Illustration by Anatoly Sazanov
I decided to share with you four stories with "intriguing" titles:
- Augmented Reality
- Smart House
- AI
- Blockchain
They are united (as you have already noticed) by the mention of various fashionable IT words. They are already shoved everywhere, so why can't I?
A bit of unsteady (and not always scientific) and joyless science fiction under the cut.
Augmented Reality
Morning 4421
I spend twenty-three hours a day without seeing or hearing anything around me. I am deaf, blind, unable to move. Just think, go crazy or - if you're very lucky - sleep.
This is my punishment.
“You thought war was a picnic?” - they told me evilly when they pronounced the verdict. Completely forgetting that this is what they made me believe.
I try to move my arms and legs. While moving, although they creak godlessly. A few throws into the river did not benefit my exoskeleton. I open my eyes and see the familiar twilight, the colonnade, and behind it cars are humming past. Everything as usual.
I crawl out of my hiding place onto a path that leads around the memorial mound to a wide staircase. It's early morning and the stairs are empty. In a few giant leaps, I climb up. Several cars honk after me. Maybe, however, they are not for me at all. But from sharp sounds, I still instinctively try to squeeze my head into my shoulders. They are not blind, and they see the stigma.
They put a brand on the body the very minute they took away my voice.
I'm upstairs on the observation deck, and I begin to delve listlessly in the garbage cans. It is worth being careful, you can not drop either a fragment or a fragment. You can't give a reason.
From here you can see the square, which modern architects tried to make solemn, imitating the ancient masters. Whether they miscalculated, or it was the Martian dust that disfigured the elaborate facades, but the square began to resemble a tomb. She was surrounded by dead gray-gloomy houses with eternally black failures of windows.
Except one.
It was a hostel for refugees from the contaminated zones, and it had a bad reputation. He was considered a hotbed of infection and was called the "Leprosarium". Although, of course, there were no infected in it and could not be. They were released from the infected areas only after total disinfection.
Those who survived, of course.
On the house, in sweeping scribbles, was written “leper=traitor”.
- Basking in the rays of someone else's glory? - someone said angrily over his ear and coughed. I pulled my hands out of the trash can and just in case, took a couple of steps to the side before turning around. A man with pockmarks in half his face looked at me unkindly, trembling from the cold morning wind. He was wearing a City Service uniform, holding a clipboard, and cleaning robots scurried around, picking up cigarette butts from cracked stoves.
"Grace yourself while you can," continued the peasant, coughing every now and then. “Soon you will be expelled to the infected zones. That's where the road is. - He raised his head up to the monument, and suddenly shone: - Oh, why weren't you born ten years earlier ...
I involuntarily continued his gaze. On a high pedestal, a huge shining exoskeleton barely stood on its feet, overcoming, holding back the fiery rain. The exoskeleton was a copy of mine, only without the stigma. The inscription on the pedestal read: "Defenders of the Fourth Armada."
Yes, they are protected.
And the First Armada defended. And Second.
And we are not.
The third wave has reached the Earth. We will never be forgiven for this.
I stood at attention and waited for the employee to leave with his robots. Apparently, they will not leave me a gram of aluminum, and I will have to make a risky sortie into the yards. But the employee was in no hurry at all, pacing around the monument and muttering something angrily under his breath. The pockmarks on his face were of extraterrestrial origin. Burning in his throat, making him cough up every minute, too. I could understand him if he tried to understand me.
I don't have much time to live. I got bolder, took a few steps and rushed down the stairs. Having reached the crossing, I waited for the green signal and quickly ran across the roadway, finding myself at the Leprozorium. If you turn the corner and sneak along the wall, you can get to the courtyard dump. Refugees don't throw things away, but they do happen.
My attention is drawn to a car pulling up to the hostel. She squeamishly stops a dozen meters before the entrance, not touching the puddles of the pavement with her tires. A woman gets out of the car with a huge stuffed bag in her hand. He stands right in the center of the puddle, plunging ankle-deep, and takes out a three-year-old kid from the back seat. The child is shaved bald, and I can’t guess if it’s a girl or a boy. The woman closes the door and says something to the driver with a smile, but he breaks off without listening to the end.
I walk along the sidewalk, clinging to the wall of the house, and they walk past me, holding hands. The bag hanging on the woman's shoulder hits me on the iron knee, the recoil almost drops her. The woman turns to me and says, looking straight at the brand:
- Sorry.
The kid stops and also turns his head towards me. And… smiling?
The woman adjusts the bag on her shoulder and lightly pulls the child by the hand.
- Let's go, Molly.
They go to the entrance to the hostel. They ring the doorbell and disappear behind it. At parting, Molly gives me another smile.
