Classic science fiction. Stories and tales. Version in English

“The delay has increased…”

“What do you mean, increased?” – Grigoriy Petrovich exploded. “You’ve been allocated colossal funds. You’ve been assigned a critical project, and if at some stage unexpected circumstances caused a delay, by now it should have been long rectified. No exceptions. And your statement today about a delay, moreover its growth, is considered by me as sabotage! I suggest you review your position and set the correct priorities. I expect an adequate response tomorrow…” – the screen went black, the connection was cut.

Only five or six years ago, communication with Earth was so difficult that sending a mission to the edges of the Solar System was considered a kind of blessing – far away from the boss… But everything changed radically after a breakthrough in the study of the egregosphere – some little-studied informational space – and now there was nowhere to hide from the all-seeing eye of the Earth curator.

Petrovich cursed at the empty screen once again and was about to check on the drilling rig that had failed yesterday when a one-line, unsigned, private message appeared on the screen: “Do something! Things are really bad.”

It was the curator, and Petrovich understood perfectly that the official part was official, and he had to talk in that manner, while on a human level, the curator had warned him of the impending problems…

“What’s going on with this drill?!” Petrovich yelled into the void and connected with the tunneling sector.

2.

Activity reigned in the tunneling sector. Alexander Sergeyevich and Valery Sidorovich, burning the priceless energy of the plasma batteries, drove two repair robots across the room. As is customary among repair crews, a good repairman is one who sleeps at his workstation, because all his equipment is in working order.

The drilling machine, nicknamed “Excavator” by the staff, hit a layer of rock it wasn’t designed for, suddenly reversed, and crushed itself. Neither Alik – Alexander Sergeyevich – nor Valerik – Valery Sidorovich – saw anything terrible, relying entirely on the repair robots, which swarmed around the enormous excavator and were supposed to have it repaired by midnight. But what to do with the rock layer that caused the program failure remained unresolved, and for now they focused on freeing their minds from everything extraneous, indulging in base feelings of excitement and competitiveness…

3.

“– What’s going on with the drill?” – suddenly a voice sounded behind them. Both were caught off guard and immediately jumped, dropping the robot control panels onto the floor.

“I’ll ask again: what’s happening with the drill?” – a screen floated directly in front of them, and the boss’s gaze drilled into them. The boss was displeased – there was no doubt about that.

“We reported earlier…” – Alik tried to compose himself, adjusting his work jacket.

“The layer has unknown properties at a depth of fifteen to twenty-two. Power unit and main conductor failure…” – added Valerik.

“All e-stable logic burned out, and the machine almost fell…” – Alik recalled.

“That’s it?” – the boss looked at them with a destructive glare from the screen.

“For now, yes.”

“Expecting anything else?” – the boss smiled sarcastically, but Alik and Valerik were pure technicians, and somewhat naive when it came to politics and human relationships. The sarcasm went completely over their heads, and they only shrugged in confusion.

“Deadlines?” – the boss cut in.

“By midnight…”

“Most likely…”

“By midnight?!” – the boss could no longer contain himself. “What do you mean, ‘most likely’? ” – when it came to instilling the correct values in people and giving proper directives, no one matched his skill, as his subordinates had repeatedly observed.

“You are both Soviet people! Soviet not in name only, but in conviction! The people and the Party entrusted you with a responsible task – to build the first – » – he raised a meaningful index finger – “fully-fledged settlement on another celestial body! This is an enormous honor and responsibility. You were selected here under the strictest criteria, and what do we have now?! We have: operational failure,” – Petrovich began counting on his fingers – “second, misappropriation of resources, and third, most importantly, loss of trust. How will you face your comrades after all this? I’m asking you!”

Both repairmen lowered their eyes, feeling that somewhere they had miscalculated, made mistakes, or even acted negligently, without fully understanding where or how.

“So, esteemed gentlemen, will we fix the drill by lunch? Will we start tunneling by three o’clock? Or head back to Earth immediately, in disgrace? With reprimands and dismissal!!!”

“We won’t make it…” – muttered Alik.

“Excuse me, didn’t hear that?” – Petrovich stared at him.

“We’ll do everything in our power!” – stepped forward the more experienced Valerik.

