# Planetary Defense Forces. Recruit Training Manual

Nikanor Starikov

"Planet Defenders. Basic Training Course"** is an exciting science fiction novel that blends elements of cyberpunk, spy thriller, and space opera. The story begins with Pyotr, a talented hacker who is recruited by a secret service after a failed attack on state security servers. Instead of prison, Pyotr is offered a role in a classified project connected to a virtual game where the fates of entire planets are decided.

Once inside the game, Pyotr learns that Earth is merely a pawn in a galactic war between ancient races. Teaming up with a reptilian named Gena, he embarks on a space journey to protect his planet from the threat of the "Old Empire." But the deeper he delves into the game, the more he realizes that reality and the virtual world are closely intertwined, and betrayal can come from those closest to him.

The novel is full of unexpected twists, action, and philosophical reflections on the nature of power, technology, and human will.

Chapter 1

I was looking out the window from my office. Outside, huge, fluffy white snowdrifts were visible, and our department head's helicopter was landing on the helipad. Someone knocked very loudly on the door; it was my deputy.

"Comrade Major, permission to report."

"Report," I answered.

"General-Lieutenant Kalinin has arrived. He is gathering everyone in his conference room. You are ordered to attend the meeting," reported the young, lean captain. He had been working under me for three years now. A good guy, always disciplined and clean-shaven, not an ass-kisser, but not a schemer either. The latter was much more important to me.

"Yes, Captain, let's go. I'll just grab my tablet."

We walked down the large, dark corridor of our "firm." When I first arrived here, these corridors left an indelible impression on me.

It was 2004, and I was 17 years old. On a warm August morning, someone rang the doorbell to our apartment. Mom opened the door and saw two well-dressed men. One of them introduced himself as a state security officer. Mom let them into the apartment. They went to the kitchen, sat down, and asked her to call me. Honestly, I had no idea what was going on. Both guests looked similar, both dressed in black suits, white shirts, and black ties. They strongly resembled agents from a spy movie. I sat down on a chair in the kitchen, my whole demeanor showing I was very unhappy with their visit.

"Hello, I am Alexander Alexandrovich, a state security employee. Are you Starkov Pyotr Nikiforovich?"

"Yes, that's me."

"We have a few questions for you."

"Okay. I'm ready to answer them," I said, though honestly, my heart sank into my boots. I didn't understand why these men had come to our home, what they wanted from me. I was running through all possible scenarios and situations from the last few weeks.

"The thing is, Pyotr, we have received information that a group of young people in your area is periodically carrying out network attacks on state security servers. Over the past few weeks, they have taken our servers down eight times. Pyotr, tell me, do you know anything about this?"

After these words, I wanted to run out of the apartment. How did they know it was me and the guys who were taking down the servers of these internet "supermen" on order? I felt sorry for those soldiers of the invisible front: sitting every day behind old computers with a speed of 14800 bps… and we just wanted justice for them… My friends and I periodically took their servers down because it took about a week to restore one, and those who worked on it got two or three days off. That's how, one day, a young, but very myopic guy came to us with an order: to attack his server once a week. We agreed, as he paid well. When I asked why he needed so many days off, he said his father was ill and needed constant care now. We even felt awkward taking his money, but we took it and honestly fulfilled his order.

"Excuse me, Alexander Alexandrovich, honestly, I've heard something about this online, but I can't help you. All I've heard is that some guys are accessing a backdoor on 889:444 and messing with the sysadmins of those servers because there are too many holes for them to patch."

The second state security representative sitting nearby started fidgeting in his chair after my words, so much so that it creaked under him.

"Pyotr, my name is Sergey," the second representative addressed me. "I am also a state security employee. We have information that you and your friends, Batka, Aziat, and you, Ledyanoy, created a hacker group that carries out orders to attack any servers in any country. We also know that you are their leader. In principle, we consider your actions justified, even useful, but only when the attacks are on the servers of our potential enemies, and dangerous—when they are on our infrastructure. Pyotr, your actions are not only illegal, they are dangerous, do you understand that? If your case goes to court, you will all be imprisoned for a long time, and you'll come out as old men."

My mom, who was sitting with us in the kitchen, turned pale and opened her eyes wide at what she heard. For my mom, and for many who knew me, this was clearly a big revelation: to find out that I was a hooligan, and a cyber one at that. All my childhood I had been a calm and friendly child, didn't fight at school, was always disciplined, played sports, attended many clubs. My father—a former officer of the army of a country that no longer existed—would have been twice as surprised to hear this about me. I was proud of myself and my friends because we thought we were doing the right thing.

It was a warm Friday evening. We were sitting near Andrey's (aka Batka) house: Mishka (aka Aziat), and me—Ledyanoy. I took the nickname from a cool game back then; it sounded funny and I liked the translation. Mishka, as usual, pulled a bottle of beer from his backpack, Andryukha—his favorite wine, "Three Axes"—and I drank cola. Since Mishka lived on the first floor of a high-rise, and the weather outside was nice, moderately warm, we were connecting to the net this time through Mishka's home phone.

"Mish, where are your folks?" I asked him.

"They went to look at a new apartment, they want to get rid of me," said Mishka, a malicious grin appearing on his face: only a lazy young man living off his parents, who doted on him, could react like that. He was no fool, of course: getting into Bauman University on the first try, and onto the Information Security faculty at that, you definitely need brains. I barely managed to get into MIREA for Information Systems and Networks, and even then thanks to my father's friend who helped me with algebra. Mishka was a star; he quickly figured things out and applied to Bauman early to get free tuition. Mishka's parents were very educated people. His dad was a professor at the Academy of Sciences. As Mishka says, when he comes home, all the mice die. We never asked what his father did. His mother, Tatyana Vasilyevna Smekhova, was a Russian language teacher at our school; we all loved and respected her very much. So, normal parents, but they raised Mishka to be an academician, hiring tutors for foreign languages, others pushing math, and there was also music.

"Ah, I see. Did your musician girl come over?" I asked Mishka, and Andryukha and I giggled.

Misha blushed but didn't show he was embarrassed. Andryukha and I knew he had a serious crush on his young music teacher.

"None of your business, did you decide to bug me today?" Mishka exclaimed.

"Quiet, quiet, guys, that's enough. Let's start, connecting," Andryukha said dryly. Andryukha looked like a simple village guy; they say about such faces: "You have a Ryazan mug." He was very well-built physically, for which he got his first computer from his mother on his 16th birthday after winning first place in a city-wide running competition.

"Petya, what are we going to do?" Andrey asked me, his eyes glued to his laptop.

"What do you think, Andryukh? We'll go into the chat, talk with the users, drink some beer, and go home. Start scanning IPs, Misha, scan the server ports, and I'll pick the exploits."

"Oh, giving orders now? Let me pick the exploits, I found a new one in the network yesterday."

"Mish, how many times do I have to tell you? Someone else's software is a hole in your security and a setup for us? Write your own, enough with the freebies," I answered angrily.

"I agree with him," said Andryukha. His eyes showed pity for Mishka.

"Well, that's decided then," I said.

And so, five hours of continuous attack passed. Another half hour later, we managed to take the server down. Mishka exclaimed:

"Well, finally! I thought we'd be sitting here until morning. Alright, let's go get beer to celebrate."

I agreed because my eyes hurt and I couldn't feel my back. We sat for a couple more hours and then went our separate ways. I fell into my bed and passed out.

In the morning, after calling each other, we met up. Andryukha started:

"Guys, yesterday we took down some really cool and important server. Today, the whole subnet is talking about it. That someone got access to secret data from a state security server and then took it down for a couple of months."

"Petya? Do you understand what this Arnold is telling us?" asked Misha.

"I'm not Arnold, Misha! I just work out, which I've been advising you guys to do for five years now."

"Quiet, both of you!" I shouted.

"Misha, I didn't get something. Did you enter the server data?"

"Yes."

"Did the client send that data?"

"Yes."

"Did you ask for the password-response?"

"No, why? I saw his IP."

