Valentin Kholmogorov, Mikhail Tyrin. Valentin Kholmogorov, Mikhail Tyrin Razlom authors Valentin Kholmogorov Mikhail Tyrin
Valentin Kholmogorov, Mikhail Tyrin
© S. Lukyanenko, 2013
© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017
Snow is rare in Centrum, especially here in the hot, arid moors of eastern Clondal. Rains here are also infrequent, although the locals talk about how once upon a time, in the foothills stretching along the border of Lorea, fertile valleys were green, and countless streams carried their noisy waters from somewhere from the tops of the Blue Ridge to water the golden fields. They're probably lying. It is difficult to imagine that this dull and lifeless landscape was once filled with the singing of birds and the rustling of emerald foliage; such a picture does not fit into the local harsh climate.
The recently fallen snow has already melted, turning into a squelching liquid porridge underfoot. Below, at the foot of the ridge, it probably completely disappeared, but here the cool mountain air still gave it a ghostly chance to briefly extend its life. The heeled soles of his shoes left deep ribbed clearings in the white snow cover, and Alex had stopped feeling his toes half an hour ago. But any inconvenience can be endured if it is for the good of the matter. The snow, which wrapped the rocky ledges in a lumpy, loose veil, reliably preserved the tracks. Traces of the fugitive whom they had been pursuing for the fourth hour in a row.
Gothir Golm, who was walking ahead, swore in a low voice in Klondal, slipping on another stone that was hidden in the snowy mess. His boots are local, made from Antaria, which means they are strong, but not at all suitable for jumping in the mountains. Here, military-style lace-up combat boots would be much better suited. It’s a pity, most consumer goods models with hydrophobic rubber wheels won’t withstand local realities and will fall apart at the seams literally on the second day. Neither synthetic glue, nor microfiber, nor artificial rubber, which earthly shoemakers are accustomed to using on their soles, last long in Centrum.
“Don’t turn your head off,” Alex gloomily warned his partner, and a ghostly cloud of steam escaped from his mouth.
“You won’t wait,” Golm responded just as kindly, repositioning the carbine dangling behind his back a little more comfortably.
The fugitive, judging by the footprints left in the snow, was alone and headed down the slope into the valley, opening a portal somewhere near the pass - the pursuers had passed this place in the morning. By all appearances, he was walking with a load and therefore was in no particular hurry. Another thing is much worse: the walker had a head start of about two hours, and it was impossible to catch up with him on the slippery mountain slopes even while light. “If we don’t take him, we’ll at least scare him away,” Alex thought angrily, trying to move his toes in his stiff boots. “There’s only one path here; if you’re lucky, he’ll come straight to the secret.”
At the foot of the Blue Ridge, where a narrow winding trail led, there was the secret of the sixteenth border outpost, and for about half an hour Khmel and Elbar should have been sitting there in uniform. IN Last year The drummer put his duty firmly in place, and therefore the rare forays to patrol the wastelands, which were previously practiced among the Clondal border guards, were replaced by regular and shift duties on the most dangerous routes. Eh, it would be nice to have a portable radio here, and warn the guys in time so that they can organize a committee for the meeting. But one could only dream of such luxury.
A low gray cloud clung with its shaggy belly to the mountain ridge hanging over the path and slid down the slope, lining the narrow gorges on the sides with a foggy haze - you step off the path and remember the name. The icy wind licked my cheek and threw another handful of prickly snow crumbs into my face. My nose stung. Still, it was a lousy winter in Clondal this year. Cold and damp.