This smile paralyzes me. I don't notice another passerby roughly pushing me aside. The city employee is still watching me from the mound. I dive into the doorway and hide there until he leaves. Then I return to my hiding place. In a far, dark corner, I push back a stone barrier and see a pale pink glow.
Amanita martial.
Having rubbed the extracted foil into dust, I carefully sprinkle the mycelium and - especially carefully - the hatched mushrooms. These can often be found in contaminated areas, in the dark corners of landfills. If you carefully dig and pull out the mycelium along with the ground, you can avoid infection. If you touch them carelessly, inaccurately, then the mushrooms will burst, spraying millions of spores.
When they're a little older, I'm going to touch them very casually.
Crush your foot to hell.
With this thought, I perched on my “sleeping stone” and curled up in a ball, counting the last minutes of freedom.
Not that the thought of revenge warmed me much. I knew it was pointless. I knew it was blasphemous. Knew it was wrong. Father would not have praised for this. But my father was the first to turn his back on me after the defeat. In this sense, I have nothing to lose.
But if you do not think about revenge, you will have to think about how much time is left before switching on again. And at the end of the twenty-third hour, I will think of only one thing.
Will I be included at all? Or will my mind be left to rot in this steel kennel?
Morning 4422
I was included.
This should symbolize great mercy. This must mean a chance for redemption granted to me.
It doesn't symbolize or mean anything to me.
“We have already won twice,” we were told. “Be worthy of the First and Second Armada,” we were told. Oh yeah. We were ready. Were ready to return victorious as they are. They were ready to march proudly in parades. They were ready to accept congratulations, shed a tear for the fallen, bow down in boundless devotion to the Earth. Of course, we were ready, we are children who grew up on the chronicles of the First Armada, greedily stuck to the screens during the celebrations of the Second Armada. We were prepared for what we had seen all our lives.
But we weren't ready to kill. We weren't ready to see them die. And someone up there, it seems, was not yet ready for the fact that the third wave would be many times larger than the previous ones.
Each missed capsule dug into the conscience like a splinter. Each of us felt guilty. We probably thought it was very noble, to blame only ourselves for the failure.
But others found it very convenient.
The morning reminded me of this. Traitor was written across the body in marker. Surely teenagers, adult respectable people do not rummage around in such suspicious dark corners. Thank you for not being thrown into the river like last time. Regretted.
Regretted...
I have nothing to reproach myself with. We held off the attack as best we could. Probably, I was not the fastest, the most agile. I guess I wasn't even brave. But anyone who would have told me then that I did not try would have received a fist in the face.
Now, of course, they speak with impunity.
But when we were driven to Earth, to intercept the first capsules that broke through, it was a pointless undertaking, because then they broke through in thousands! I ran up to one of them first. He ran to see the enemy in the face.
I smelled burning. No, it's not in the memories, it's in reality. And, of course, I only imagined the smell - I just noticed the smoke and heard the crackling of the flame.
The Leprosarium was on fire.
Jumping out of my hiding place, I saw smoke pouring from the windows of the fourth floor. A siren blared in the distance, and fire engines raced through the labyrinth of streets. Passers-by cast a fleeting glance at the raging flames and, realizing that the house was on fire, moved on about their business. The cars murmured gleefully as they stood at the traffic lights and drove on when the lights turned green.
I narrowed my augmented eyes. The door of the house swung open, and people poured out of it. They poured out and stopped under the windows, raising their heads. They didn't care.
The last woman to appear at the door was the one who had just arrived yesterday. She was dragged out by force and thrown onto the sidewalk, and when she tried to return, she was rudely pushed away from the door.
- Are you in love, creature? A familiar cough sounded nearby. The Trash Admiral and his Trash Fleet passed me, frozen on the stairs. His voice brought me to my senses. I jumped down, leaving a terrible crack in the pavement, and rushed across the street right under the wheels of cars. The cars were honking, but they didn't even think to slow down.
I ran up to the "Leprosarium" and grabbed the manipulators into the ugly stucco molding. A fire truck rumbled and screeched out of the corner. They'll probably tell me to step aside.
"Step aside, son." It sounded almost kind at the time. And then the foreman fired a shotgun at the capsule and, without letting me come to my senses, hit me with the butt.
Therefore, I did not wait, but crawled upstairs. He crawled, clutching at window sills and frames. Clinging to cracks in the walls, to elaborate outgrowths, to antenna mounts.
On the fourth floor, I broke the glass and dived right into the raging fumes. Having twisted my vision to the maximum, I, like a dog looking for a master, rushed from door to door, looking and listening.