"You're an idiot!" Andryukha yelled. "Do you realize his IP could have been spoofed?"

"Okay, guys, looks like we're in deep shit. Run home, format everything that could lead to us, dump all passwords and info onto our server in Ukraine."

Without another word, we split up. Coming home and deleting all compromising information, I filled the bathtub with warm water and lay down to relax. Thoughts were spinning in my head: maybe it wasn't us? If we believe Mishka, the IP was the client's, and he could have spotted a spoofed IP address in a second. But the experience of communication and work, the stories about state security specialists from my father's friends, left a residue and gloom from the thought that they would find us anyway, and if they did, they would definitely put us in prison. How much time did they need to track us down? An hour, two, or seven? Still, I had to prepare for the evening, as we were about to face very strong opponents. Anything could happen in the evening; they might have weapons, or there might be more of them, and I would have to run. I needed to think of a plan for what to do next; our venture was doomed.

"Hey, Pyotr, what, did you fall asleep there or something?" Alexander Alexandrovich snapped me out of it.


"No, I'm just thinking what a vivid imagination you have," I quipped.

"So, so, you don't want to cooperate, is that it?"

"Oh, come on, he's a very good boy," my mom pleaded. "They are all good, smart boys, Andryusha and Misha, they're from very good families. Look at Mishka, his parents are so educated…"

"Lyubov Aristakhovna," Alexander Alexandrovich cut her off. "Out of respect for your husband and my comrade, I promise you that nothing will happen to Pyotr, and no one will harm him. I can't say the same for his friends… But Pyotr is coming with us."

"Are you going to imprison him?" Mom asked, falling onto a chair.

"No. We simply have a business proposal for Pyotr. If he agrees to it, everything will be fine, for him and his friends. Get ready, Pyotr," said Alexander Alexandrovich.

"Mom, give me my toothbrush, soap, and a spoon, or whatever you need when…"

"You forgot the rope!" Sergey laughed, but immediately stopped short when he saw the stern look Alexander Alexandrovich gave him.

We went outside, and parked by the entrance was, like in Soviet spy films, a black Volga model 2401 with a chrome grille. I almost laughed, imagining this whole scene from the outside: me being led by two men in black suits and put into a black Soviet Volga. The old ladies would have enough gossip for a couple of weeks, and our neighbors would have enough material for discussions and fantasies!

I was put in the back seat, and my escorts sat in the front: Sergey driving, Alexander Alexandrovich in the passenger seat. I understood he was higher ranking than Sergey, but I didn't know by how much, and I didn't care. My head was spinning: what next? How did they track us down so quickly? Who set us up and why? Maybe our client was what they call a "lassoer"? Lassoed us with a complex order, telling us his tear-jerking story about his sick father, and thereby tested our abilities? But we always worked as a team, and they didn't say a word about the guys being taken too.

It's all very strange, definitely a setup, but why? And why us? We didn't bother anyone, didn't set anyone up, always worked cleanly and conscientiously. Maybe someone held a grudge? No, Andryukha would have found out quickly. But this was executed precisely, as if professionals did it, clearly their handiwork. Meanwhile, we left the city, crossing the MKAD, and got onto a highway. I'm not good with them, as we didn't have a car and I rarely traveled outside the city. We drove on the highway for about forty minutes, then turned into the forest onto a dirt road. But it was different from the dirt roads I knew: it wasn't bumpy; it looked like an ordinary dirt road, but we drove on it as if it were a highway. After driving on this amazing road for about fifteen minutes, we approached a black multi-story building in the forest.

The stench in the holding cell they put me in hit my nose so hard that even through the sweater I pulled over my nose, it was nauseating. And they wanted to talk "friendly"… I had been sitting there for about five hours, I wasn't sure, as I didn't have a watch.

"Well, 'shooter,' decided to talk?" Sergey said as he approached my cell.

"About what? About how he set me up?"

"No. How are you? How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I said with anger.

"I see. Pyotr, Alexander Alexandrovich asks that you come up to his office and talk with him. Are you ready?"

"Yes," I replied.

We went out to the stairwell, then took an elevator and went down somewhere. Then we entered a corridor. The corridors were finished with some kind of wood, clearly expensive, at least that's how it felt. The ceilings were so high it seemed a small construction crane could work there. It all looked arrogant, but at the same time Soviet-style, as if we were walking back into the times of the Soviet Union, and now a sentry in a Budenovka or NKVD uniform would be standing there, or the USSR anthem would start playing, or Comrade Stalin would be watching us… But there were no sentries with machine guns, no NKVD men, no portraits of Stalin, no one at all. Only our footsteps and Sergey's heavy breathing could be heard. The floor was covered with a red carpet, and clearly someone vacuumed it. The air was stale; it obviously hadn't been ventilated in a long time. We were underground, as I didn't see any windows along the way. And when they brought me here, we went down in an elevator, about fifteen floors down, no less. The ceilings had chandeliers from the USSR era, huge and beautiful, clearly Czech; I'd seen ones like them in the Bolshoi Theatre. After about five minutes, we stopped at the doors of some office. As we walked, I counted no less than 20 doors, all identical and without numbers or plaques. The doors were all massive, as if protecting against unwanted listeners or intrusion. Well, there were plenty of secrets here. Maybe there were secret negotiations with an alien race that wants to capture us, and a state security employee is convincing them otherwise… Lots of secrets here, very many, and even more of these doors and offices. How many were there?

"One hundred and seven," said Sergey.

"What?" I asked.

"I said: there are one hundred and seven offices on this floor. I see you're trying to figure it out. Yes, and we are on the nineteenth floor, underground."

"Is there even ventilation here?"

"Yes, but it's turned off for security reasons. Very important negotiations are about to take place in one of the offices. Petya, this isn't about you," Sergey laughed. "There are birds more important than you and me."

"How long can you stay here?" I asked.

"Regulations recommend no more than 16 hours. After that, headaches and nausea start. I couldn't stay here for more than seven hours; I started feeling sick from the lack of oxygen."

"Do many people work here?"

"Many. Alright, Pyotr, we're here. No more questions," Sergey said.

We stopped in front of an office door. The door creaked, and we entered. The office was rectangular with one long, massive table, where Alexander Alexandrovich was sitting, and there were chairs. As soon as we entered, he spoke:

"Ah, Pyotr, it's you. Come in, have a seat."

"Thank you," I replied.

"So, I hope you understand that there's no point in denying it. The order you took was part of a program to identify talented specialists like you. But your friends, unlike you, broke during our first meeting and confessed to everything immediately. Though I must say, Mikhail held out longer than Andrey. But we know how to present convincing arguments that make people tell us everything, the easy way or the hard way. But your friends didn't give you up; they took the blame on themselves. Good friends, covering for each other. But the thing is, this particular task couldn't be solved alone, nor by two people. We've known about your hooliganism online for a long time, so to speak. I know. I served with your father, and when I found out he was gone, I decided to keep an eye on you, so you wouldn't get into trouble… You're a good kid, Pyotr. I'm sure your father would be proud of you. You're smart, quick-witted, honest, a true friend. But you shouldn't have taken this order. The thing is, this order—to hack our system with the possibility of stealing secret information—was a disinformation operation, and the server you hacked was a decoy, a dummy. There was no classified information there, only disinformation. We were interested in who the executor was and who the client was. The order was placed by a foreign organization, the intermediary was an agent of NATO special services, and you carried it out. So, by law, Pyotr, you should be tried for treason. However, since you are essentially fledglings in our business and didn't know what you were getting into, my leadership proposed an alternative. So, Andrey and Mikhail will sign contracts with one of the firms we control. They will develop information security systems or do something else, finish their institutes, and then be offered jobs as analysts in our firm. They're good, smart guys; we need people like that. As for you, it's more complicated: since your father, until his death, was our colleague from Department 'I', you are supposed to be arrested and imprisoned for five years. Because you are the son of a very important employee who had access to classified materials, and also to set an example for other offspring of our employees not to interfere with the organization's work. But I managed to convince General-Colonel Pavlin that you will not only cooperate with us but also work for us, and I personally see great potential in you. What are your thoughts on this, Pyotr?"