“And overdeliver!” – added Alik, somewhat out of place.

“Excellent.” – Petrovich smiled. “Then by noon I’ll send the tunneling crew. No time to waste…”

The concept of time here, on the moon of a gas giant, was relative. There was no sunrise or sunset as on Earth, but everyone still adhered to a 24-hour schedule. Morning and evening were relative notions.

Petrovich disappeared, leaving the repairmen alone with their obligation. Below, under the swarming excavator, yawned a hole several hundred meters in diameter and one and a half kilometers deep. According to the project, its depth was supposed to reach just over three kilometers, filled with urban space, and root-like branches were planned in all horizontal directions… The project itself was a grand innovation, but unfortunately, its execution was lacking.

“So, a five-year plan in four years, in three shifts, with two hands for one salary?” – grumbled a dissatisfied Alik.

“Don’t worry,” – replied Valerik. “We just need to fix the power unit by lunch; the rest will follow. Productivity will drop, and we may lose up to five hours, but if management wants a quick start, we’ll help…”

“Eh.” – Alik waved his hand, starting the recalibration of the repair operations. As soon as he touched the “stop” button, all the scurrying robots froze instantly, and a couple even fell to the floor, scattering their tools and spare parts.

“How long will it take you to recalibrate?” – Valerik asked.

“Not long. At most, ten minutes…”

“Good,” – Valerik directed the auxiliary robots to collect the scattered parts. “We have three hours until lunch… Are you trained to recalibrate cyborgs?”

“Of course!” – Alik responded, feeling a little offended. “One of my main specialties. Why do you ask?”

“Just checking. I’ll tell you later. Recalibrate… Three hours should be enough… We’ll head to the mess hall, visit Zinka in the meantime.”

“Alright…” – immersed in the process, muttered Alik.

4.

Zinaida at the station was in charge of the mess hall, the uniform warehouse, and the personal belongings storage. Considering the level of automation, the station could easily operate without her, but according to the Staffing Schedule and Allocation, this position was officially required and naturally filled.

Zinaida was only about thirty. No longer a young girl, but not quite a woman yet, stuck in a transitional age, she was a blend of a highly educated professional, having graduated from a specialized university, and a vibrant representative of rural culture, complete with the obligatory “hands on hips” and “who dares to argue with me?!” attitude.

To say Zinaida was useless would be untrue. She provided meals, monitored uniform maintenance, ensured timely cleaning, and created other elements of “simulated busy activity.” The workers treated her with light smiles but recognized her significance in the predominantly male crew, trapped on the gas giant’s moon for months on end.

Zinaida clearly showed no favoritism, even demonstratively brushing off all admirers, but somehow, rumors and gossip about her life outside her functional duties were full of piquant details.

Zinaida Petrovna was fiercely reprogramming the food dispenser. The machine drove her insane. Once set to provide the optimal diet for workers engaged in construction in space, it stubbornly refused to reduce doses or cut portions. Zinaida knew that back on Earth, people had long figured out how to bypass these “pseudo-scientific” recipes, and the eternal well-being of trade and catering workers had returned to its usual course.

“Zinochka, dear…” – a voice sounded behind her. “We need rags… nothing to wipe our hands with…”

Out of seemingly nowhere appeared Valerik, one of the repairmen whose mistakes had already delayed their return several times.

“That’s not allowed!” – Zinaida snapped, returning to her cursed machine.

“Zin, look… you must have some rags. The old uniforms were retired ages ago…”

“What part of ‘not allowed’ don’t you understand?!” – Zinaida turned her full, powerful chest toward him. “I told you – it’s not allowed! If I start handing out uniforms for rags to everyone here, what do you think will happen? Get out!” – she gestured authoritatively toward the door.

“Eh, Zina, Zina…” – Valerik waved at her and began to leave.

