lie to me

War was before we were born and will be after we are gone. We were born into a world where it was a way of life. We knew nothing else. I was an ordinary member of my generation. One of those condemned to hard labor in the mines or the army. Did I have any other choice? I could toil in the mines. Spit my lungs out with dust and die a nobody. Or I could risk my life and, after a few years of service in the army, become a citizen. That seemed like something. The right to vote, a lifetime salary, free school for my children, preference for lucrative jobs, and free food in restaurants reserved for citizens. Could one dream of a better fate?

I became a pilot, or more precisely, an assassin. An assassin is the pilot of a light two-seat fighter, also called an assassin, used for loose formation combat. Most often for quick attacks, interception, and pursuit. During my few months of training, I didn't understand why they called us butterflies or imagos. I would soon find out. I was assigned to a squadron stationed on a frigate. Its composition was constantly changing. After each patrol mission, only five or six crews from a squadron of 20 (including escort units, of course) returned to Estesis, the unit's main base. As a result, after a few months of service, they transferred me to the secundarii. This meant fewer sorties and lower losses. The teams were more durable and effective.

Each patrol mission on the frigate lasted several weeks. Then we returned to Estesis to replenish crews, ammunition, and fuel. We were given a few days of mandatory leave, and then we trained a new formation.

The furry creature bustled around the bar. Standing on two paws, he looked around curiously. He didn't resemble any of the three main races of the empire, but if I had to choose, he was probably the most human. Honestly, he reminded me of a creature from engravings about a lost world. I think his name was Mouse, or rather Rat. He was completely hairy, with a long, naked tail and a ridiculously elongated snout, from the end of which sprouted long, perpetually moving whiskers. He didn't repel me; rather, he seemed amusing.

He had actually already found his prey. It was a tall man with raven-black hair, slowly and solitarily sipping a mug of beer. The furry creature stood on all fours and, between the table legs, with the movements of a weasel, scurried towards his intended victim. Unfortunately, it was me.

He waddled over to me. He stood up and twitched his whiskers.

"I'm Rovendin. May I join you?

" "Depends on why you want to join me? Company would be nice, but there are too many con artists here.

" "You see, I'm one of them.

" "...Please?

" "Yes, I am a con artist.

" "Aren't you afraid to say such things? Besides, you won't get anything from me."

"Everyone gives what they have. Sometimes they don't give anything. But they usually have an interesting story to tell, or they want me to tell them something.

" "So what do you expect from me? I can buy you a beer. I can't drink my share anyway, and if I don't, it's gone.

" "See, I've already used it. It all depends on what you expect. As for my regular hosts, I usually know what they want."

He dipped his long mustache in the froth and took a long sip of the golden beverage from his mug.

"You furry, just because I gave you a beer doesn't mean you have the right to consider me your regular host.

" "I didn't acknowledge you at all. If you want, I can leave. I'm always honest and I don't impose myself on anyone. But do you fancy talking to someone?

" "Well, furry, I thought you wanted to leave after begging for a beer. And you're talking about conversation.

" "You have to admit, you're not a very interesting conversationalist." You slurp that beer, don't say a word, and on top of that, you don't even know what you want.

"If it doesn't suit you, get lost.

" "You know. That's typical of pilots.

" "Fur-nosed, not only do you show up uninvited, but you're also trying to insult me.

" "It's hard to talk to a man who won't accept the truth. I'm not insulting you, but I'm not flattering you either.

" "Good..."

Frankly, the fur-nosed man didn't care. He slurped the beer as if he'd bought it himself. And without any real emotion, he continued our conversation.

"Besides, I'm not a fur-nosed man. My name is Rovendin. But if it makes you happy, call me fur-nosed.

" "Okay, okay. Tell me, Rovendin, why do you do it?

" "It's a much more interesting occupation than a poorly paid job or your wife complaining that I don't do anything.

" "And I've got you covered, buddy?" "

You see, soldiers, sailors, and pilots come to this bar. They drink the alcohol they're supposed to drink, sometimes they laugh and gossip." They boast about their successes and drown their failures. Do you know who's the worst among them?