I sat there, unable to say a word, as I had just learned that my father was a state security employee. My mom and I knew he was a civilian hired by a military firm dealing with energy resources or energy security, and he held the rank of lieutenant colonel with all the privileges that came with it. But that he worked for state security was astonishing. My father was a simple man, or so it seemed to me. He loved reading books in the evening, browsing magazines about technology and tech novelties, was a football fan (and who isn't?), sitting on the couch cheering for his favorite team—CSKA. Father never complained about his health and was practically never sick, and if he was, it was just a runny nose—the most he ever had. He was 179 cm tall, lean—mom said any clothes looked perfectly tailored on him, and when she was angry, she called him a "coat hanger." He had light brown hair and blue eyes that sometimes drilled into me for getting a D in math, making me want to sink through the floor just so he wouldn't look at me like that. Father loved suits; he believed an intelligent person should wear a suit and always be neat. He had five suits, but his favorite was a brown suede one. When he wore it, he looked like a prosperous, well-off person, but not rich. How did the rich dress? Crimson jackets, black trousers, a "barsetka" bag, and definitely gold rings on all fingers, and of course—a Mercedes 600. We had none of that. Father didn't have a driver's license; mom refused to get one under the pretext that she wouldn't drive him to work, saying, "Hire a driver yourself and live with him." Father also had a black briefcase. I often rummaged through it when I was in elementary school. I would lay out my notebooks and pencils in it, stand in front of the mirror, and pretend to be very important. Father really didn't like it when I touched his briefcase or rummaged through his papers looking for a blank sheet. Also, there were always a couple of candies in his briefcase; I loved taking them. Then my father and I started a game: since the briefcase had a combination lock, father would set it, and I would crack the code. At first, the codes were based on important dates, like Uncle Tolya's birthday or neighbor Uncle Vanya's, then it got more complicated. For example, in a conversation, father would pose a riddle, and the answer was the combination for the briefcase. Those were great days, my favorite days in life, perhaps my first hacker days.

I remembered well how my father died. It was a warm summer morning in 1999. Father, as always, was getting ready for work. He put on his favorite brown suit. Without putting on his polished shoes, he decided to take out the trash, slipping on his house slippers and telling mother he'd do it himself if no one else in the house could, and went out to the stairwell. Mom, as always, was making breakfast—our favorite scrambled eggs with tomatoes and cheese. About five minutes later, mom came into my room and asked where father was. But he was nowhere to be found, and his shoes were in their place. We thought he had been delayed on the stairwell talking to someone. That happened often, as there were 12 apartments on our floor, and you always met someone when leaving home. Our apartment building had 22 floors and 524 apartments, with four elevators—two freight elevators that could hold no more than 12 people, and two small ones that could hold no more than four people.

Thirty minutes had passed, and father hadn't returned. I went out into our apartment's hallway and heard shouts through the open front door. In seconds, I rushed out onto the landing and ran towards the shouts. Father was lying motionless near the garbage chute, the trash bag beside him. There was a smile on his face and his eyes were open… Neighbors and our neighbor Uncle Vanya came running at the noise. He saw me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and tried to cover my eyes. I was led away from the landing and taken home. After some time, the police and an ambulance arrived. Later, I only saw my father at the funeral. He lay in the coffin in his brown suit and house slippers. The cause of death given by the doctors was cardiac arrest, three consecutive heart attacks. I personally never believed that version. I knew my father was healthy and never complained about his heart. But let that remain on the conscience of the doctors and their qualifications…

"Well, so what, Pyotr?" Alexander Alexandrovich asked me.

"I agree," I replied, lowering my eyes to the floor.

"Well, good then," he suddenly brightened up. "Sergey, take care of your new charge. I'm off, I'll be in A45."

"Yes, sir," Sergey reported. Alexander Alexandrovich got up from the table and headed for the exit. He stopped and said as a final remark:

"You know, Pyotr, I'm rarely wrong about people, especially those I recruit myself, but I have mixed feelings about you. I hope I wasn't mistaken about you." He jerked the door open sharply and left.

"Pyotr, don't you go moping," said Sergey. "From this moment on, I am Comrade Major or Sergey Mikhailovich to you, and Alexander Alexandrovich is a Lieutenant Colonel, understood?"

"Yes," I answered and realized I had answered incorrectly.

"Yes, sir, Comrade Major," Sergey Mikhailovich barked.

"Yes, sir," I replied with sadness.

I didn't want to serve in the army; I had completely different plans. I dreamed of going to college and working part-time as a sysadmin in some company to help my mom support both of us. But no, now everything would be different. Oh, how unlucky I was! Why was I so unlucky? Now I'd be trampling boots somewhere near Novosibirsk, sitting behind some ancient computer, connecting via a 9600 bps modem, or at best 14800 bps, no more, or completely offline for the rest of my life. Then I'd rise to the rank of warrant officer and haul some groceries from the unit, canned stew or ammunition. What joy! Then I'd grow old and live in some shack, alone near Novosibirsk. Contemplating my prospects, I decided, no, I won't live like that. I will work for state security, honestly and zealously, so much so that I'd make it to general. Why not? Well, if fate dictates, as my father used to say, take it and do it so that others would be envious, and you would be pleased.


Chapter 2

I was looking out the window from my office. Outside, huge, fluffy white snowdrifts were visible, the fir trees were covered with fluffy caps—a good, cold winter in 2021. No slush, no damp chill, just excellent frost—minus 35 Celsius, snow crunching underfoot; I love winter like this. An Mi-8, our department's helicopter, was landing on the helipad. My boss, General-Lieutenant Kalinin Alexander Alexandrovich, was in it, and with him was supposed to be my comrade and friend, Lieutenant Colonel Voronov Sergey Mikhailovich. Just then, someone knocked very loudly on the door; my deputy had arrived.

"Comrade Major, permission to report."

"Report," I answered.

"General-Lieutenant Kalinin has arrived. He is gathering everyone in his conference room. You are ordered to attend the meeting," reported the young, lean Captain Kapustin. He had been working under me for three years now. A good guy, always disciplined and clean-shaven, not an ass-kisser, but not a schemer either. The latter was much more important to me.

"Yes, Captain, let's go. I'll just grab my tablet."

We walked down the large, dark corridor of our "firm." When I first arrived here, these corridors left an indelible impression on me. We walked at a brisk pace and reached General-Lieutenant Kalinin's office in 10 minutes. I knocked and entered.

"Greetings, Comrade General-Lieutenant!"

"Ah, Pyotr, come in, have a seat."

In Kalinin's office, besides me, were Lieutenant Colonel Voronov and three other men I didn't know. Although I recognized one of them; he was shown on the news very often. This comrade held a very high post in the government. I sat down on the sofa, unfolded my tablet, and prepared for the briefing.

"Pyotr, come sit at the table. The conversation will be personal and confidential," said Kalinin.

I moved to the huge table—about thirty people could sit at this thing. I always sat on the sofa, like the quartermaster and other such comrades, receiving briefings or answering questions, but the invitation to sit at the table put me on high alert.

"Pyotr," Kalinin began, "you don't know these comrades?" he asked, looking at me sideways.

I shook my head.

"Well, good, and you don't need to. So, you've been working with us for many years and oversee the internet, among other things, preparing analyses and reports on threats. But I know that you also study the topic of esotericism online, in general, working on this material extensively, as well as information about aliens and everything related. There's a job for you, but I'll warn you right away: this is not an order for you, but a proposal. You will make the decision yourself, and I'll give you time to think. By the way, how is your 'Russian Ledyanoy' level 78 character doing?" Kalinin asked casually, and to say I was stunned would be an understatement…

"It's fine," I answered.

"Petya, I know that you and your subordinates play against the 7th Directorate in that, what's it called… Oh, 'Tapkov'…"

"'Tarkov,' Comrade General-Lieutenant," I corrected him.

