The taxi car arrived in front of hotel Belgrava, a tall building composed of glass and aluminum panels.

Detachable plates, labeled as a Space Forces property, fenced the hotel while military patrols were walking by, guarding the opening.

From the car, two persons emerged, a man and a woman. Both of them wore blue uniforms, indicating they belonged to Space Forces pilots; the man sported captain distinction, the four golden stars, while the woman had only one of them.

From the manner she was unconsciously touching her shoulders, one would deduce her promotion had occurred recently. She watched her surroundings with vivid expression, obviously enjoying herself.

"Finally," she exclaimed. "The well-deserved luxury awaits!"

The man, who had trouble getting out of the tiny car, straightened up and performed some exercise to relieve his sore back.

"Sure," he replied and observed security measurements with apparent disdain. "They found another way how to waste money. Just look at those cadets with fully charged and unlocked blasters. How adorable! This is exactly the safety we need to have in the middle of the city. Hey you! Come over here!"

The patrol of two young soldiers in bluish uniforms hesitated for a moment; then, the authority with which the captain called gave them no other choice.

"Sir?"

"Just a question, cadets. Who permitted unlocking your bloody weapons in public?"

"We are patrolling, sir."

"With the enemy nearby, I guess. Do you want to blow your legs away? Just lock it up, and don't mess around."

"Excuse me, sir. With all respect, but you are in no position to give us orders."

"Is that so? In that case, be so kind and call the person in charge. I'd like to have a word with him or her."

The cadet pressed his communication wristband and talked to it. Impatiently, the female lieutenant pulled the sleeve of the captain's uniform and whispered: "Oh, come on, don't be like this, Sava. You ruin all fun being such a j-"

She stopped, reluctant to continue as the word she intended to use lacked proper respect. Between them, a gap of ten years was plain, not to speak the differences in personalities. With her almond-shaped big brown eyes, soft features, and short haircut, she was radiating an impression of a cheerful, easy-going cute kitten, while the captain seemed to be her true opposite, a man who does not like to joke around.

Having strict green eyes narrowed in constant disapproval, the captain's demeanor possessed an air of natural dignity and importance. He was used to giving orders, so young cadets who opposed him were rather praiseworthy.

After a couple of minutes, a sergeant appeared. He was a bulky, shortish man with a bald head and clean-shaved wrinkled face. Once he came out of the hotel entrance, he checked out the situation. When he spotted the officer's distinction, he started saluting; then, he stopped and offered a handshake instead.

"Sava Gromov! It's you!"

After seeing casualness like this, both cadets were taken aback as they probably did not expect the sergeant to act this way. Even the lieutenant glared unpleasantly at him. She either kept her superior in high esteem or didn't approve of familiarity coming from lower ranks.

However, Gromov did not mind.

"Andrey Jerzinski," he said heartily and shook the hand. "It's been a while. Now I can understand why it is so messed up. You are in charge."

"The hell I am. Address all your complaints to Colonel Steiner, your best fan. Not a day passed without him complaining about your performance. I don't get why he bothered to invite you. As for me, I was lucky to avoid you for five long years. I should've realized you caused the uproar here. Never satisfied with anything, aren't you, Sava the Troublemaker?"

"Exactly so."

Then, Gromov turned toward his astonished companion. “Akane, meet my old friend, Sergeant Andrey Jerzinski. He'd served at our base before you came. Andrey, this is Lieutenant Anbi Akane, the worst pilot I had the honor to serve with."

The sergeant shook the female hand with a wry smile: "Don't mind him. He is no ace either."

Confused, Akane accepted the greetings: "You should not speak of him so lightly."

"Oh, I should. I have to. Just listening to that devil may undermine all your self-respect. I guess he hasn't brought you here for no reason."

"She is a pretty face," snorted Gromov. “The craziest imbecile under my command.”

"Your manners have gotten even worse," frowned Andrey. "You can't treat a beautiful lady like this, Sava."

Akane blushed and pointed at the red number under the left shoulder.

"He can't forgive me that I had died in action. We got into a rough ordeal, and I didn't follow his orders. Not that I remember anything."

"Killed in action, huh?"

The sergeant showed the red digit on his uniform. "All my three under Sava as a wing commander. I don't blame him, though. It was doing of that idiot Steiner. This glory-seeking moron thinks the more we die, the better soldiers we are. After the third one, I could not take it anymore. Sava helped me to transfer here. A safe place if you ask me. "

"Was it bad?"