I found Molly in the bathroom of one of the back apartments. I don’t know how she guessed to hide in there, closing the door tightly, but it saved her life. I kicked the door, picked her up in my arms and jumped back into the corridor. After breaking down the elevator shaft door, I looked down and up: the elevator dangled below, engulfed in flames. Swinging, I grabbed the cable and climbed up, holding the girl to me. She held tight to me, closing her eyes in fear. She does not yet know that we adults do the same.
In a few jumps, having reached the last, sixth, floor, I climbed onto the technical floor, and from there - knocking out the hatch - got out onto the roof. There I sat down, leaning against the wall of the exit of the ventilation shaft. He sat down, holding the girl in his arms.
She opened her eyes and looked at me. Her face was slightly smeared with soot. She was wearing a gray jumpsuit, larger than her, worn over a white tank top. The cold wind cut through her to the bone. I moved away so as not to chill her even more.
- Where is mom? she asked.
I extended one hand and pointed down at her. The girl stretched her head in that direction, but did not see anything - it was far from the edge of the roof. Downstairs there was a noise, a roar and obscene exclamations of firefighters.
Molly reached into her pocket with a trembling hand, took out a crumbled piece of biscuit, and immediately put it in her mouth. This seemed to calm her down a little, and she asked me:
- I'm cold. Give me a hug.
Without waiting for an answer, she pressed herself against the cold metal. Weak or strong, I didn't feel it. The exoskeleton was not designed for this.
“Hug me,” she repeated.
I covered it with my hands, carefully, trying not to damage it.
And she stopped trembling.
It was wrong. It was illogical. It was against all the laws of physics. I would tell her, if I could say, that the wisest course of action would be for her to curl up on the roof itself, shielded from the wind by a vent pipe. But do not huddle up to the cold metal case.
But she snuggled up and warmed up. And, breathing more evenly, she asked for more:
- Sing me a song.
I could not.
They took my voice away. Will I remember my last phrase, spoken before the verdict? Why did I say it?
Oh yes.
After all, there was a living being in the capsule. Of course, I didn't know for sure... But the foreman didn't know either. He saw the same thing as me. The creature huddled in the corner of the capsule was not the killer. Wasn't a soldier. Was not a fanatic. It was a frightened child.
“Step aside, son,” the foreman told me then. A shot, a blow - and here we are flying back, I am chained and disarmed, and he leaned to my ear: “Sorry, bitch? And you didn’t spare our children, did you? Do you know what infection they brought with them?”
He was right. He was monstrously right. Whether on purpose or by accident, they brought with them flora and fauna alien to us. What was it - your favorite cactus pots? Hamsters in cages? A herbarium hidden between the pages of books? Acorns in your pocket? For us it was death. Infected zones appeared where the broken capsules fell.
Therefore, I was then returned to duty and again given the order to kill. And I killed. I followed all their orders, knowing full well who I was shooting at. We were still found guilty and still judged.
It was then that I allowed myself to admit that I felt sorry for them.
“I killed them because it was necessary. But I could not help feeling sorry for them, flying through space to certain death. It would be inhuman."
These words were worth a vote.
I suddenly realized that I was rocking Molly from side to side and humming some forgotten tune to myself.
I suddenly realized that Molly was singing along with me.
She couldn't hear me. Nobody could hear me. I didn't have a voice!
She sang along with me for another minute, and then wearily fell asleep. Following her, my body fell asleep. Lost sight, lost sound. I froze, sitting on the roof, with her in my arms. I could only hope that the fire would be put out and we would be found. For twenty-three hours I only thought about it.
As long as they don't think she's dead.
If only they could make it before the flames reached the roof.
If only they had time before the house collapsed.
Please.
Morning 4423
I wake up at the bottom of the river. I sigh to myself, turn over and crawl on all fours to the embankment. Clinging to the crevices in the concrete that I've made on previous occasions, I pull myself up to the surface. I cling to the park fence, drag myself over it and fall into the flower beds. Without waiting for the guards, I immediately rush to the exit and hide in the gateway. Winding through the yards, I get to my native square in twenty precious minutes. From a distance I see a shining monument. I run a little more under the disapproving rumble of cars - and I see black-open windows, dead, burnt. Every now and then people in uniform lean out of the windows and carefully examine something. Patrol car at the entrance. A crowd of residents surrounded a woman with a child. When I see a girl, I feel both happy and sad at the same time.
Glad that she is alive.
Sad about the world in which she will live.
I do not hear the words, but I see that the tenants are screaming at the woman. In turn, supporting each other with an approving rumble. A policeman stands nearby and seems to be trying to call them to order. His nose wrinkled in disgust. He does not care about Molly and her mother, they are all equally unpleasant to him. He looks at the inscription "leper=traitor" and nods thoughtfully at her.
