Alexander Kazantsev - The Destruction of Faena

Nega Luton ran in and, after a glance at the papers, threw her arms round Ala Veg’s neck.

“What happiness, my dear! At last our mission here is being accomplished and the roundheads needn’t move to this accursed Mar, but will be settled on the newly available spaces of Faena. I’ve been so homesick for comforts, services and refined society. Haven’t you too, my dear?”

Ala Veg seemed turned to stone.

“Is the disintegration war over already?” was all she could manage to say.

“Not yet, of course!” announced Mrak Luton portentously, “but this war will be won by whoever delivers the most devastating salvo. And we are going to do the same too.”

“Who are ‘we’?” asked Ala Veg uncomprehendingly.

Mrak Luton sounded the general alarm and left his office for the big cabin next door in which Mada and Ave had stayed only recently.

Soon, the entire crew of the space station was assembled there. The timid Tycho Veg came, as did the flustered, out-of-breath Brat and Lada Lua.

Mrak Luton read out the news concerning the annihilation of Danjab’s main cities.

Nega Luton closely watched the expressions on the faces of those present. She did not miss Brat Lua’s horror. His now pale face was like polished bone. Lada Lua burst into tears.

“I will not tolerate treachery,” Mrak Luton shouted at her, “even if it expresses itself in pity for the enemy. I order an automatic ship to be sent to Phobo immediately.”

“What? To the enemy?” said Nega Luton in astonishment.

“With a disintegration warhead,” explained Mrak Luton.

“That’s another matter.” And Nega Luton sighed with relief.

“The gentle lady should be ashamed to say such things!” Lada Lua could not help saying. “She is a Sister of Health, after all!”

“Silence!” roared Mrak Luton. “Engineer Tycho Veg and assistant servant Brat Lua! In the name of the Dictator, I order you to fit a missile with a disintegration warhead on the station’s ship and program it for automatic flight to Phobo.”

“A disintegration warhead?” asked Tycho Veg. “But there isn’t one on the station.”

Mrak Luton roared with laughter so that his flabby jowls quivered.

“Don’t be so naive. Engineer Tycho Veg! You will find the warhead in space at the end of the greenhouse to which it was delivered as a spare cabin for the ship.”

“I object, profoundly thoughtful Mrak Luton,” exclaimed Brat Lua. “The blessed Dictator of Powermania concluded a treaty with the Ruler of Dan jab. There cannot be any disintegration weapon in space.”

“Treachery!” roared Mrak Luton. “You’re under arrest, you roundhead traitor! Engineer Tycho Veg, tie the mutineer’s hands!”

Tycho Veg glanced in indecision at his wife.

“If the disintegration war has begun, it means… Clearly, all treaties are invalid,” she said timidly.

Tycho Veg reluctantly obeyed the order. He and Mrak Luton pushed Brat Lua into the chief’s office. Mrak Luton locked the door.

“Now proceed to the greenhouse, quickly,” he ordered Tycho Veg. “I took measures for the disintegration warhead to be close at hand!…”

With a glance at his wife, Tycho Veg went despondently to the lift-cage.

“I proclaim the station to be in a state of emergency. Any act of disobedience will be dealt with not by arrest, but with a poisoned bullet!” And Mrak Luton brandished his pistol.

“Gentle sir, please spare my husband. He didn’t know that the treaty wasn’t valid any more,” said Lada Lua, rushing up to the station chief.

“Quick march to your stations, all of you!” roared Mrak Luton. “The astronomer Ala Veg will report all space observations to me and maintain electromagnetic communications. But your place, roundhead woman, is in the kitchen.”

Mrak Luton collapsed into his armchair, exhausted. His rectangular face with the pendulous jowls went purple, his neck swelled. He tugged at his collar, unable to breathe properly for want of air.

On the other Marian orbit, on the station near Phobo, news of the disintegration war had been brought by Engineer Vydum (Inventor) Polar. His intelligent face, always keenly alert, now expressed horror and dismay. He had earned his name for an early inclination to invention. He had once built a walking steamcar, had made magnetic fastenings for clothes and sprung running shoes, and had obtained a fine strip of dried wood which in some other age on some other planet would have been called paper. He was invariably assisted by his friend, the talented, always cheerful, small and mercurial craftsman Al Ur, who regarded Vydum as an unrecognised genius. He was with him this time too, and had hurried after him into the station chief’s office to back his friend’s demands.

There was one more Faetian who had taken note of the unsuccessful inventor. This was Dovol (Content) Sirus, a powerful proprietor. He was not averse to profiting by Vydum Polar’s abilities, and, on his wife’s advice, had married Vydum to Sveta, his daughter by his first marriage, a mild, quiet girl, totally submissive to her powerful stepmother, who ruled the family with a rod of iron in order to further its social influence.

Dovol Sirus, a sleek, almost bald Faetian with heavy features and thin lips, took fright on meeting Vydum Polar.

Usually genial, always ready to agree with the other person, he was the personification of prosperity, sufficiency and equanimity. But his peace of mind had now been shattered. His small eyes darted here and there almost in dismay. When he heard Vydum Polar’s news, he promptly sent out a call for the greenhouse nurserywoman, his wife Vlasta Sirus.

Vydum Polar passionately tried to drive his point home to the station chief.

“I am prepared personally to take a ship to Deimo, and I am prepared to take my wife and Mila Ur. Her husband will stay behind with you to look after the machinery. Space has been declared peaceful. The war of disintegration that has just broken out is our common misfortune: we must share it with the personnel on Deimo.”

Dovol Sirus nodded his agreement, glancing at the door from time to time.

Sveta was his favourite.

On the insistence of his vociferous wife Vlasta, Dovol Sirus had made use on Faena of the pre-war jitters to acquire influence over Dobr Mar in Danjab. He had even obtained the rank of general from him. True, when a disintegration war became imminent, Vlasta Sirus made General Sirus get as far away from Faena as possible and become chief of a space station, taking his stepdaughter with him and her luckless husband.

“You’ll fly from here, but what about us?” asked Dovol Sirus uncertainly.

“We’ll come back as soon as we’ve discussed with our unfortunate brothers from Faena what’s to be done next…”

“What’s the meaning of all this gadding about?” came the fruity voice of Vlasta Sirus as she entered the room. “I shall never let Sveta go. I am as a mother to her.”

“But, my dear-” objected the station chief.

“What if the people on Deimo take our ship for a torpedo? They’ve got defence rockets too, you know.”

“But, my dear…”

“’My dear, my dear’!” mimicked Vlasta. “We have a daughter we love. She must be rescued. By any possible means.”

Vlasta Sirus cast a withering glance at her husband from under knitted brows and compressed her thin lips.

“But my dear… I promise you. Our ship will surely fly to Station Deimo. And you and I, you and I only, will appoint the crew members.”

Vlasta Sirus slapped the table with the flat of her hand.

“Exactly—you and I. And that will be the most reliable crew! We must preserve our lives! Preserve them! In this war, what matters most is to survive!” And she ran a glare of hatred over all three Faetians. “To survive!”