“What, Zina?” – she exploded in her characteristic style, raising her voice and flailing her arms. “All sorts of people wander around begging, yet you ruin the drill for the umpteenth time, and now sit here at your mercy. A couple more times and you’ll have nothing to wear, hiding in rags from the boss. Who do you think will teach me how to do my job?! Get out! I don’t even want to see you!! They hire self-taught intellectuals who are all thumbs. My younger brother, he dismantled and rebuilt the collective farm irrigation system on a bet,” – she pronounced the word “irrigation” with such fervor that Valerik felt uneasy – “a fool, of course, got in trouble for it, but he has golden hands and a sharp mind, unlike these…”

Zinaida got carried away, and from past experience, Valerik knew she could have gone on like that for a long time if not for…

“Are you still fiddling there?” – whispered Valerik, nudging Alik. “Is it really harder than recalibrating a robot?”

“Don’t rush me.” – Alik worked at the console. “We’ll need to convert it back to the screaming fool later; we must preserve the old settings.”

“Ah…” – Valerik agreed. “Go ahead, I’ll keep watch outside the door.”

There was no click, no flash, nothing made a sound, yet Zinaida, in the middle of her temper outburst, suddenly froze and then went limp. Her shapely body would have collapsed onto the mess hall floor, but Valerik arrived just in time, catching her and, with some effort, placed her on a nearby chair.

“Where have you been?” – he reproached Alik, already working on adjusting Zinaida’s settings on the floating console.

“Petrovich was checking on things… personally came by…”

“Ah! Got it.” – Valerik waved. “So, did you send him off?”

“Yes… Don’t disturb me.”

Reconfiguring a cyborg was by no means simple, unlike what an ordinary person used to working with primitive, pre-approved function packages might think. The functions were usually “embedded” in the empty heads of auxiliary personnel, and controlling them resembled the antics of a mischievous monkey putting cubes and balls into corresponding holes. What Alik was doing now was akin to delicate neurosurgery – deciding during a complex operation which neural circuits to activate, which to block, and which to remove or replace with artificial ones. Reconfiguring the cyborg to satisfy very specific desires, adjusting temperament and motor functions, was only a fraction of what Alik, with a student’s agility, accomplished in just ten to fifteen minutes.

Again, there was no click, no flash, nothing, yet Zinaida seemed as if replaced.

“Oh! Boys…” – she moaned in a way that, to Alik, seemed fitting for ladies of her sort.

“Zina! Darling!” – Valerik returned.

“My dears.” – with indescribable grace, crossing one leg over the other and revealing her thigh up to the hip, Zinaida extended her hands toward them. “Shall we be a threesome? Or do you have more friends behind the door?”

“You’ll reset her afterward, right?” – whispered Valerik, approaching, anticipating holding those full forms.

“What question!” – Alik winked at him. “When you’re done, tell me…” – and began to leave.

“Where are you going?” – Valerik asked, surprised.

“Watching the repairs… don’t want the power unit to completely fail…”

“Suit yourself.” – Valerik snorted, adding to the blushing Zinaida, “Just the two of us.”

“What a pity.” – she replied equally languidly. “I wanted to ask him to recalibrate the food dispenser afterward…”

5.

The curator of space projects, though stationed permanently on Earth, could, thanks to communication and monitoring systems, maintain contact and stay fully informed about all seven of his projects. Seven – no more, no less. According to the norms of manageability, this was the exact number of objects one person could effectively oversee. Any more and efficiency would drop due to the sheer number of projects; any fewer and efficiency would also decline, now due to the manager being underutilized. So – seven – was a justified number, just like everything else in Grigory Petrovich’s life and that of his peers.

At the moment, he was fully occupied. While six projects were progressing more or less successfully, the seventh – the most critical – had been stalling from the very start. Grigory Petrovich understood perfectly well that pressuring the station personnel was pointless – no matter what, they wouldn’t meet the deadlines, would only damage the equipment, and risk exhausting themselves. Scanning through the incident reports automatically compiled from hidden cameras, placed in nearly every corner, he deliberately ignored minor and medium violations, as long as it helped push the project forward.

Incident reports were compiled both daily, for the next morning, and in real time, whenever something extraordinary occurred. Grigory Petrovich looked at the repair robots’ skirmishes caused by the two repairmen with complete indifference, ignored the consumption of smuggled alcohol, noted with a smirk the wild orgy in the mess hall with a flesh-and-blood lady, and casually skimmed the notes about the theft of tools made from precious metals – no one could smuggle them out anyway.