I understand what's going on. They arrived and a fire started on their floor. It's just simple cause and effect logic. We flew to protect the Earth, and the Earth turned out to be infected. There is no need to guess who is to blame.
I do not notice how the king of garbage dumps and his vassals again appear near me. The cough should have given him away for a kilometer. It looks like he held back for a long time especially for me.
Are you staring again? You like it when people feel bad, don't you? All because of you, creature. We refugees are treated like cattle because of you.
He apparently wanted to spit at me, but coughed, doubled over.
I didn't wait for him.
Quickly hiding under the colonnade, I moved the stones away from my hiding place. He carefully dug up the soil and pulled out the mycelium along with the still unripe mushrooms. I walked out with her back into the light - and if someone pushed me at that moment, then he would have to blame only himself. I slowly walked over to the cleaning robot closest to me and kicked it. He opened his mouth in surprise, where I pushed the mycelium along with patches of earth.
She was still too weak to start arguing right now. Then it's not my concern anymore. Too little time.
I, like yesterday, rushed across the road without bothering to follow the rules. Just like yesterday, I received angry beeps in the back. Unless the fire truck appeared around the corner, like yesterday.
I wished I could shake hands with the one who pulled Molly out of my arms. Even if it was he who then threw me into the river.
The crowd parted in front of me. I entered like a leper into the circle of lepers. The policeman was speechless at such impudence and stood with his mouth open while his hand reached for the pistol.
But I got the gift of speech.
I pointed at the charred windows of the fourth floor, and then pointed at myself.
The crowd roared.
"Right! He's been hanging around here all the time!" a tall man in sweatpants called out.
“And he followed the girl from the very arrival!”, The woman in the colorful scarf confirmed.
I had time to see Molly before my mother dragged her into the crowd, obeying ancient instincts. She snuggled up to her mother and looked at me with both eyes. She didn't smile. I understood why, but I was a little offended - to leave without seeing her smile.
Her mother turned around. She was mortally scared. She was dead tired. She had come a long way running from death, and she had lost what little she had.
I couldn't envy her.
She nodded at me, and I read in her eyes: "Thank you."
The policeman approached me at the end of my only hour.
I knelt down so as not to fall on someone by accident, and plunged into darkness.
Morning
Molly woke up on the bus. Mom was dozing next to me, leaning her head against the window. When the bus bounced over bumps, she winced in her sleep. Outside the window stretched ripe, ripened fields. There were many people in the cabin, they were sleeping or sitting, immersed in their phones. The driver chewed on a toothpick and looked at the road - he could be seen in the mirror. And then he suddenly noticed Molly and winked at her.
This was enough for her to understand: everything will be fine. And she hummed a song. Quietly, almost to herself, so that she would not be scolded for the noise.
— What is this song? Mom will ask her later. Molly doesn't know herself. She remembers only the roof, the piercing wind. And the person who protected her.
Lulled by her own song, she clung to her mother and fell sound asleep.
Smart House
The house woke up from sleep with Zhenya. She opened her eyes, and the house obligingly let in the coolness of the morning, the smell of earth and apples, and the gentle, timid sunlight into the bedroom. Somewhere beyond the tops of the trees, dawn was breaking.
She always got up earlier to enjoy the silence in the company of a mug of coffee. However, today, judging by the hum of the TV from the living room and the empty half of the bed, she was beaten to it.
Zhenya stood up and sighed. The house seemed to come to its senses and carefully closed the doors so that the TV could not be heard. Zhenya went down the stairs into the yard. As she ran her hand along the railing, she could feel the dried paint. Where the sun and rain have exposed the tree, it would not hurt to touch up. But Zhenya did not want to change anything.
Walking to the veranda along the paved garden path, past the lawn with crackling automatic watering, she involuntarily looked into the living room window. Kostya was sitting on the couch, with his back to the window, staring at the TV screen. Biting her lip, Zhenya entered the kitchen from the veranda, and returned a couple of minutes later with a cup of coffee. On the cup was clumsily written "Mom" in blue letters.
Inhaling the burning smoke and sipping the milky foam, she closed her eyes tightly, until the colored spots in her eyes, and then sat down in an armchair and began to watch the sun rise. When it appears completely, Zhenya will stop looking and go into the house. She knows that the sun will jokingly jump over the house and disappear, plunging the veranda into darkness and leaving her alone. The thought frightened her, and she did not linger on the veranda after noon.
But that's all later. So far, her sun is with her, peeping timidly from behind the tops of the fir trees, as if from behind a blanket.
The door creaked. Lyonya appeared on the threshold, sleepy and ridiculously disheveled. In pajamas with anchors.