- You'll probably say pilots.

- See, you guessed it. It's a special kind of service. I never let anyone talk me into military service, so I won't tell you nonsense about it. I only know the accounts of others. They come and tell me.

- And what makes pilots different from others?

- Losses.

- What do you know about losses?

"You'll have to judge for yourself. I like to observe. They come here on their first leave. They're in a small group. Sometimes they're drinking to their fallen comrades, sometimes they're happy there haven't been any skirmishes. I can see their joy at being back together. Most of the squadrons fly the same frigates. They return with them and come to this bar. Each time with a more and more limited crew. At first, they choose new companions, but then they start coming here on their own. They don't want to make friends with newcomers to the squadrons. Losing more and more people they consider friends really hurts.

" "You sound like a psychologist.

" "I couldn't afford a good school. I'm more of an observer.

" "And a con artist.

" "I mentioned that too.

" "So where would you put me?"

I glanced at the bartender. I waved for him to bring us two more beers and also gestured for some strange snack, at the fleet's expense, of course. I listened to this hairy creature. He seemed to be starting to interest me, much to my detriment.

"Let's say you're even further along.

" "What does that mean?

" "At first, they easily make one-night acquaintances, they're the life of the party. After a while, it stops being fun. You sit alone, just like you, and it's very difficult to get you to talk.

" "Is that so bad?

" "Oh, that's not bad yet.

" "It could be worse.

" "Yes, it could, you could forget how to live.

" "And how can you prevent that?

" "You have two options. The first is to leave the fleet at the first opportunity.

" "You know, that's probably out of the question. And what's the second?

" "You have to work your way up to become a lord.

" "But that takes twenty or thirty years of service. And it's hard to survive in assassination units.

" "You probably have no choice. Two or three more years and you'll unlearn how to live. You'll stop thinking. When you decide to leave, you won't know what to do with yourself. Like most ambitious people, you'll probably either commit suicide or end up in a government psychiatric clinic at the fleet's expense.

" "Is it that bad?

" "It's the only unit with no return." They don't call you butterflies for nothing.

"And if I became a lord?

" "Then it's different. As a lord, you not only have more credits and various privileges, but also access to the best medicine. Then you can live."

The fighter was my only friend and lover. The fleet ensured I felt nothing, devoid of desires and urges. Not even sexual ones. I was meant to be a perfect killing machine, and in a triplet with a gunner and a fighter, I was. The fighter wasn't just a machine, built from self-renewing elements; it was like a living organism. It felt and thought. I even felt it capable of love. Connected to my mind through an elaborate neurocybernetic system, it was a part of me. It responded to my every thought, and I felt every element of its structure, every sensor, every jet emitted from even the most insignificant stabilizing engine. I felt every missile and cannon fire. I felt the penetrator like the tip of my finger as it searched for its target, far from the mother fighter. I perceived each turn as a movement of my hand, and its impact on the target as the sinking of claws into the flesh of an unsuspecting herbivore. When my fighter was hit, the bullet didn't pierce its shell, but my skin. I was accustomed, prepared, but still, it felt personal. A wound inflicted on my soul. Then I landed on the frigate, the crew plucked me from the several-meter-long fighter jet and carried me to the medical bay. I felt like an ephebe abandoned by a lover.

A few hours of sleep. Relaxation. A bit of training, and then back again. Again the bliss of freedom in the rushing body of a beast that adoringly obeyed every whim that entered my mind. I felt like a ballet master dancing his wild and unpredictable dance before a huge audience. And then the battle, a rare orgy of bliss, when my mind, like the delusions of a schizophrenic, dissociated into tiny, independent particles. Some of them controlled the ship's movements, while others flew away, along with the penetrators fired, the carriers of death. These ingenious devices, anchored in my mind yet flying far beyond the range of the best detectors, were my weapons. Deadly shots that traversed time and space, guided solely by my mind and the decrees of the Almighty.