"Yes, yes, 'Tapkov,' PUBG, Battlefield. Whatever. We comrades here even place bets on your games. I'll be honest with you—I even made some money on you. Well done, I praise you, excellent tactics, you always cover for each other. In general, even the Analysis and Tactics department studied your strategy for combat and destroying the enemy in held positions. Well done. Your skills and knowledge are needed, so to speak, Pyotr."

I sat there, stunned by what was said, but my surprise quickly turned to concentration.

"Pyotr, what do you know about the 'Roswell Incident in 1947'?"

"A little, I studied the available materials and reports from our Soviet agents."

"Good. What do you know about reptilians?"

"Not much, mostly rumors, tall tales, speculations, and so on."

"I see. Regarding the full information and materials on this and other topics, Lieutenant Colonel Voronov will bring you up to speed."

A red light on the wall near the door lit up, meaning everything from now on would be confidential. All electronics were already being cut off, if anyone had any, to remove any temptation to record this conversation, although everyone was required to deposit any electronic devices (watches, smartphones, tablets, PDAs) in a special container. If your expensive iPhone got fried, well, it's your own fault for bringing it to an important and secret meeting, and you have no one to blame.

At that moment, the high-ranking official jumped up sharply and shouted:

"What's the matter? What's happening? I won't stand for this! Do you know how much my phone costs?!"

"Calm down," said Kalinin. "I know, three of my salaries' worth. What were you thinking when you came here? Maybe something else of yours broke too?" He stared intently at the official. The man quickly realized no one here would stand on ceremony with him, sat back in his chair, and replied:

"Forgive me, Alexander Alexandrovich, my fault. I have no complaints, please continue."

"Excellent. To be honest, Petya, I wanted to discuss this proposal in a calmer, more relaxed setting, but the current situation doesn't allow for delaying. I'll give you the general information; as I said, for the rest, turn to Voronov. As of today, your information access level is category 1 AAA. It's temporary, for the period while you make your decision. But I'll tell you, you have 24 hours for everything, don't delay the decision, there's simply no time. After the Roswell incident in 1947, the USSR government formed a special department for processing and analyzing all established facts about UFOs. After the first space flight in 1961 by USSR pilot-cosmonaut Yuri Alekseyevich Gagarin, so-called aliens made contact with our government. Actually, Petya, *we* are the aliens here, but never mind. They are an ancient race that lived before us and has been here for over 1,000,000 years. We call them reptilians. They were the owners of our planet and many other planets in our galaxy. Then another ancient race—the Archons—made contact with us in 1968, and with the US government, by the way, and the arms race began since then. They informed us that they are at war against the 'Old Empire' and want freedom for all galaxies in the Universe. But our planet belongs to one of the ancient reptilian races. According to the laws of the Universe, if the beings living on it begin to develop technologically, these beings must choose their own suzerains (curators). We chose the Archons. After that, the Archons began to give us their technologies in measured doses and wait for the moment when they could present us with a choice. According to the Archons, this promoted human development and technical progress, kept us on our toes, all of us humans, forcing science to develop by leaps and bounds. Then, in the 90s, the Archons announced to all of us that a choice had to be made, whose side we were on. They also made contact with other countries, for example, China in 1995 and with the other participants of this project in 1998. As you've probably noticed, it became hard to hide the cat in the bag, and sometimes information leaks onto the net, but thank God, only crumbs so far. According to the Archons, there is a certain 'Old Empire,' populated by various races. After the development of our planetary technologies, our 'suzerains'—yes, Petyenka, we are now their vassals—these suzerains decided to grant us access to more developed infrastructure, but they didn't anticipate the following events, which were beyond their control. Our planet was provided with the technology of the ancients; this is the so-called other world, virtual and parallel simultaneously. That is, for example, if you are a sick person and have no legs: upon entering the virtual world of the ancients, here on Earth, after some time you will be completely healthy, and all the limbs you lost will grow back."


"Can you imagine, Petya!" Kalinin exclaimed, and then immediately collected himself. "But if you get 'zeroed' there, then you will die here on Earth too. We gained access to this alien technology in 1990, or rather, most countries received access to it almost simultaneously. As it turned out, this virtual world is like our computer games. You are a character in the game, with a set of certain skills, level of development, specializations, and possibilities. Everything is like in some online game about mages or a space strategy; it's impossible to determine exactly if it's an MMO or RPG or PvP, it's all mixed. We began actively recruiting players into this world. Naturally, it was a very strict selection at first, and they didn't take just anyone. In 2007, the UN adopted a closed resolution in which we became vassals of the Archons. We actively conducted the exploration of this virtual world. About a year ago, our suzerains informed us that the 'Old Empire' is declaring war on our planet. The protection period from attack is three Earth years. Then they will attack—first in the game, and then in the real world. Of course, our suzerains stated that according to galactic law, since we are their vassals, they will protect us, but we ourselves must also prepare for war. There's not much to rejoice about. In the game, our faction is called 'Humans.' On the virtual map, there are factions; each faction is a representative of some country on our planet. Our faction is called Faction 2. There is the English Faction—Faction 3, USA—Faction 1, there is the German Faction 4, the Chinese got their own—Faction 5. They say there is a Faction Zero, but who it belongs to, we don't know."

Kalinin stopped and began to study me intently. I had practically slid under the table, my jaw on the floor from what I'd heard. Holy shit, what a story! I glanced around the office, and realizing that everyone was looking at me and my astonishment, decided to pull myself together. Not fully believing what was said, I asked:

"Comrade General-Lieutenant, which faction did the Ukrainians get?"

After these words, the official and everyone else in the office laughed like horses and couldn't stop for a long time, until Kalinin barked.

"Enough!" Everyone abruptly stopped laughing out loud, but some covered their mouths to avoid irritating Kalinin.

"Well, your humor is fine, Petya, which means you'll take this part of the information normally. It's impossible to negotiate with the 'Old Empire'; diplomacy doesn't work with them, and neither will be buying them off with resources or anything else. Neither we nor our suzerains are capable of destroying them; we can only repel their attacks, but no more. Our suzerains' tactic is to wear down our opponent physically and materially, and if that doesn't work—to surrender all of us, lock, stock, and barrel, into slavery to them. Do you understand what I'm saying? Into slavery, your division included. In general, the prospects are so-so. But there is one more very big problem. The problem is that we cannot quickly introduce players into the game world, as it requires capsules, and we are limited in the number of players in one faction. Currently, we have 1345 players. Right now, we have the opportunity to introduce 25 new players, and you, Pyotr, are among them. So, now you can go and think it over, whether you give your consent to participate in the program or not. You are aware of what awaits you and what threatens you personally and our planet. Major Starkov, you are dismissed."

"Yes, Comrade General-Lieutenant," I snapped out and left. My deputy was standing in the corridor.

"Pyotr Nikiforovich, is everything alright? You're very pale."

"It's fine, Captain." I looked at him and asked:

"Maxim, do you have any vodka?"

The captain looked at me, stunned, and immediately replied:

"I have two bottles, and also a bottle of Armenian cognac. Comrade Major, is it really that bad?"

"Don't piss your pants, Kapustin, we'll get through. Bring the vodka, I'll be in my office."

The captain immediately dashed off somewhere into the depths of the long corridor. I stood for a while longer near the office door, thinking. Nah, cognac should be drunk in a different mood and with good company, but right now I wanted to get drunk, as I needed to digest everything I'd heard and think about my next steps.

In the morning, I woke up to a knock on my office door. I was lying on my small leather sofa, covered by my service jacket, and I had such a hangover, as if I'd been drinking non-stop for a month; apparently, the tension inside me was taking its toll. Honestly, the vodka only helped me sleep: as always, it doesn't solve the problem, and only makes the morning condition worse.

"Alright, enough sleeping. Oh my, Petya, did you drink all this by yourself, and didn't call me? Ah, you scoundrel!" said Lieutenant Colonel Voronov, who had already entered the office because no one opened the door after two minutes of knocking.

"Petya, you've really gone off the deep end here at your Siberian base! Drinking alone leads to alcoholism, especially without a good snack and in such quantities. Hmm, we need to take you in hand, and urgently at that."