"Hi," he muttered sleepily, squinting against the sun.
“Good morning, bunny,” Zhenya said affectionately. Putting the coffee on the table, she held out her arms, "Come, I'll hug you."
Lenya obediently approached and gave himself a hug. He hesitated a little, and he wrapped his arms around her neck, burying his nose in her neck. She felt his breath.
Then he raised his head and asked, peering into the distance.
— May I go to the forest today?
Jenny hugged him tighter.
"Come on another time, baby," she replied.
Lenya frowned and moved away, trying to slip out of her hands. The wife really did not want to let him go.
- I want to go to the forest.
“I know,” she continued calmly and lullingly affectionately, “We will definitely go when I have a little rest. We came here to relax, remember?
- I can go alone.
But I will worry about you. You don't want me to worry, do you?
The question was not rhetorical. Zhenya looked at her son searchingly, waiting for an answer. He glanced from the forest to his mother. Eventually he gave in and bit his lip and shook his head.
“That’s good,” she smiled approvingly, “go change your clothes and come to breakfast.”
He obediently went to the door, and suddenly hesitated on the threshold.
Zhenya was worried. She turned to ask what happened, but her son had already disappeared through the door.
A little later, after breakfast, exchanging an empty plate for a glass of juice, she casually asked:
“The house says you left the room at night. Something happened?
Lenya lowered his head and did not immediately answer.
— I woke up at night. I saw the moon and… got scared. She was terrible.
Zhenya squatted next to him and hugged him.
"Why didn't you call me?" Did not come?
Silence.
- I didn't mean to upset you.
“My poor one,” she stroked his head, “be sure to call me if something happens, okay?”
Lena nodded slightly. Like reluctantly.
As if he really didn't want to call her at all.
Zhenya stopped the trembling in her chest and said as affectionately as she could:
- Well, go play. I will come to you soon.
After washing the dishes and leaving instructions for the house regarding food, Zhenya went to the living room. There, in addition to the mumbling TV and the silent spouse, there was also a huge bookcase.
“I would have made it quieter,” she threw through her teeth to her husband, but he did not answer. Bubnezh prevented her from concentrating.
“Children's fears… Child psychology… there was something somewhere…” Dom, as if having heard her thoughts, helpfully leafed through the shelves of the closet and put out a weighty volume with the cutest toddler on the cover. Zhenya took the book and hesitated. She looked at the armchair in the living room, looked at the TV. Then she glanced hopefully at the clock, and then, without hope, at the veranda, gradually fading into shadow.
"I'll go to him," she decided.
Climbing up the creaky stairs to the second floor, she entered Lenya's room and sat down in a rocking chair. Lenya sat at his desk and painted with paints. She looked over his shoulder. The forest, the dark blue sky, their house, sloppy brown, and a black spot in the sky.
“Wow,” she said, “well drawn. What is it? She pointed to the blackness.
“It’s the moon,” Lenya answered and shivered.
But the moon is yellow.
- And yesterday it was like this. Black.
Zhenya looked at her son incredulously.
"I'm sure you just dreamed it." Just a bad dream.
- Do you have bad dreams?
Jenny bit her lip.
— Yes, son. Dreaming. They all dream.
She sat down in an armchair, opened the book and began to read, trying to absorb every word and not miss anything important. When it got dark and the house turned on the electric light, in Zhenya's head there was a mess of terms, methods and teachings of all stripes. Looking out the window, she saw the moon creeping behind the clouds. Round, yellow, she seemed to be swimming in the waves, like a huge shiny fish. Smiling, Zhenya looked at her son. He was watching cartoons, staring at the screen and opening his mouth. In the reflection of the screen, he uncomfortably resembled his father.
“Lenya,” she called, “Lenya.
The son reluctantly turned his head to her, still squinting at the screen.
“Come, look how beautiful it is,” she beckoned him.
He paused the cartoon, got up from the floor and approached her with interest. She pointed to the window, and he obediently shifted his gaze to where the moon was floating in the clouds.
He froze.
His eyes suddenly glazed over. He seemed to stop breathing, and his heart seemed to be trying to escape from his chest. Zhenya saw it, felt as if it was happening to her.
“What… what is it?”
“The moon is… black,” he whispered. — See?
Zhenya looked out the window again. Yellow moon. Still yellow.
"What's happening".
- Lyonya ... She is yellow. You see?
Zhenya's chest was cold. She just read something like that today.
Lenya, who had just turned away, reluctantly looked out the window again.
“Black,” he muttered, and lowered his gaze.
It seemed to her, or to him ... ashamed.