Alas, no matter how much he wanted to turn a blind eye, the manual required vigilance and mandatory intervention. So, without much thought, he made the only correct decision that wouldn’t interfere with task completion: Zinaida, involved in the moral degradation incident, would receive a formal reprimand and be addressed at the general assembly, while the repairman would be privately reminded of the unethical nature of his behavior and instructed not to interfere with work… As for the rest – neither theft nor alcohol should impede their laborious achievements. Once everything was done, they would be held accountable.

Grigory Petrovich was just about to announce his unseen presence when, as unexpectedly as he “appeared” on the station, a pop-up screen flashed before him.

The caller was clearly a security officer. They were always recognizable by their sly look, overly friendly manner, and skill at subtly subduing the opponent’s will.

“Good day, Grigory Petrovich,” said someone new, whom Petrovich had never met. Yet the newcomer spoke as if they had been drinking together just yesterday, already knowing so much about each other that a lifelong friendship seemed inevitable.

“Good day,” replied Grigory Petrovich. “Pleasure… May I ask the reason for your call?”

“Oh, actually, nothing…” – the officer smiled slyly. “Just a routine check-in. Wanted to see how your projects are going.”

“The assigned sector…” – Petrovich began formally, but was interrupted.

“Why so formal?! We’re not at a reception or in the boss’s office.” – the officer smiled, making Grigory Petrovich feel uneasy. “Just for the record, you understand… It’s a facilitation function.”

Grigory Petrovich understood both the facilitation and the monitoring functions, the latter unspoken aloud, and he also knew it was unclear which was more dangerous – mere oversight or that so-called facilitation.

“In general, everything is proceeding as expected, given the complexity of the systems… Of course, there are occasional setbacks, sometimes due to technical issues, sometimes human, but in any case, the heroic and selfless labor of Soviet people for the benefit of the motherland and all humanity can solve even such problems.”

“Yes, problems, factors…” – the officer agreed gently. “I understand… We work with people ourselves. Sometimes you have to intervene and make decisions when the situation gets… starts getting out of control.” – corrected the officer. “Recently, I heard a rumor, and I’ll share it unofficially: on one of the off-world stations, the project isn’t exactly failing, but it’s heading in that direction. So the higher-ups wondered about the causes – seemingly the project is correct, designed by responsible people, approved at the very top, an excellent team, perfect code at all levels, yet the project stalls, deadlines slip, equipment is damaged, funds overspent, and there are rumors of alcoholism, idleness, and moral decay… Now try to figure out where the failure lies! Who made a mistake?! Whose competence should be scrutinized?!”

Grigory Petrovich swallowed hard.

“On the other hand,” continued the officer, “people get tired, overwork, lose touch with reality… People get tired. They take on too many responsibilities… What can you do, perhaps it’s best to get rid of such people. What do you think – how should one deal with such individuals to be humane yet not forget their ‘merits’? ” – the officer deliberately emphasized the word merits, making Grigory Petrovich immediately uneasy.

“Well, Grigory Petrovich?” – the officer smiled, not waiting for a reply. “I’m sure we won’t have such problems with you. Despite the fact that you’ve selflessly stayed at the research center for over a year, without contact with the outside world, you haven’t lost vigilance, diligence, initiative, or the desire for self-improvement. People like you, Grigory Petrovich, are the foundation of our present and the builders of a bright future for generations to come.”

Grigory Petrovich didn’t know what to say…

“Well, Grigory Petrovich, I’m glad everything is going well for you. I hope in the future you will continue to delight us with your labor achievements, and I hope to meet you in person, to shake your courageous hand.”

The screen vanished. Grigory Petrovich, hand trembling, took out a handkerchief and wiped the sticky sweat from his brow. “They know everything! Foolish it was to hide failures from the very beginning, thinking we could catch up, divert resources from other projects, solve the arising difficulties… Foolish, foolish…” But had he admitted the failures from the start, his rating would have immediately plummeted, and then, see, it could have fallen below the competence threshold. Then it would not have been a question of moving to the next category, but rather of how to preserve his status at all – “the fallen” were hardly welcomed in the management ranks.

6.

“Sergey,” – throwing aside all formalities, Grigory Petrovich urged the station chief to do everything possible to save the project – “is there truly no way to salvage the situation?”