I managed to sit up somewhat, and then immediately flopped back onto the sofa; my legs were like cotton and wouldn't obey. Surveying my drinking spot, I was quickly surprised to see a faceted glass on the table filled to the brim with a easily recognizable liquid. It was pickle juice. Damn, I need to thank Kapustin somehow; only he had access to my office, so it must have been him who brought me the pickle juice. Good man.

"Well?" Voronov asked me. "Alive? Come on, come on, pull yourself together. Kalinin and I are waiting for your decision."

"I still have time," I replied, finishing the sour and so divine pickle juice.

"No, Petya, you have no time. The meeting was yesterday at 15:00, and it's now 14:45. So come on, get yourself together quickly and decide."

"What's there to decide, Sergey Petrovich? How often in life do you get not just a chance, but a unique opportunity to look beyond the veil?"

"Well, and?"

"Yeah, I agree, I agree," I mumbled.

"Are you sure? Because there's no turning back. Access to this information will change your life, and it will never be the same again."

"Yeah, I understand."

"You understand jack shit, Petyenka. If you agree, then marrying some beauty is out of the question, as is having children of your own. God willing you'll live to old age, which I highly doubt. Agreeing for the sake of some ghostly prospects, and also bearing the burden of responsibility for our planet—not a great prospect, in my opinion. Isn't that so?"

"No. I disagree. We have at least two years left, plus or minus, war in five or 10 years. If everything ends well, I'll get married and have children. If not, then no one will get married, and there will be no more children for anyone. Therefore, I agree."

"Fine, have it your way, Major. It's your decision. Get ready, the flight home is in 25 minutes."

"What?" I asked in surprise.

"Petya, the base is in the Moscow region. And, it seems to me, you've been sitting around here at the Siberian base for too long; you've been living here for five years now, aren't you bored yourself? Got used to the circumstances, settled in? I remember you as different, brisk and unable to stand staying in one place."

Here Voronov hit the mark. I really had forced myself to get used to this place, beating down any desire in myself to move forward or run ahead of the train. After my mother's death, I was completely alone. We had no relatives, and if we did, they didn't communicate with us after father's death. And now I didn't want to communicate with them either. So here, at the Siberian naval base, I was fine, far from Moscow, where I felt lonely and cold.

Chapter 3

We reached Moscow very quickly, just nine hours and we were there. During the flight, I was overwhelmed by memories. I remembered my old friends Andryukha and Mishka. I wonder how they are doing now; I must definitely meet up with them. Of course, I remembered my mother; I needed to visit her grave. I hadn't been there in so long… As we flew, I had a very uneasy feeling of some impending trouble.

"Petya, why so sad?" asked Colonel Voronov. "Look, we're flying home, you should be in a good mood. Maybe you'll see the guys. Come on, Petya, cheer up."

"Just not feeling cheerful, Sergey. I was thinking about what you said regarding children, family. Maybe I agreed in vain after all?"

"Come on, Petya, it's done—the decision is made, there's no turning back now. So get used to being a new soldier at Center 'Zarya-1'."

"'Zarya-1'?" I asked.

"Yes, the special training center 'Zarya-1'. It's located in the Moscow region, at an old abandoned military site from Soviet times. Actually, there are three more such centers scattered across Russia: 'Zarya-2', 'Zarya-3', and 'Zarya-4'. Center 'Zarya-2' is in the Urals, 'Zarya-3' is near Novosibirsk, 'Zarya-4' is the coldest, it's in Antarctica. Yes, Petyenka, Antarctica. Why are you looking at me so surprised? It's cold there, the servers and special technical equipment output many, many kilowatts of heat. Why spend on cooling when you have good weather conditions? Anyway, Petya, rest, gather your thoughts, and get ready."

"Get ready for what?"

"For what?! For heroic deeds, saving our planet, protecting our fellow citizens, and, of course, for your job."

"And what will my job be?" I asked sadly.

"The best in the world—defending the motherland. Just think, you'll enter an alien world, communicate with extraterrestrials, maybe even learn something, perhaps become some famous combat commander. For now, I can only tell you one thing: a great deal depends on you, including victory over our common enemy."

"Sergey, I have questions about my future work. Can I ask you now?"

"No, Petya, let's hold the questions until we land. Once we arrive, you'll get settled, and then I'll answer your questions as the new head of center 'Zarya-1', meaning you'll be under my command. Is that clear, Pyotr?"

"Yes, sir, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel."

"Alright, and let's agree, Pyotr. 'Yes, sir', 'Comrade Lieutenant Colonel'—that's all over, forget those words, you're not on active duty. If you want to address me, call me Sergey or Commander of the First Faction."

"Understood, Comrade Commander of the First Faction Sergey."

Sergey smiled; apparently, he liked my joke. Meanwhile, we were approaching Moscow. Moscow was lightly dusted with snow, and new, freshly built high-rises came into view. Another 15 minutes, and we landed at one of the many mothballed military sites in the Moscow region. After the helicopter landed, we headed towards a large, black hangar. The nasty smell of ammonia immediately hit my nose. Wrinkling my nose, I sneezed very loudly.

"Bless you, Pyotr," Sergey said to me. "What, unaccustomed to the native Moscow air?"

"Yes," I replied. "Unaccustomed. I've been living on clean air for five years."

"Well, never mind, Pyotr, get used to it. Inside that hangar, there's a secret bunker, built back in Soviet times for high-ranking state officials. That's where we live. The air there isn't Siberian, of course, but it's breathable. I'm sure you'll like it very much."

With this instruction from Sergey, we moved towards the hangar.

We reached the hangar quite quickly. I stopped and looked at the sky. When would I see this beautiful Russian sky, this dazzlingly beautiful warm sun again? I didn't know what lay ahead for me, so I was savoring every moment.

Near the hangar entrance, we were met by a group of military personnel. Among them was a short, somewhat portly man with a receding hairline. His uniform looked like a sack on him, yet he had a military bearing. Sergey greeted him and introduced him. It turned out to be Warrant Officer Semyonov. He was in charge of supply and logistics at this base. I couldn't say I liked him immediately. But something about him bothered me greatly; he moved unnaturally, raising his right arm as if it were lagging in some computer game. The warrant officer turned to me.

"G-g-greetings, Comrade Major!" The words came out with a huge stutter, giving the impression Semyonov had just learned Russian.

"Greetings, Comrade Warrant Officer," I blurted out. "Pleased to meet you, my name is Pyotr."

"Y-y-yes, yes, I was already informed of your arrival, very pleased. I hope the flight was normal?"

"Yes. Thank you, all is well."

"Doesn't look like it from you; you seem kinda sour. Are you unwell?"

"Pyotr was celebrating his new position. And, as is proper, he marked the occasion," Voronov chimed in. "Comrade Warrant Officer, prepare capsule number 1333. Pyotr will be arriving shortly and needs to spend a little time in it."

"Oh my, a very good fighter used to have that number. Are you sure about this?"

"Yes, it's an order from leadership."

"Well then, alright. I wish you success, Pyotr. I'm sure we'll meet again very soon."

I couldn't answer him, as I was suddenly nauseous and could only nod. And at that moment, I completely blacked out.

I woke up in a room on a hospital cot. I could hear a very strange, almost beast-like voice.

"And you're telling me this is one of your best fighters? He vomited on my foot! Do you know what that means for our race?" asked the stranger. Then I heard Voronov's reply:

"Calm down, he'll come around soon, and you'll see for yourself, he really is the best fighter, I vouch for him."

"Fine, it better be so, or I'll bite his head off myself."

"Alright, alright, Gena, stop it, you'll scare the lad."

"What, is he one of the timid ones?! So be it. Like that Andrey who wet his pants at the sight of me, that was funny…"

I opened my eyes. My sight was met by a creature vaguely resembling either an overgrown lizard or a mutant crocodile. I managed to open my eyes. Seeing that I was awake, they turned and looked at me. The overgrown lizard bulged its two yellow eyes at me. Its body was covered in a greenish, scaly layer, its snout elongated, slightly flattened, with a predatory grin showing all its white, sharp teeth.