- Maybe we can arrange a stop? – Golm whined again with sadly pleading intonations, and Alex grinned maliciously. The boy was not only from the locals, but on top of everything else, he came from a wealthy family - his uncle served as some kind of big shot in the Ministry of Other Worlds, an organization to which the Clondal border guards were formally subordinate. It was he who assigned his nephew to the sixteenth outpost so that he would not hang around idle. Despite his good education, Gotir Golm turned out to be a typical blockhead, accustomed to spending time in taverns and at noisy parties in the company of friends and dissolute girls. If I lived on Earth, I would drive around nightclubs in my dad’s Mercedes, wasting my own life and other people’s money to no avail. However, there were no Mercedes in Centrum, and therefore Golm, unaccustomed to hardships and deprivations, harnessed at the will of his uncle into the tight strap of the border service, clearly felt out of place, which he demonstrated to others at every opportunity. Alex did not like Golm, although he took advantage of sincere reciprocity, and the entire personnel of the outpost knew this very well. Nevertheless, the Drummer stubbornly continued to pair Golm with Alex, either hoping that he would come to terms with such a partner, or expecting that the boy would transform from a metropolitan slacker into an experienced fighter, after a good sniff of gunpowder and footcloths.
“There’s no point in freezing your eggs,” Alex grumbled in response, “although your eggs seem to be ringing anyway.” Let's go faster - we'll warm up faster.
Golm muttered something inarticulate under his breath, but still shut up. Well, fine. Alex didn't like to chat in vain.
The path twisted behind a moss-overgrown cliff, decorated with thick, noble gray snow adhering to the sides. The slope became gentler, and it became easier to walk, although small sharp stones still got tangled under our feet.
- What is this? – Golm froze in the middle of the path so unexpectedly that Alex almost ran into his skinny, stooped back. A thick roar, similar to the echoes of a distant thunderstorm, rolled over the ridge, echoing somewhere in the gorge. The sound in the mountains travels far, but sometimes it is impossible to determine its nature - it is distorted, repeatedly reflected from the rocky slopes, and becomes unlike itself. However, Alex was very familiar with this sound.
- Let's go! – he commanded briefly. - Faster!
Running down a mountain only seems easy: the chance of tripping and breaking your neck out of habit is very high, especially if you don’t look at your feet. Holding the Kalash with his elbow so that the butt wouldn’t hit his thigh, Alex leaned forward a little and ran, trying not to step too wide and step on the very instep of his foot - this way there’s a much lower chance of falling. Golm puffed hoarsely from behind. It rumbled again, several loud bangs were heard from the lowland, and then the intermittent chatter of machine guns was heard. It was strange: after listening to the sounds of the ensuing battle, Alex came to the conclusion that down there they were hitting from several guns at once. If there was only one fugitive, and there were two border guards hiding in secret, they would hardly be able to organize such a cannonade. And the experienced Khmel would not be the first to open fire. Only if the smuggler started shooting himself, out of fright, running into a hidden ambush. Or Elbar’s nerves couldn’t stand it, he’s still just a kid... Or maybe accomplices were waiting for the intruder? This is also possible, although the Clondal wastelands have always been considered a relatively quiet place, and smuggling clans have traditionally chosen less crowded places for their large-scale operations. Here, most often, lone walkers acted.
Valentin Kholmogorov, Mikhail Tyrin
© S. Lukyanenko, 2013
© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017
Snow is rare in Centrum, especially here in the hot, arid moors of eastern Clondal. Rains here are also infrequent, although the locals talk about how once upon a time, in the foothills stretching along the border of Lorea, fertile valleys were green, and countless streams carried their noisy waters from somewhere from the tops of the Blue Ridge to water the golden fields. They're probably lying. It is difficult to imagine that this dull and lifeless landscape was once filled with the singing of birds and the rustling of emerald foliage; such a picture does not fit into the local harsh climate.
The recently fallen snow has already melted, turning into a squelching liquid porridge underfoot. Below, at the foot of the ridge, it probably completely disappeared, but here the cool mountain air still gave it a ghostly chance to briefly extend its life. The heeled soles of his shoes left deep ribbed clearings in the white snow cover, and Alex had stopped feeling his toes half an hour ago. But any inconvenience can be endured if it is for the good of the matter. The snow, which wrapped the rocky ledges in a lumpy, loose veil, reliably preserved the tracks. Traces of the fugitive whom they had been pursuing for the fourth hour in a row.
Gothir Golm, who was walking ahead, swore in a low voice in Klondal, slipping on another stone that was hidden in the snowy mess. His boots are local, made from Antaria, which means they are strong, but not at all suitable for jumping in the mountains. Here, military-style lace-up combat boots would be much better suited. It’s a pity, most consumer goods models with hydrophobic rubber wheels won’t withstand local realities and will fall apart at the seams literally on the second day. Neither synthetic glue, nor microfiber, nor artificial rubber, which earthly shoemakers are accustomed to using on their soles, last long in Centrum.