"So…"
“Lenya,” she squatted next to him and asked insinuatingly: “why are you deceiving me?” The moon is yellow, I can see perfectly.
Lenya was silent.
“Did you think I wouldn’t believe you that you had a nightmare yesterday?” I believe. But now you are not sleeping, and the moon is the usual, yellow, as always.
Lenya was silent. There were tears in his clear eyes.
- Lyonya, don't be silent. Explain why you're lying to me.
- She's black! - he suddenly blurted out furiously, - Black! Go away from me!
His face was contorted and flushed. He escaped from her arms, crawled into his bed and covered his head.
It took a lot of effort for the wife to maintain her apparent calmness. She straightened up and walked casually to the door. Grasping the pen, she said haughtily and coldly over her shoulder:
- I'll leave. And you sit here and think about your behavior. One.
Zhenya went out and automatically locked the door with a key. Or did the house do it for her? She no longer remembered. The veil fell from the eyes already in the bedroom. Zhenya sat on the bed and looked at her own hands. For a moment, she imagined the wrinkles of senility and the ugly, bulging veins that curled around the bones.
“Teen crisis? she asked herself. “Separation?” - She was confused in terms, ages and methods. Her thoughts were generally confused as if someone was throwing stones at her head, breaking the orderly rows of crystal castles.
“Yes…” she decided to think aloud, “there are two options. Her voice trembled, she didn't recognize herself. “Either… or he… is moving away from me… deliberately contradicts me, or… something is wrong. She suddenly came to life. - Yes ... Of course, something is wrong.
A saving thought brought her to her senses. She stood up resolutely and quickly left the bedroom. On the stairs she listened - her son's room was quiet. Going down to the living room, Zhenya found Kostya in the same place. The TV continued to spew light and sound.
Zhenya sat down next to her husband and, looking at his unblinking profile, said firmly.
— Kostya, we need evacuation.
These words made no impression on her husband. She repeated them louder. Angrily, she shoved him in the shoulder - and bruised his palm. The pain seemed to open some contact in her head, and she suddenly heard her name on the TV speakers.
"Zhenya".
She turned to the screen. Kostya looked at her from there and smiled.
"I don't think you've noticed that I'm gone. I don't blame you, it's really hard to notice how time passes. In case you forgot, I left detailed evacuation instructions in the bedroom, in an envelope on the table. I wish things were different, but how come. Goodbye."
The screen flickered, and then he smiled at her again.
"Zhenya. I don't think you noticed..."
Click. Darkness and silence. The living room has become a crypt. And Zhenya was already rushing up the stairs, stumbling over such familiar steps. She burst into the bedroom, greedily grabbed the envelope. She printed it out, soaked it up and down, and stared at the instructions with her eyes.
And then clearly and loudly uttered the Order.
The house went out. The light turned off. The world went out.
With trembling old hands, she removed her glasses from her head and shook her gray head. Eyes re-accustomed to the twilight of reality. The house, turning into an old bent servant, obligingly opened the doors in front of her - he guessed that she could not cope on her own. Grey, matte door, not a hint of wood. Plastic-lined walls. Wires stretching under the ceiling and blinking indicators of hundreds of devices. It seemed to his wife that she found the house undressed, lifted him out of bed, pulled him out of a deep and good sleep.
In general, that's how it was.
Home was easier. He easily recognized in the old woman his young mistress. Faithful servant.
Zhenya got up and, staggering, leaning on the handrails, went out to the stairs. Another door opened for her, and she entered Leni's room.
On the bed—larger than she was used to seeing—was her son. He looked straight ahead and couldn't see anything because his eyes were covered by electronic goggles.
"Mom," he called in a hoarse bass voice.
"I'm here," she barely whispered. Hobbled up to him, she stroked his head with the miserable remnants of former whirlwinds.
"I can't see anything," he trembled.
Zhenya unfastened the clasp at the back of her head and took off his glasses. Moonlight hit his whitish eyes, and he covered himself with his hand.
Zhenya looked at her glasses. Dom turned on the light and shoved a screwdriver into her hands. With difficulty remembering how she set it all up herself, Zhenya removed the cover of the eyepieces. Chips flashed, and there, among the copper constellations, she saw a fly sticking to it.
Gently picking it up with a screwdriver, Zhenya squeamishly threw it on the floor.
“We need a complete pest control,” she muttered, screwing the lid back on. She looked at her son. He stared in amazement at his hands, covered with graying hairs.
- Mom ... How many years have passed?
“I don’t know, son,” Zhenya answered, finishing her work. - It doesn't matter.
You said we'll try. We will try and come back. We've returned.
- Calm down. She touched his head. He didn't turn away, he didn't move away. He, on the contrary, clung to her, hid his face in her dress, so as not to see what was around.