"Holy shit!" I exclaimed and jumped out of bed. "Who are you?" I stared at the lizard. After a brief pause and squinting its right eye, the lizard-like being moved towards me.

"Awake? Gennadrin Beefkush the Great, Reptimens," said the lizard and extended its huge paw, the size of my head. Now I could see this lizard in all its glory. He was about two and a half meters tall, just a mountain of muscles, legs like paws—in general, just like I'd seen online. Damn, a real reptilian was standing in front of me.

"Gena, it's time for you to go," said a doctor in a white coat from behind the reptilian.

"Well, yes, see you, Pyotr!" said the reptilian and quickly walked out the door.

"Who was that?" I asked.

"He told you who he is," said the doctor.

"And who are you?"

"Oh, right, sorry, Pyotr. I'm the doctor, Puchkov Nikolai Vasilyevich. Everyone calls me 'Doc_Faction-2'. You can address me as you find convenient: by name or nickname."

"I'm Pyotr," I said, extending my hand to greet the doctor.

"How are you feeling?" asked the doctor.

"Fine, the nausea is gone."

"Good, you can go. Go out into the corridor and turn right, then walk about 200 meters. There will be a turn, and a duty officer will be there. Approach him and say you're from me. Understood?" asked the doctor.

"Yes, understood. And then what?"

"Then they'll explain everything to you, bring you up to speed, tell you how we live here and all the rules."

"Okay," I said, got up from the cot, and headed for the corridor.

Exiting the door, I saw an oval corridor lit by sparse, dim lamps; almost nothing was visible. I turned right and moved towards the duty officer. I hadn't even walked three meters when someone called out to me.

"Hey, wanna grab a beer, loser?"

I turned around. Standing before me was a sturdy, athletic guy about one hundred eighty centimeters tall, but with that unmistakable 'Ryazan mug'. It was my childhood friend Andryukha.

"And you're here, athlete!" I exclaimed, and we hugged.

"So glad to see you! Petya, how many years has it been? Ten or twelve?" asked Andryukha.

"About that."

"Damn, you've become a healthy man. I see you definitely work out?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"So tell me, where have you been, how are you, what do you do? Married, I bet? Kids? How's your mom?"

"Mom died," I replied with bitterness.

"Sorry, didn't know. My condolences," said Andrey, lowering his head.

"I'm the head of a special department in the GRU, with the rank of Major."

"Holy shit, so it's all true what they said about you, that the spooks recruited you."

"Yes, it's true."

"So, they sent you to replace Sergeyev?"

"What Sergeyev? And why should I replace him?"

"Well, the head of 'Zarya-1' here is Lieutenant Colonel Sergeyev, he's also from the GRU. Yesterday he was removed from his post as head, and they said a new one would be appointed."

"That's clearly not me, Andryukh."

"Why not?"

"Just because… Alright, tell me about yourself, how's Mishka?"

"Mishka…" Andrey drawled, and I didn't like that at all. "Mishka died a year ago," Andrey said dryly.

I lowered my head; it was painful to hear that my friend was gone. I decided I would find out the cause of his death and punish anyone responsible. I was filled with anger and resentment. But at that moment, I remembered…

"Budu pogibat' molodym, budu pogibat' molodym," I started singing, and Andrey joined in. It was a song by Mister Maloy, popular back when we were teenagers, and Mishka loved to hum it. By singing this song, we honored our friend's memory.

"So, how about you?" I asked.

"Well, after the FSB took us in, I enrolled in a sports institute and worked for the FSB on the side. I was an information analyst, then got promoted to senior analyst. After finishing the institute, I went into the army and served in the Airborne Forces. After my conscription service, I signed a contract with the FSB and became a senior operational officer in the physical protection department. A little over a year ago, I was tasked with meeting our agent at Domodedovo, who was returning with very important operational information from our agents in the West. Imagine my surprise—it was Mishka, our Mishka. He was the agent. Can you believe it? I was happy, and he was happy to see me. So, I decided to deviate from the instructions and sit with Mishka in a restaurant for a bit—who knows when we'd see each other again. We went to a restaurant on Kutuzovsky Avenue, sat down, ordered food, drinks, sat for about two hours, chatting about everything, remembering you constantly. Somehow during the conversation, Mishka let slip about this program, told such nonsense, as it seemed to me then… But before he could finish his story, he was…" Andrey froze, looking straight into my eyes, and I didn't look away, as I understood what happened next.

"A sniper shot him. Clean and quick work. We found the shooter's position, but found nothing else: no fingerprints, no DNA traces. In short, professionals worked," Andrey fell silent and looked at me.

"Go on," I said.

"They arrested me that same day. I sat in the cells for about a month. And honestly, I didn't care what happened to me: I'm guilty of his death, understand, Petya?! One day, Kalinin San Sanych came. Well, he told me about this base. Offered me, so to speak, to take revenge on those who killed Mishka. I agreed, of course. Mishka was supposed to deliver information about new American developments; they found something secret in the game and are conducting experiments now. Mishka managed to find out what it was."

"Stop," I said. "So, Kalinin knew all about this, knew what happened to Misha and where you were?"

"Yes, of course," Andrey replied. "I tried to find out from him once, what about you, where are you, is there a chance to meet? He sharply replied: 'You lost one friend, want to lose the second?' I didn't try to find out about you anymore, hoped you were doing well and not working for the 'firm'."

"I see," I said. "I need to go to the duty officer and get settled somewhere. Andrey, I don't blame you for Mishka's death. You were set up, and you were likely tracked from the airport itself. Probably, by deviating from the instructions, you extended Mishka's life by a few hours. Most likely, there was an ambush prepared along your route, and Mishka would have been killed anyway, not allowed to reach the 'firm'. That means there's a mole in the 'firm', and I will find him."

"Wait," Andrey stopped me. "Let me show you around and tell you everything here. Okay?"

"Alright, lead the way," I said.

"About the mole, are you serious, Petya?" Andrey asked incredulously. "Only five people knew Misha was arriving and our route through the city, including Kalinin."

"Absolutely. On the way, tell me all their names and details. Now, lead me already," I barked, and we walked down the corridor towards the bright light.

When we emerged into the light, there was a post with a military duty officer. Andrey approached him, said that he would now show me around and explain everything, and asked him to report upstairs that I would be accompanied by Andrey. The duty officer listened silently and nodded, letting us pass through the turnstile.

I definitely hadn't expected such a scale: a reinforced concrete dome—truly of incredible size. At least half a kilometer high, causing the ceiling to blur and get lost in a bluish haze. A huge number of spotlights under the ceiling created the illusion of daylight on a summer afternoon. Below was a real residential town with nine-story buildings, a sports ground, a large football field, and, standing apart, two administrative buildings, five and seven stories high. One of them was the polyclinic; according to Andrey, it had everything, even an operating room and a hospital. The second building housed the administration of the "Zarya-1" base.

"I had no idea such facilities existed near Moscow," I said, amazed by what I saw.

"And it's quite close to Moscow; we drove just half an hour from the MKAD," Andrey added. "Although there are some other secret hangars on Kutuzovsky Highway, but they are many times smaller than this one. This was built for the top brass of the CPSU, including Comrade Stalin. See what large-scale things they built back then? And now? You get a 'two-room' apartment with the area of a 'one-room'."

We headed to the administrative building. We went up to the fifth floor and entered the "conference hall". About fifteen people were already there, and although there were enough seats, we were almost late—Lieutenant Colonel Voronov on stage, in a strict business suit, was already checking the microphone, preparing to speak.

"Sergey Mikhailovich Voronov, head of 'Zarya-1' and diplomat of our faction," he introduced himself and asked for the lights to be turned off.