I became the perfect assassin. I played a game with my opponent, an assassin like myself. It was a bit like chess. However, the playing field was not a two-dimensional chessboard, but the infinite five-dimensional space. Victory was not achieved by saying checkmate, but by the physical annihilation of the enemy. Like a duel between two samurai, the fight, although real, existed primarily in the minds of myself and my enemy. It was there that every move of our penetrators and every counter-missile movement was created. It was in our minds that we anticipated the adversary's future moves and tried to anticipate the potential flight paths of tracer rounds. And then a small penetrator would hit the might of a fighter, and both would be annihilated.

Hand-to-hand combat? That happened occasionally, more often during bomber attacks on the frigate than in actual assassination. Back then, my friend was usually riddled with tracer bullets. The torn armor pieces had to undergo hours of tedious regeneration. But that was rare. Most often, even large battles resembled writing computer programs, with two vast fleets unable to even see each other.

The worst were the mandatory leave periods. You had to sit in port for a week. It was terrible without my friend. Only that stubborn furry kept me company. I'd say he was pushy, and at first I was willing to give him a few credits to get him to go away. But then I gradually began to enjoy his company. He was the last link to normality.

Then liberation, back on the frigate. As the shuttle pierced the barrier and entered the second space with its four-dimensional structure, I felt my soul, suppressed by its sojourn in the "normal" world, freeing itself from its forced sleep. But it wasn't dancing yet. It began its dance of freedom when my assassin friend pierced the second barrier, and together we entered the third space. A fifth-dimensional world, incomprehensible to the unprepared mind. Impossible to describe to anyone who had never experienced it. Here we were together, he and I.

But one day, my friend had to leave. The penetrator caught up with him too. The tracer rounds managed to hit the attacker, but too close to us. The fighter was severely damaged. With its armor ripped and most of its systems inoperable, it did guide me to the frigate and allowed me to land safely in the catcher, but it was impossible to use again. It was scrapped. I had lost a true friend. He was more important to me than my gunner.

When the first gunner died, I didn't even feel any regret. It was the same when others departed. But when I had to abandon the second ship, threatening to explode, I long considered sharing its fate.

I had flown many aircraft. When I received a new one, I had to tame it, placate it, impose my will. However, during my meeting with the veteran, we spent a long time getting to know each other, carefully fine-tuning our customs, gradually beginning to understand and respect each other.

After the frigates, my unit was transferred to the crusaders. Mighty reapers of doom. And then to the gigantic galleons, majestically cruising the skies, bringing death wherever they went.

And so the years passed. I became fleet commander on one of the largest galleons. I achieved what my teachers had said was impossible. I survived.

I tug at your long blond hair and throw you onto the bed. With a violent movement of my hand, I rip off your clothes. I take ungodly pleasure in your pain. But now I slow down, gently touching your flat stomach. With a smooth movement, I stroke your delicate, young skin. I caress your body. As you begin to feel pleasure, I gently kiss your navel with my lips. My fingers dance around your breasts, around your hips, massaging your back. With gentle strokes, they knock on the gates of the jade palace. I feel desire and pleasure filling you.

I was taught this. I am a master. Money can buy anything. With mine, I bought the knowledge of a woman's body and soul. That's how I know what you feel. I direct your desire. I touch your erect nipple, caress it briefly, and bite it painfully until it bleeds. I know you feel no pain, only incredible pleasure. You climax for the first time, long before I fill you. Before that happens, you will climax several more times. I can do it, and I will do it with pleasure, with all the power of my perversion. Like no younger man could.

But I know you can't love me. Yet I bought you. I bought you like all the women in my harem. The furry one was right; I had to become a lord. I built myself new memories, a new body. I acquired a renewed, artificial youth. But nature cannot be fooled; in the renewed body, a damaged, only slightly repaired mind remained. For it, I won you. With my money, my position. I bought your youth and innocence. You spent it in my world, full of mannered and cruel delusions.

I know no one will love me. I won't be able to satisfy my madness. But now lie to me. Tell me you love me.