“We’re trying, Grisha, we’re trying.” In moments of difficulty and general calamity, both upper and lower levels suddenly recognize the interdependence and significance of each party. “You’ve seen yourself – things are bad all around.”

“Yeah…”

Their conversation had been going on for about ten minutes, revolving around minor details that could – or could not – change the course of events.

“You see, I got a call, you know from where.” Grigory understood perfectly well that he would not be patted on the back for divulging this, but compared to the project’s failure, costing the Soviet people and all allied nations enormous resources, it was a minor detail. Immense hopes rested on this project; it had been elevated almost to the heavens, with its completion seen as proof of the capability and power of Soviet society. In official media, everything seemed flawless, exceeding plan expectations: lofty speeches, labor obligations, hero and shock-worker appearances. Any failure could provoke not just worldwide resonance but bury under its debris all those involved.

“They found out after all,” Sergey grimaced. “And what now?”

“We have one last chance…”

Sergey Petrovich expressed himself crudely, which would immediately be noted in his personal file, but the situation was critical.

“Maybe you could check with your people again, how much…” – the curator, losing his composure, could not calm himself.

“What can you expect from these fools?” – the station chief was outraged – “They start battles with robots or reprogram Zinka for… pleasures. I’d personally, with my own hands, deal with the programmers who put positronic connections and personalities into these idiots’ heads…” – he cursed again – “How can one manage with such material?”

“Ah, Sergey, Sergey, you didn’t see the times when these very cyborgs couldn’t even step without instructions, without intervention… Seems like ages ago, but only three or four years…”

“And what then?”

“Well,” – the subject change seemed to lift the curator’s spirits – “they used to slack off, die for nothing, break equipment, so it was easier to replace them with humans. You understand, in such conditions, labor law forbids it – era of robotization and humanity. So they found a Solomon-like solution: give them independence, decision-making ability depending on the situation, emotions, human-like traits… Now you can hardly tell where a human ends and a self-developing cybernetic organism begins. That’s how it is, Sergey… Now we have to work with complicated, imperfect, but autonomous material… You asked how things were – well, I’m more an administrator than a technician.”

“So, how’s it going there, guys?” – Sergey Petrovich connected with the drill site, hidden under the massive dome. “Am I disturbing too much?”

“Not at all!” – reported Ivanov, head of the tunneling crew. “Equipment is operational, though not fully restored, so productivity is at 75% and gradually increasing…”

“Not fully restored?!” – the chief couldn’t believe his ears. “Immediately connect me to the repair team!”

The screen flickered and the image changed. Both repairmen, nudging auxiliary robots with the tips of their boots, continued repairs on the functioning installation, ignoring all rules and instructions.

“Alexander Sergeyevich, how are things?” – suddenly the screen appeared right in front of Alik, startling him. “Why isn’t the installation fully…” – Petrovich faltered; not being a technician, he mixed up terminology – “Not fully operational, but running?”

“Deadlines, Sergey Petrovich. Your order. Repairs are happening on the go…”

“And what if…” – then the unspoken fears of the project leader came true: the drill suddenly sneezed, seemed to leap in place, and plunged into the abyss it had itself bored, dragging repair robots, kilometers of cables, and tons of auxiliary equipment along.

The hundred-thousand-ton structure, occupying the entire artificial dome, seeming so immovable and “eternal,” instantly fractured in several places. Supports buckled, and under the weight and power of the mechanisms, it disappeared into the chasm, collapsing the walls, turning the neat hole into a monstrous crater.

“Oh, God!!” – the curator exclaimed, violating the unspoken rule of denying religion and adhering to materialism, so mentioning God was, to put it mildly, incorrect.

7.

The curator disconnected. There was nothing more to say to the personnel. The project had been irreversibly ruined, the equipment destroyed, and the guilty… what was there to say about them?! Now it was time to think about oneself…

The project leader himself had already stopped worrying about the project. From millions of kilometers apart, both he and the curator found themselves in the same position – utter hopelessness.

“Well now, Grigory Petrovich?” – the screen lit up again before the curator. The osobist no longer smiled. He looked reproachfully, the way adults do toward children, trying to stir in them a sense of guilt and repentance. “You didn’t notice… You didn’t keep watch… Such a project has been ruined…”