The lights in the hall went out, and the screen behind the speaker lit up. A humanoid, tall, lean figure with pale skin and long white hair neatly gathered on its head, wearing a crimson-red cloak thrown over golden metal plate armor, looked at us from the screen. Thin brow ridges. A wide forehead. Completely black eyes without whites. A thin nose and an angular chin. Tightly compressed, narrow, scarlet lips. The humanoid's hands were clasped on the hilt of a sparkling broad shield with a blade.

"So, I'll start with the most important and fundamental. Before you is Ruler Ahnut Pikas. He is one of the three rulers of the mighty ancient space race, the Archons, and the absolute master of vast territories in our galaxy. Including, by all cosmic laws, he now holds the rights to our native planet Earth. I understand this sounds incredible and shocking, but the fate of humanity is entirely in the hands of this being. Let me clarify immediately that the Archons are not our enemies, but rather patrons, mentors, and protectors. In any external conflict, they will, of course, take our side. But at the same time, you must remember every second that Ruler Ahnut Pikas currently has every right to refuse to protect humanity and Earth, or even completely destroy our civilization, if people show the slightest disrespect or disobedience towards their suzerains, the Archons. And he has the power to do it, believe me."

The hall became so quiet that people even started breathing intermittently, shocked by the information received. Sergey Mikhailovich waited a short pause, ensured everyone grasped the importance of his words, and then continued:

"Now that you know the current state of affairs, let's discuss the reason you were all invited. Your role and main task is to enter the virtual game."

I was probably the only one in the hall who wasn't seeing videos with aliens and Archons for the first time. Yes, that was my job at the base in Siberia: collecting and classifying top-secret information about aliens. There's much more information online than anywhere else. And news appears much faster online.

I probably wouldn't have believed in the first contact either, like millions of others worldwide. I happened to see this video last year on some American resource where there was a wild discussion about aliens and their messengers. But now, after Sergey Mikhailovich's message about humanity's precarious position, I regarded what I saw with greater attention and tried to analyze it quickly. Two 'kai' of Earth's security—interesting, how much is that anyway? A year, two, three? I didn't hesitate to stand up and ask Voronov this question.

"An excellent and very correct question!" Voronov perked up and readily began answering. "We long ago learned the time measurement system of the Archon race and know that a 'kai' translates to roughly one year in our familiar units. But there are two uncertainties we haven't been able to get answers to yet. First, we know that time flows differently on the Archons' home planet, Arkaris, than on our Earth, so a 'kai' there is somewhat shorter than it would be here. Second, we never got an answer from our suzerains about when the countdown started. There's even a special opinion that the countdown began from the moment the virt-capsule was built on Earth and the first human appeared in the virtual game."

"Virt-capsules?" some bespectacled guy in the hall latched onto the term that slipped into the diplomat's speech.

"Yes, precisely virt-capsules. In this video I showed, the schematics show the general structure of the virt-capsule, and then the step-by-step assembly process. Different projections, different details, but in the end, it all logically fits into a coherent design. The first successful assembly was achieved in the USA, in 1995. The first human to go into the virtual world was John Bake, a young engineer from an American electronics company. He became the first human to successfully enter the game and complete the training. Fortunately, the pioneer had the sense not to wander far from the spawn point and logged out, reporting his find to the authorities. Soon, several more researchers entered the game, then a whole group of thirty soldiers. And a month later, our military intelligence discovered the construction of an underground secret complex near Heathrow. Very soon, the necessary technologies appeared in our country too, after which the construction and preparation of the underground facility 'Zarya-1', where we are now, began near Moscow…"

"You mentioned training in the game. Can you clarify this unclear point?" the same bespectacled guy interrupted the speaker again.

Voronov grimaced in a displeased smile but still answered this question too:

"Yes, every newcomer, immediately after creating their character, must undergo training in the game. It's a kind of acclimatization to the virtual body, skill training, and also a test. Those who successfully escape the training within the allotted time receive additional character points for their avatar's characteristics—whichever you prefer. It's a rare opportunity to enhance your character's base stats, so this chance isn't wasted. That's why we have instructors who will handle your training and preparation, so be sure to get briefed by them before entering the game. You're given about half an hour to complete the training. You must learn to reliably reach the game's exit point or respawn point within fifteen minutes; only then will you be admitted to the virt-capsule. Experienced mentors will review the resulting 'blank' and advise which skills to take for effective gameplay and which characteristics to enhance using unallocated points."

"And where are the virt-capsules located?" the bespectacled guy persisted, although his neighbors in the hall were already shushing him disapprovingly.

"The question about the virt-capsule is the last one I'll answer right now. Ask all other questions after my speech is over, otherwise we'll never finish," Sergey Mikhailovich said displeasedly. "So, the 'virt-capsule' and its location. Each of you has only one virt-capsule per player. It's located in your living quarters and operates by drawing energy from our planet's gravitational and electromagnetic fields. But it's much more complicated when we have many virt-capsules—dozens and hundreds—and need to organize their synchronous operation. It's not enough for a newcomer to enter the virtual world; they must appear in a specific place and be correctly identified by the game world as a member of a certain faction. By the way, our faction is called Faction-2 or abbreviated H2. This abbreviation will always be displayed on your equipment; it's impossible to remove or erase this inscription. There's also the English Faction-3, USA—Faction-1, the German Faction-4, the Chinese got their own Faction-5. Returning to the 'virt-capsule'… The Archons suggested the technology for placing virt-capsules—a kind of structure with clearly defined attachment points for individual cells and placement relative to the Earth's center. Your virt-capsule number is easy to understand from your individual numbers: your 'virt-capsule' is the number of your room in the dormitory."

I pricked up my ears, expecting to hear important information about some limitations on the number of players per faction and related difficulties, but Voronov's speech was unexpectedly interrupted by a deafeningly wailing siren. A vile, disgusting sound, piercing to the bone, resembling an air raid siren, sending shivers running all over my body. Then, an amplified voice echoed under the dome: "Attention, alarm! Our second outpost is under attack! Threat of a breakthrough through the Black Hills! More than four hundred attacking NPCs! To arms! Everyone to the virt-capsules!!!"


Chapter 4

And with that, the meeting for the newcomers was over. The general alarm had sounded, so the head of "Zarya-1" postponed his presentation until 7 a.m. the next day.

Sergey Mikhailovich did not answer the barrage of questions about the Archons, the number of outposts, or the general game situation. Instead, he turned around at the door and ordered all newcomers to go to the residential blocks, check into the dormitory, familiarize themselves with the daily schedule and the base rules, and then start studying the game information presented on the terminals in their rooms. And at 7 a.m. tomorrow, they were to finally listen to the introductory information, practice generating their characters, and actively enter the game.

I left the building where the meeting was held. The siren was blaring everywhere, and many people in uniform were running in the same direction.

"Sounds like a really serious fight is going on. Maybe we should join in too?" I asked my colleagues, but found no support in their eyes.

They all started parroting that we had been given clear instructions on what to do this evening and we needed to follow them. I sighed heavily and trudged after the other newcomers. The path to the residential blocks was short; I went up to my floor and entered my room. A standard room: a small bed in the corner, a nightstand next to it, an armchair with a desk, an information terminal on the wall, and a combined toilet/shower cubicle. Everything was arranged quite cozily, but it didn't feel like home. There was another room with a glass door; my capsule was presumably in there.

I generally trust my intuition; it almost never lets me down. And right now, I could feel it in my bones that I needed to start familiarizing myself with the new game right away, without wasting any time.

Cautiously, expecting an angry shout from one of the local observers at any second, I headed towards the capsule. The door wouldn't budge. I twisted the handle, pushed, even thought about kicking it down, but then decided against it… I went to the information terminal and decided to look for information there. I turned on the terminal; it immediately asked me to register. After registration, a menu with capsule settings appeared. After fiddling with the terminal settings for about half an hour, I managed to configure access to both the capsule and my room. After that, I went back to the capsule—the door opened by itself as I approached it.

My eyes were met by a short corridor leading to a small, glass-walled room. In the center stood an oval metal couch with a transparent lid, and on the wall, among other things, my number "1333" was displayed. I stood for a while, examining this high-tech structure and openly admiring its smooth, flawless curves. The lid slid upwards easily as soon as I touched it. The couch was covered with a very beautiful material, like in an expensive business-class car, and seemed to invite me in.