“Don’t turn your head off,” Alex gloomily warned his partner, and a ghostly cloud of steam escaped from his mouth.
“You won’t wait,” Golm responded just as kindly, repositioning the carbine dangling behind his back a little more comfortably.
The fugitive, judging by the footprints left in the snow, was alone and headed down the slope into the valley, opening a portal somewhere near the pass - the pursuers had passed this place in the morning. By all appearances, he was walking with a load and therefore was in no particular hurry. Another thing is much worse: the walker had a head start of about two hours, and it was impossible to catch up with him on the slippery mountain slopes even while light. “If we don’t take him, we’ll at least scare him away,” Alex thought angrily, trying to move his toes in his stiff boots. “There’s only one path here; if you’re lucky, he’ll come straight to the secret.”
At the foot of the Blue Ridge, where a narrow winding trail led, there was the secret of the sixteenth border outpost, and for about half an hour Khmel and Elbar should have been sitting there in uniform. In the last year, the Striker has put his duty firmly in place, and therefore the rare forays to patrol the wastelands, which were previously practiced among the Clondal border guards, were replaced by regular and shift duties on the most dangerous routes. Eh, it would be nice to have a portable radio here, and warn the guys in time so that they can organize a committee for the meeting. But one could only dream of such luxury.
A low gray cloud clung with its shaggy belly to the mountain ridge hanging over the path and slid down the slope, lining the narrow gorges on the sides with a foggy haze - you step off the path and remember the name. The icy wind licked my cheek and threw another handful of prickly snow crumbs into my face. My nose stung. Still, it was a lousy winter in Clondal this year. Cold and damp.
- Maybe we can arrange a stop? – Golm whined again with sadly pleading intonations, and Alex grinned maliciously. The boy was not only from the locals, but on top of everything else, he came from a wealthy family - his uncle served as some kind of big shot in the Ministry of Other Worlds, an organization to which the Clondal border guards were formally subordinate. It was he who assigned his nephew to the sixteenth outpost so that he would not hang around idle. Despite his good education, Gotir Golm turned out to be a typical blockhead, accustomed to spending time in taverns and at noisy parties in the company of friends and dissolute girls. If I lived on Earth, I would drive around nightclubs in my dad’s Mercedes, wasting my own life and other people’s money to no avail. However, there were no Mercedes in Centrum, and therefore Golm, unaccustomed to hardships and deprivations, harnessed at the will of his uncle into the tight strap of the border service, clearly felt out of place, which he demonstrated to others at every opportunity. Alex did not like Golm, although he took advantage of sincere reciprocity, and the entire personnel of the outpost knew this very well. Nevertheless, the Drummer stubbornly continued to pair Golm with Alex, either hoping that he would come to terms with such a partner, or expecting that the boy would transform from a metropolitan slacker into an experienced fighter, after a good sniff of gunpowder and footcloths.
Snow is rare in Centrum, especially here in the hot, arid wastes of eastern Clondal. Rains here are also infrequent, although the locals talk about how once upon a time, in the foothills stretching along the border of Lorea, fertile valleys were green, and countless streams carried their noisy waters from somewhere from the tops of the Blue Ridge to water the golden fields. They're probably lying. It is difficult to imagine that this dull and lifeless landscape was once filled with the singing of birds and the rustling of emerald foliage; such a picture does not fit into the local harsh climate.
The recently fallen snow has already melted, turning into a squelching liquid porridge underfoot. Below, at the foot of the ridge, it probably completely disappeared, but here the cool mountain air still gave it a ghostly chance to briefly extend its life. The heeled soles of his shoes left deep ribbed clearings in the white snow cover, and Alex had stopped feeling his toes half an hour ago. But any inconvenience can be endured if it is for the good of the matter. The snow, which wrapped the rocky ledges in a lumpy, loose veil, reliably preserved the tracks. Traces of the fugitive whom they had been pursuing for the fourth hour in a row.