"Absolutely. With each death, it has become worse. Not remembering names and friends, I had problems with proper reasoning. I couldn't even recognize my old mother. They needed to introduce me to her, for God's sake."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Oh, spare us, Andrey," interjected Gromov. "You left home when you were thirteen if I recall correctly. No wonder you didn't recognize her."

"Hey, I'm trying to win some sympathy here. Never mind. I was never the brightest."

The sergeant said his line with a cheerful expression, and Gromov shook his head pitifully. He did not enjoy the way he was speaking to his old friend. Three backups in the row took a significant toll on Andrey.

The recovering technology was said to damage about ten percent of the original personality, but Gromov believed the result affected more than just a memory.

After the series of revivals, Andrey gradually turned into a far cry from the man he used to be. It was kinder to pretend there were no visible changes than to confirm his level of mental deterioration to him.

Gromov knew that Andrey had to be on pills that stimulated his brain; without drugs, the ghola's brain synapses stayed weaker with every iteration.

[Pavel Morava's remark: The term "ghola" was used in Frank Herbert's Dune to describe a clone with memories of the original person.]

"What was the problem with my boys, anyway?" Sergeant asked, waving the hand toward two cadets. They waited there silently.

"Their blasters are unlocked. I can see them glowing green."

"What? Why would they do that? Hey you, is it true?"

"Yes, sir. We were told to be on high alert. The procedure requires…"

The sergeant looked astonished. "What procedure?"

Andrey was struggling to understand what his underlings were talking about.

"Being on high alert in a battle situation," explained Gromov. "They put safety off, ready to open fire. I don't need to ask who ordered this nonsense in the civilian city, do I? However, Steiner should not appreciate if they blow their legs away or maim an innocent bystander. "

Andrey rolled his eyes. "That's about right. You guys put the safety on. We don't want to have some nasty accident. Remember, you are mere decoration. Just puff your chests and keep smiling. In case of sudden attack, keep firing wildly into the air."

"Is there any chance for Plantarians to come?" Akane inquired curiously. "I thought this area belonged to a safety zone, with a low probability of being hit."

"Hush, Lieutenant," said Andrey. "What a sheer blasphemy! Colonel likes to think we defend the frontier. We have to await space cockroaches with eyes open, uniforms donned, and song on our lips. We haven't received any enemy warning for the last two years, though."

"Really? Sounds comfortable."

"Oh, it is. This SF summit is our biggest opportunity to shine. Colonel boasts he got permission to draw the best pilots over here. All of them might clap their hands as soon as he receives his promotion. Ah, sorry, that's classified information. Officially, you attend because higher-ups appreciate your diligence and bravery."

"Reckless," mumbled Gromov. "Plantarians might've ceased their activities recently, but who knows whether they pull something out of their sleeve."

"Mushrooms have no sleeves," Andrey shrugged. "Each base sent two representatives mostly. It won't harm their defense. Well, unless you count the one above us."

"Why?"

"Seventy percent of personnel were allowed to enjoy themselves. Of course, they ought to be on a high alert. I bet they get drunk by midnight, if not sooner. You know Colonel fancies having a good company around."

"Seventy percent? Is it sabotage or what?"

"Don't worry; we've obtained special permission from the minister. Colonel personally guaranteed that nothing stressful will happen during the summit."

"He's got an excellent intel."

"Hahaha, you bet. Just between us," Jerzinsky started to whisper. "From a good source, I've got info that mushrooms regrouped their forces. Nobody knows why they've disappeared. One guy told me he expected them to strike at an unusual target position. For instance, a certain military base with low activity."

"You're kidding me!"

"You wish. Colonel's retarded, died five times, and became completely nuts."

Andrey began stuttering, trying to persuade them.

He died three times when ordered to go suicidal, which was the tactic of last resort under Q-Field impact. From a distorted point of view, commonly adopted in Space Forces, they shall hail Sergeant Jerzinski for the ultimate display of bravery. Perhaps he was missing the glorious old times as well.

Pilots and gunners, including technical personnel, glorified such deaths as a badge of honor. From Gromov's perspective, the red number on the sleeve could hardly justify the loss of memory and slight mental retardation.

"The sky is open for an ambush, then?" he asked.

"Not exactly," admitted Andrey. "Right now, two cruiser-class spaceships are relocating to provide us the area protection."

"That's unsatisfactory," said Gromov.