Cautiously, still in my boots, I stepped onto the softly springy surface. It was fine; it held my weight. I lay down and reached for the lid, but it was already moving on its own, starting to close. At the same time, the material, which had seemed like glass from the outside, abruptly lost its transparency and looked completely black from inside.

"Perfect, it's just perfect!" was all I had time to think before the world around me changed.

I was standing in an oval room. The walls were covered with some kind of luminous material that shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow. The ceiling and floor seemed to be made of some very strong frosted glass, as nothing was visible through them. Just two or three steps in any direction, and I bumped into an invisible barrier.

A life-sized screen appeared before me, an image projected onto the wall that mirrored all my movements and grimaces, but also allowed me, if I wished, to mentally rotate the image and examine myself from all sides. Which I did, critically inspecting myself and grimacing with dissatisfaction: yeah, I'd put on some weight at the Siberian base; there were definitely a couple of extra kilos on me.

The next moment, my reflection in the mirror showed me with a neat, short haircut, fit, and with an athletic build. Wow! And what about this: a side-swept fringe, shaved sides? Obeying my desires, the image changed dutifully. Okay, and what about changing eye color? No, don't like it, change it back.

After playing with the hairstyle, I moved on to the body. Now for bulging muscles, tall stature, broad shoulders, and everything else… I was planning to sculpt for myself the flawless body of Apollo that would please all girls without exception, but here I was met with a "bummer-bird"—I could only change the skin tone within certain limits and add or remove moles and scars. Ah, too bad. But alright, what's next?

"Your character's name: Starkov Pyotr Nikiforovich," the inscription appeared above my image in the projection, and I shook my head in dissatisfaction.

No, that won't do. Do I really need everyone I meet to know my real name? So… I managed to shorten the name to Stark… Stark? Like from "The Avengers"? Am I going to be Tony Stark? Laughing, I erased the name completely. I had this nickname online, "Mrak Petrovich," and I was quite fine with it. Like when I played online shooters, after another headshot, kids would write: "Dude, go raise some kids." It was funny. Okay, good, let it be "Mrak"; why not: it's intimidating and inspires fear and respect. What's next?

Available player classes to choose: "Scout" or "Translator."

What? Translator? From what to what am I supposed to translate? Why no "Assault," "Sniper," "Hunter," finally? What kind of restriction of my rights and possibilities is this? What if I wanted to be a tank operator, a reconnaissance officer, or a pilot? I tried to expand the selection of offered professions or go back to the name and appearance menu, but nothing worked. Damn… Okay, and how do they differ?

"Scout." A specialist in detecting and finding valuable items. As the character's level and skills increase, so do the chances of finding unique loot.

Primary skills: scanning, reconnaissance, working with explosives.

Class limitations: Cannot use heavy and powered armor. Cannot use heavy weapons, missile systems, and powered defense systems.

All the necessary information was displayed on the projection over my image. Okay, understood. So what's the gimmick of the "Scout" then? Instantly, obeying my mental query, different text appeared on the projection:

"Scout." A specialist in discovering hidden locations, anomalies, and useful items using scanning systems. As the character's level and skills increase, so do the detection chance and the value of the loot.

I didn't even bother looking at the "Translator" class; it's just not for me, and in school, I barely scraped by with a C in German. So, I wanted to choose the "Scout."

And although I was intrigued by the words about finding hidden locations and anomalies, the "inability to use heavy weapons" was very concerning. At long sniper range, such a character is no fighter, and the same goes for the "Translator." At medium and close range… Well, that was unclear. I knew too little about this game so far and had no idea about the existing weapon types there. Perhaps there was something, and quite suitable for harming all the nasties. I wonder, are there cheaters there? Or maybe not…

I pulled up the information on the "Scout" again. It seemed like a more balanced class, and this path seemed logical for me, considering my training, work in the agencies, and the knowledge I gained there. I was just about to make my choice when my gaze caught on the combination of words "specialist in extraction" and "bonus to volume."

So what does that mean? After discovering useful minerals or ore veins, will I be forced to mine the found valuables myself, just because the character has a bonus to extraction or search? I shuddered at the bleak prospect of spending the next two years of my life with a pickaxe, toiling in some mines. That would be enough to go crazy from monotony and boredom…

Screw that, I'm definitely not going to work there; that's not why they sent me here. And I made up my mind, settling on the "Scout."

The image dimmed sharply, then reflected the following table with character information:

[Character Table would be inserted here in the original text. It typically includes stats like Strength, Agility, Stamina, Intellect, Spirit, Health, Mana, Armor, etc.]

I carefully read the resulting characteristics. It was hard to tell right off the bat. And the zero magic wasn't encouraging either, but it seemed there was a choice after all, and that was cool. It's not that I expected the "Scout" to have any magical abilities, quite the opposite, but if such a characteristic existed in the table, it meant that someone *did* have magic!

By the way, I could read brief tooltips for all characteristics. Things like "Strength" affects the weight the character can carry, the throwing range of various objects, and the damage dealt by melee weapons. Or that the number of health points depends on the character's level and some multiplier, individual for each game class. Regarding magic, it said that the amount of "mana" depends on "Intellect," level, and a coefficient related to the game class. Apparently, for the "Scout," this coefficient was simply zero.

Overall, I didn't discover anything new for myself; all the character stats were familiar and had been encountered in other games one way or another. The only thing that raised questions was "Fame"—it was unclear how it was calculated and what it affected. Was it some kind of "karma"—positive or negative—where depending on your previous actions you could find good loot or find nothing at all.

I quickly confirmed that it was impossible to edit any parameters in the table, and I had to accept what the game system had created for my character. The only choice the game offered me was to confirm that I had familiarized myself with the introductory data and was ready to enter the game world, or to wait and think some more.

In an ideal world, I should exit the virt-capsule now, wait until tomorrow, listen to the introductory briefing, then study the game system, and only then continue. But can you imagine how hard it is to tear yourself away from a new toy you've just been given to try, especially with such realistic graphics! Damn, what kind of servers do they have here?

I understood that as soon as I confirmed that I had reviewed the initial characteristics and was ready, I would be immediately transported into the game. I was fully aware of the reprimand I would get from my superiors if I failed the test and missed the opportunity to get stronger. On the other hand, I was hardly a little kid starting a game for the first time, not understanding how to move or orient myself. I was a sufficiently experienced gamer who had seen a myriad of different game realities. Surely, I had the ability and experience to handle this?!

So, focusing internally and wishing myself luck, I confirmed that I was ready for the trials.

Chapter 5

The image changed instantly. The projection vanished, and in its place, a spherical opening appeared in the wall, shimmering with a dark blue force field, periodically streaked with discharges—like lightning or something else. And one by one, the character's stats, health, and mana bars appeared as colored strips. As each bar appeared before my eyes, a notification popped up as a text tooltip, so there were no ambiguities or questions left about the new features.

I turned my head, but the semi-transparent strips, as if glued on, remained constantly in the upper right part of my field of vision. They didn't obstruct the view or irritate me at all; all the bars were at their maximum possible length. So, I nodded in satisfaction.

Scanning – that's my character class ability. As the skill level increases, the scanning radius and detection probability will increase, the types of returns will expand, and the skill's cooldown will decrease. Lines of information immediately ran before my eyes, and a small, gray icon appeared, very similar to a diamond.

Wow! I fell into a kind of stupor, especially since I couldn't test the new ability in practice—the icon remained inactive.

Meanwhile, the introduction to the character's game capabilities continued. An experience progress bar appeared at the bottom of the screen.

"Using skills and performing game actions fill the progress bar. When the bar is completely filled, the character's level increases. Character death resets the progress bar," lines of information ran before my eyes again.

"Warning!!! Character death with an empty progress bar results in the loss of one level, all unallocated skill points, and part of the character's existing skills and items. A second death will result in the loss of two levels and a significant loss of skills."