“Is…is this a bad dream?”
"Yes, baby," she said calmly. Then she carefully put the glasses on her son and fastened them at the back of his head. Then she helped him lie down, almost collapsing under the weight of his body - thanks to the house for supporting him.
Covering with a blanket, kissed Lenya on the forehead.
"Go to sleep," she said softly. And when you wake up, everything will be the same.
- I'm scared. Sit with me please.
“Of course.” She sat down beside him and patted his arm. Her face was calm and serene.
“Just a bug. Thank God, it's just a bug."
She hummed one of her lullabies under her breath and looked out the window. There, on the waves of clouds, the yellow moon floated.
"Prepare to return," she commanded the house quietly.
AI
Ruslan sat at the lecture and strenuously pretended to listen and take notes of the teacher. His friend Nikolai thought that in fact Ruslan was listening to him, and therefore continued to chatter in a whisper.
“Jinn” is a breakthrough. This is such an artificial intelligence, which has not yet been. Alexa and Siri will be squealing like bitches when it's released. I've seen the beta in action - it's something. This is a breakthrough.
- What is the breakthrough? - Ruslan asked absently, - Another voice assistant.
— “Next”? - Nikolai soared, - Do you even know what the trick is?
“No,” Ruslan answered. He was tired of this chatter - both from the side of the pulpit, that from the side of the neighboring desk - and he pointedly looked at his watch. There was an hour, three minutes and forty seconds left until the rendezvous with Linda. Thirty nine seconds. Thirty eight…
“…calculation of a life plan, you know, fool?
- You yourself are a fool, - Ruslan snapped, - explain it like a human being.
“Look,” Nikolai began patiently, “you set a goal,” he pointed to his palm, “like: “I want Tesla in a year.” Well, or a nerd version for you - “I want a red diploma.” And “Genie” makes a clear plan for you, a sequence of actions, you understand? This is not for you to order a taxi and not to call your mother, this is your personal guardian angel. Has it finally arrived?
Ruslan did not answer. Ruslan followed the second hand. She has long gone beyond the allotted boundaries of the lecture.
His tension was transferred to the teacher at the blackboard. He glanced at his watch, glanced with regret at the mentally already absent students - and waved his hand.
- That's all for today.
Ruslan quickly put the tablet into his bag and flew out of the audience like a bullet. Nikolai sadly looked after him, and then quietly turned to the phone:
— Genie?
“I hear and obey,” answered a deliberately oriental voice.
“Remind me, how many people should I recommend installing you?”
* * *
At three o'clock in the afternoon Ruslan arrived at the place and stood at the appointed place in front of the station. From there he could see the old clock on the tower. He checked with his people - they were in a hurry for three minutes.
He really did not want to stick his head out of habit on the phone and miss her appearance. And it was easy not to notice her - the closer to the evening, the more people on the street and the darker the sky. So he just turned the phone in his hands and fought the urge to call or text her.
"Calmly. Agreed - so agreed, ”he thought,“ She is always late, but she comes. There is nothing to panic.”
At three seventeen, when Ruslan checked his watch for the hundredth time, checked whether the phone had run out overnight, and probed each of the several thousand passers-by with his eyes, she left the underground passage. In jeans, not in an autumn light and short jacket, and a thickly wrapped colorful scarf. She walked, holding the phone in front of her face and saying something into it, and her eyes were scouring around. Then she noticed Ruslana and smiled. An inspiring mischievous gleam shone in her eyes.
Ruslan went to meet her. They met at the fountain in the square, around which the noisy children rushed, and joined hands - Linda's phone had already been hidden in her purse. She smiled at him in mock embarrassment and glanced at the station clock.
- Oh, I seem to be late again, - she was surprised, - Have you been waiting for a long time?
“Not at all,” Ruslan smiled.
- Then let's go!
* * *
They walked along the embankment, stood on the bridge - he hugged her to keep her warm - and then plunged into the thicket of old houses and shabby factories. Once upon a time, clouds of thick smoke escaped from mighty chimneys. Now there seem to be birds nesting there.
The narrow streets were dark and romantically creepy. Ruslan and Linda chatted about nothing, straying from recent events to memories that had accumulated over less than twenty years. Ruslan was happy. He was only embarrassed that Linda kept looking at the screen of the phone, as if she was waiting for something. Something akin to jealousy clouded his joy. If he hadn't lost the ability to reason in cold blood, he would have noticed that their route changes every time after such a peep.
They entered the automatic avenue, where unmanned vehicles — huge buses and small robotic rickshaws — were moving in test mode, and walked along an unusually wide sidewalk.
