no bulging muscles like they like to show strongmen in Hollywood, but he was strong. I wasn't the skinniest, either, but I'm smaller than Aarn... He looked round the scene:

- Decided to join the army?

- Yeah. I need citizenship. Five years on Xandar and still no citizenship of any kind....

- That sucks. I'm the same story. What planet are you from?

- Far away, Aarn. Hardly anyone's ever heard of it.

The bogey was no longer interested in my motives. I'm not in debt:

- Where do you want to go?

- I don't know," he shrugged, "wherever they send me.

Aarn's voice was rough, bassy, husky.

* * *

A man in a military uniform came out to us. We were all sitting in the classroom, sitting at desks, sitting on desks, sitting around, sitting on desks, sitting on desks, sitting on desks, sitting on desks, sitting on desks, sitting on desks, sitting on desks, sitting on desks. It was a good thing that the service in Xandar was strictly voluntary - fewer morons than in the draft. And most people know what they're doing.

- Stand up! - a man commanded. An elderly man with sharp features. Judging by the feeling in the Force - the first impression was deceptive - he was a staff rat, warmed up in a warm place. Everyone stood up, some of them with their hands in their pockets, some of them looking at him lazily.

The man looked us over, pretended to be an old warrior, dissatisfied with the addition, and gave us a stack of CV forms. I had already thought of a name for myself, since "Roman" was too exotic, and... an unnecessary reminder of Earth.

"Race: Human.

"Sex: M.

Name: Hyarti.

Age: 17

Home planet: Terra.

Education: Home schooling

Work Experience: Technician at the Bounty Hunters Guild Spaceport (5 years)

Availability of licences to operate Vehicle:

Spaceship (Category 12 Pilot, Category 6 Navigator, Level 10 Space Engineer), Aerocar.

Possession of weapons and martial arts:

Cold weapons (sword) - professional. Terra fighting style - professionally.

About myself:

Nothing to add."

The forms written on datapads we all handed in to the man, after which he divided us into groups. He divided the computer. So, the faggot got into group two, Aarn got into group four, and I got into group five. They took us all out of the classroom for a medical examination. It was a completely medical-looking room, which we entered in groups. The elderly doctor, who was chatting with a colleague at the same time, didn't even look at us - he looked at us, the drones measured our height and weight, he took blood for analysis, and when the machine gave the okay, he waved his hand, inviting the next one in.

* * *

A large room with many objects, many of which were easily recognisable. A treadmill to measure punching power, a treadmill to measure running speed, endurance and other indicators. This is where the fun began! A grey-haired man of unknown race, obviously non-human, was in charge of the process of "culling weaklings". I went to the car.

- Straight punch, quick!

Quick - so quick. It was an unconditional reflex, I didn't have to think, just see the target. As soon as he said that, I had already reinforced myself with the Force and delivered a powerful straight punch to the car. The sound was loud, very loud - the car shifted a few centimetres from the impact. Which was odd, considering it was bolted to the floor with large bolts. Yes, the Captain had trained me well - my body moved on its own, without thought.

There was silence. Everyone stopped and stared at me - one kid even lost his stride and flew off the treadmill.

* * *

- Here, Mr Commandant, we've taken what we had," the officer who had made an old warrior of us was soft and fluffy in the face of his superiors, and even seemed smaller. A man came into the auditorium, a burly man, like Aarn. He grinned at the officer fawning before him and pushed him aside, looking at us. The three of us sat there - Aarn, me, and the cat-man. The cat-man looked at the officer with his yellow eyes.

- What's this one doing here? - He pointed at me and immediately turned back to the officer, "What are you shoving at me? Here," he walked over to Aarn, "stand up!

The bogey got up.

- Look," he continued, "a strong man, just our profile. What's that? All right, a cat, but ...

Yeah. I looked terrible against the two behemoths. I'm up:

- Mr Commandant, do you have a problem with my physical condition? - I looked him straight in the eye. He said the same thing:

- "You're a little skinny, kid. Name?

- Hyarty.

- How old are you?

- Seventeen.

- Strength of blow? - he grinned.

- I don't know!

- Didn't you measure it?

- I did, Herr Kommandant.

- And?

- The measuring device broke.