Planetary Defense Forces. Recruit Training Manual

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?"