Gothir Golm, who was walking ahead, swore in a low voice in Klondal, slipping on another stone that was hidden in the snowy mess. His boots are local, made from Antaria, which means they are strong, but not at all suitable for jumping in the mountains. Here, military-style lace-up combat boots would be much better suited. It’s a pity, most consumer goods models with hydrophobic rubber wheels won’t withstand local realities and will fall apart at the seams literally on the second day. Neither synthetic glue, nor microfiber, nor artificial rubber, which earthly shoemakers are accustomed to using on their soles, last long in Centrum.
“Don’t turn your head off,” Alex gloomily warned his partner, and a ghostly cloud of steam escaped from his mouth.
You won’t wait,” Golm responded just as kindly, repositioning the carbine dangling behind his back a little more comfortably.
The fugitive, judging by the footprints left in the snow, was alone and headed down the slope into the valley, opening a portal somewhere near the pass - the pursuers had passed this place in the morning. By all appearances, he was walking with a load and therefore was in no particular hurry. Another thing is much worse: the walker had a head start of about two hours, and it was impossible to catch up with him on the slippery mountain slopes even while light. “If we don’t take him, we’ll at least scare him away,” Alex thought angrily, trying to move his toes in his stiff boots. “There’s only one path here, if you’re lucky, he’ll come straight to the secret.”
At the foot of the Blue Ridge, where a narrow winding trail led, there was the secret of the sixteenth border outpost, and for about half an hour Khmel and Elbar should have been sitting there in uniform. In the last year, the Striker has put his duty firmly in place, and therefore the rare forays to patrol the wastelands, which were previously practiced among the Clondal border guards, were replaced by regular and shift duties on the most dangerous routes. Eh, it would be nice to have a portable radio here, and warn the guys in time so that they can organize a committee for the meeting. But one could only dream of such luxury.
A low gray cloud clung with its shaggy belly to the mountain ridge hanging over the path and slid down the slope, lining the narrow gorges on the sides with a foggy haze - you step off the path and remember the name. The icy wind licked my cheek and threw another handful of prickly snow crumbs into my face. My nose stung. Still, it was a lousy winter in Clondal this year. Cold and damp.
Maybe we can arrange a stopover? - Golm whined again with sadly pleading intonations, and Alex grinned maliciously. The boy was not only from the locals, but on top of everything else, he came from a wealthy family - his uncle served as some kind of big shot in the Ministry of Other Worlds, an organization to which the Clondal border guards were formally subordinate. It was he who assigned his nephew to the sixteenth outpost so that he would not hang around idle. Despite his good education, Gotir Golm turned out to be a typical blockhead, accustomed to spending time in taverns and at noisy parties in the company of friends and dissolute girls. If I lived on Earth, I would drive around nightclubs in my dad’s Mercedes, wasting my own life and other people’s money to no avail. However, there were no Mercedes in Centrum, and therefore Golm, unaccustomed to hardships and deprivations, harnessed at the will of his uncle into the tight strap of the border service, clearly felt out of place, which he demonstrated to others at every opportunity. Alex did not like Golm, although he took advantage of sincere reciprocity, and the entire personnel of the outpost knew this very well. Nevertheless, the Drummer stubbornly continued to pair Golm with Alex, either hoping that he would come to terms with such a partner, or expecting that the boy would transform from a metropolitan slacker into an experienced fighter, after a good sniff of gunpowder and footcloths.
There’s no point in freezing your eggs,” Alex grumbled in response, “although they seem to be ringing anyway.” Let's go faster - we'll warm up faster.
Golm muttered something inarticulate under his breath, but still shut up. Well, fine. Alex didn't like to chat in vain.
The path twisted behind a moss-overgrown cliff, decorated with thick, noble gray snow adhering to the sides. The slope became gentler, and it became easier to walk, although small sharp stones still got tangled under our feet.
What is this? - Golm froze in the middle of the path so unexpectedly that Alex almost ran into his skinny, stooped back. A thick roar, similar to the echoes of a distant thunderstorm, rolled over the ridge, echoing somewhere in the gorge. The sound in the mountains travels far, but sometimes it is impossible to determine its nature - it is distorted, repeatedly reflected from the rocky slopes, and becomes unlike itself. However, Alex was very familiar with this sound.
