Shrug. Space is a risk. Everyone knows that. A soft chime. Accumulators at 99%. Swim to the window of this Pod, Sci 1, and look out. Over Eastern North America, this time, the slow orbit putting him over every part of the planet at some time or other. Flick on the radio and crank the power level to max. Civilian equipment isn't as good for receiving as the NASA rigs, but they no longer exist. Antenna's, long since refocused on Earth, listen for any whisper of news. Grab the mic, and get ready, the patter smooth in his mind.
"This is Cosmonaut Pytor Alexandrovich, aboard the ISS, calling the Eastern USA. You have chem clouds approaching from the North East, with an estimated 4 hour window of safety. Get under cover. The Algonquin region is still reading as totally safe by all sensors, so keep those groups heading there. Map references as before. This advisory will be repeated every ten minutes until I lose power again. Come back and give me some chat, folks. Now here is the news."
* * *
6 months earlier.
No one will ever know how it started. Maybe someone decided to take a chance that the other powers were not serious. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe a computer glitch. Who knows. It all happened so fast. Within 25 minutes, the planet was covered in ICBM tracks. The various satellite defense nets tried valiantly, before falling prey to hunter killer sats themselves. Automated response systems, working on the use it or lose it philosophy, flushed the rest of the launchers on secondary, tertiary and quaternary targets, without bothering to ask their ostensible masters for permission. Large expanses of the world simply ceased to exist in a boil of hellfire, radiation and neutrons.
The war was over in two hours. So was the world we knew.
For the three riding safely in orbit, 500 miles above it all, it was a lingering death sentence. As one, they pulled away from the view port.
Allan spoke first. "We have the escape modules. We can still return home."
Chloe nodded. "Better than slowly suffocating and starving up here. Pytor? Commander?"
He said nothing. Visions of a world burning filled his mind.
"Commander!" With a shake, he dismisses the thoughts. "You two go. I will stay as long as possible, and try to contact the survivors. Steer them towards safe zones and out of trouble. There are still some comsats in orbit, and I have the radio. Let us find you a safe LZ. I'll join you when I can."
Not a request. An order. They hesitated for a moment, then agreed. Chloe fumbled in her coverall for a second, then extended her hand, holding a flash drive.
"The access and control codes for every US and NATO satellite in orbit. You'll need them. We'll get your control station set up, then we will leave."
* * *
Brief flash of a smile. Been alone a long time now, but not lonely. No despair since the discovery two months ago that his lander was trashed by a micrometeorite. He is up here for good. At least he no longer needs to waste power on the centrifuge, meaning he has more power for the radios and the computers."Got a message just come in from a group on Highway 401, warning of treacherous road conditions and bad rad levels near Belleville. Groups are advised to avoid the area and head North earlier." Check the monitor. Next bit of news. "The Algonquin co-op asks that groups make sure to bring as much fuel as possible, and both nails and screws are in drastically short supply. Good news for the Co-op - a group is heading your way with 50 rolls of the industrial plastic that you wanted for the greenhouses. The group also has a doctor with them, so you are starting to look good. Moving on to New York state, there are reports of gang activity near Albany. All groups should avoid the area. Other upstate news ..."
He carries on giving encouragement, spreading news and requests, sending information, until the warning lamp flickers. "Well, folks, that is all for now. I should be overhead again with a full charge in three days or so. News, questions and requests, send in on 405 kilocycles, to the NOAA3 satellite, which rises at 17:50 your time, directly due East. Access code to deposit information is #73."
Click off the radio in the dimness of the emergency lights. By the time he is over the West coast, he should have about 3/4 charge. Enough to pass on information there, briefly, at least. There are not as many survivors there, thanks to the bombs and the earthquakes. The temptation to hook into the Hubble and check up on some of the settlements is immense, but he resists. Time enough to do that while he makes his slow way across the Pacific. It is time to sleep. Time to dream of a world in flames. Again.
* * *
22 years old. Straight out of university, yet the knifelike Siberian wind has no respect for degrees. As he drops from the truck, it hits him, ripping the breath from his body like a physical blow. Stagger, half blinded by icy tears, to the bunker. The access to his undergound home for the next two years. Just him, two hundred other men, and several thousand ICBMs.
He never sees them. Just their brains, in diagram form, on his computer screen. It is a challenge. Making a small, fairly stupid hardware package as flexible as it can be. Giving it as much decision making ability as possible, then pack more in somehow. After a year of 16 hour days, he is heading up his own department, recoding the missiles to be virtually autonomous. The fact that each one holds the fire of hell in it's shiny skin never makes it to the surface of his mind.
New orders. Baikonur, for training. His commanders are pleased with him. There is a place on the ISS he can go for. Going into space? The dream of every boy, and he gets to live it. If he is good enough. He is going to make damned sure he is.
He does. Life is good. Cosmonauts are still heros in the Soviet Union. Until he watches the products of his mind and skill set the world on fire. The flames never end.
* * *
He wakes with a start, the low growling in his stomach bothering him briefly. What day is it? Where is he? Check the display. He has been up here for three years now, since the world died. Living on algae alone for the past two months, trying desperately to balance oxygen production with a food supply of some sort or other. It has been a cold and hungry time that can only lead to one outcome.
Those Westerners, they never realised the immense power of the computers they made. What you can actually do with them if you understand how to. If you are willing to go beyond the self imposed limits that their beliefs force on them. Float almost drunkenly to the control chair. For the first time, strap in. CO2 levels too high, and the scrubbers are long since dead, makes it hard to concentrate.
Enter a command, with the ease of long practice. A flicker of images across the screen, as different communities are displayed. All growing. All healthy. In the background he hears the whisper of radio communication. People asking questions, getting answers. Rebuilding civilisation one step at a time.
Slowly, he fumbles a phial and syringe out of the arm pocket of his tattered jumpsuit. Carefully, concentrating hard, he fills the syringe. The phial goes back into his pocket. Don't want something drifting around to cause problems. He tapes the syringe to his fingers, to make sure it doesn't come loose.
Pick up the mic one last time. Over the Pacific, but it matters not. The satnet will run for the next hundred or so years.
"This is Pytor Alexandrovich, aboard the ISS. I am setting the system to automatic. May God bless you all, and forgive me for what I have done." Enter a command on the keyboard, then press down hard on the plunger.
* * *
Algonquin co-op, sunset, year 6 post apocalypse.
"Look up, children. See the bright evening star to the East? That is Saint Pytor, keeping watch on us and making sure we are worthy of him. He helped create the holocaust, then gave his life to save us from it. Remember him always, and keep his memory holy."
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