Let's go! - he commanded briefly. - Faster!
Running down a mountain only seems easy: the chance of tripping and breaking your neck out of habit is very high, especially if you don’t look at your feet. Holding the Kalash with his elbow so that the butt wouldn’t hit his thigh, Alex leaned forward a little and ran, trying not to step too wide and step on the very instep of his foot - this way there’s a much lower chance of falling. Golm puffed hoarsely from behind. It rumbled again, several loud bangs were heard from the lowland, and then the intermittent chatter of machine guns was heard. It was strange: after listening to the sounds of the ensuing battle, Alex came to the conclusion that down there they were hitting from several guns at once. If there was only one fugitive, and there were two border guards hiding in secret, they would hardly have been able to organize such a cannonade. And the experienced Khmel would not be the first to open fire. Only if the smuggler started shooting himself, out of fright, running into a hidden ambush. Or Elbar’s nerves couldn’t stand it, he’s still just a kid... Or maybe accomplices were waiting for the intruder? This is also possible, although the Clondal wastelands have always been considered a relatively quiet place, and smuggling clans have traditionally chosen less crowded places for their large-scale operations. Here, most often, lone walkers acted.
After a couple of minutes, everything fell silent, and now the silence was broken only by the rustling of crumbling stones underfoot. Alex slowed down, threw the machine gun barrel forward and moved the fire selector to the automatic firing position. Giving his partner a sign with his hand, he bent down and carefully looked out from behind the pile of boulders that blocked their path, once brought here by a landslide in time immemorial.
The view revealed a ravine overgrown with stunted bushes, into which the path plunged. To the left, behind thickets of withered broadleaf, a gentle rocky hill could be seen, from which an excellent view of the surrounding area opened up - at its top there was a secret that made it possible to hide among the spongy rocky ledges from prying eyes. But below, where the path grew into a road winding towards the valley, there stood an ordinary wooden cart of the kind that local peasants had ridden from time immemorial. Harnessed to the shafts, a drooping piebald filly lazily swung her tail, and four peasants in simple cloth overcoats were fussing around, and all of them were armed with smooth-bore reed guns made in Clondale. Two, loudly talking, loaded a voluminous canvas bale into the cart, which Alex at first glance recognized as a Soviet “Abalakovsky” tourist backpack, two more looked around warily, clutching rifles in their hands. After rummaging through the pouch attached to his belt, Alex pulled out binoculars. Good binoculars, Zeiss ones, are now difficult to get even on Earth, but here they cost a lot of money. But if anyone had offered him to exchange this wonderful item for gold by weight, Alex would have refused without hesitation. The binoculars, which he inherited from his grandfather, and that from a German officer killed in the forests near Gomel, had no value for him.
Having examined the top of the hill through the eyepieces, Alex slid his gaze along the rocky slope. Not a single hint of movement. If his colleagues were present, they were definitely lying low. But where the locals were now crowding, the binoculars made it possible to see one detail previously hidden from view: on the time-dark boards of the cart lay a corpse, judging by the shabby clothes, belonging to one of the peasants who had come here along with the others. This means that the shootout was not in his imagination after all. Then where is the fugitive? Left through a portal, leaving behind the cargo? It doesn't look like smugglers. In any case, it would be nice to find out what happened here.
Valentin Kholmogorov, Mikhail Tyrin with the novel Razlom for download in fb2 format.
And again, as in the days of the Catastrophe, the plains and mountains of the Centrum, frozen in everyday life, trembled. Tank columns rush across the borders, wrapping withered steppe grass around their tracks. Outposts are burning, and the Border Guard fighters themselves are forced to direct their weapons against those whom they could never even consider as enemies. Trouble does not bypass the fighters of the 16th outpost - Khmel, Ded, Udarnik. New dangers and new roads await them: they will find out what is happening at the bottom of the Rift, uncover the mystical secrets kept by the monkey tribe, and even see with their own eyes the mysterious and sinister world of the Hearth...
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