- This is to get people used to it, - Ruslan explained, although Linda did not ask him anything, - Otherwise, many are afraid of robots.
“Why be afraid of them,” Linda shrugged, “just cars.
- How to say ... See, a pedestrian crossing?
It was hard not to notice him. It shone like a zebra in the middle of the avenue, and a red curtain was moving along it in waves, at which a bulky robotic bus had just pulled up.
- I see. What a bright…
“Cars can see anyway, they don’t need all this light. This is for people to be less afraid.
- Did you hit anyone?
- Not at all. Not at the crossing, not anywhere else. They react faster than humans.
Linda looked into her bag once more, where the screen of the phone shone. And before Ruslan had time to ask a cautious question to dispel suspicions, she suddenly released his hand and simply stated:
- Let's check!
A moment later, she was already climbing over the fence. Ruslan came to his senses when she was already on the road - right under the headlights of the approaching robot rickshaw. She, noticing the obstacle, abruptly turned on the high beam, forcing Linda to squint.
Who knows what came over her a moment ago, but now Ruslan saw that she was afraid. Her knees suddenly trembled, she stretched out her hands to him, as if she wanted to return - but from horror she could not move.
A moment - and he jumped over the fence. The rob rickshaw abruptly turned the lantern in his direction, convulsively calculating how to avoid the intruders. Brakes screeched, wheels slid on wet, frozen ice. Ruslan kicked off the asphalt with his feet and pushed Linda away.
She flew into the fence and grabbed it with both hands. The rob rickshaw skidded, she desperately fought off the mathematics of the physics of the real world, and almost won. Passing centimeters from Linda's nose, she slipped through without touching her, and only at the end caught Ruslan's side. He was thrown aside and rolled onto his back. His left arm hit the elbow - and a cutting pain below the shoulder deprived him of consciousness.
* * *
When he came to, the rain was falling on his face. He heard the siren, and saw how the road was blocked off by a red glow. “Emergency closure,” thought Ruslan.
Linda was sitting next to him, and at first it seemed to Ruslan that she was talking to him. Only she wasn't looking at him—she was looking at her phone.
"Jinn, what the hell is wrong?"
“Clarify the question, please,” an oriental voice purred.
- I did everything according to plan. Being late, walking, hugging on the bridge, non-fatal injury. I don't feel any increase in happiness.
“I estimated the probability of success at seventy percent. Allah Himself could not have predicted better.
"Fuck your math," she snapped, "what else can I do?"
“There is nothing in this scenario,” the phone answered cheerfully, “I can only guarantee the result with some ...
Linda swung and threw the phone somewhere into the darkness. In the distance, an ambulance siren howled as it approached.
“Linda…” Ruslan whispered and tried to get up, but the pain in his arm chained him to the wet asphalt. Linda glared at him, turned around, and quickly disappeared into the assembled crowd.
Blockchain
Запись: 4abbe6bc-ae28-42c8-9c84-c96548923f0d
Предыдущая запись: 4e792675-0ede-4bd8-a97e-ab3352608171
Subject: Svetlana Narzayeva, age 12
status: dead
Reason: to be confirmedЗапись: dd752b29-11db-43dc-945f-c22db3768368
Предыдущая запись: 4abbe6bc-ae28-42c8-9c84-c96548923f0d
Subject: Artyom Shilov, 35
Status: dead
Reason: to be confirmed
* * *
The door creaked. Elijah chuckled and turned around. Instinctively, he turned around, realizing that he was betraying himself with his behavior. At this understanding, his hand trembled, and he dropped the e-passport on the counter.
Nobody came for him. Just a man who was sitting on a bench in the corner, went out through the creaking door, leaving muddy footprints on the floor. Pulling on his hat and wrapping himself in a wet gray cloak, he quickly walked along the wet road.
Ilya turned back and caught sight of the blonde behind the window. swallowed. She smiled on duty with lilac lips, took the e-passport that had fallen from his hands, and ran it over the terminal. While the terminal was thinking about something, blinking LEDs, she began to look at his photo, thoughtfully biting her fingernail.
“Wow, where have you gotten yourself,” she whistled, glancing at the address. - Is everything serious?
Ilya shrugged and tried to regain his composure.
“I… I’m going to see my wife,” he answered haltingly.
— Oh, congratulations. Her interest has waned. “Isn’t the train faster?”
“I’m in no hurry,” Ilya chuckled nervously.
"I still want to live."
The terminal beeped and glowed red. The blonde curled her purple lips.
Alas, not this time. Try tomorrow.
Ilya took the e-passport from her hands and asked with ill-concealed despair:
- Little work?
- Work? All right," the girl waved her hand. - Here you have a construction site and a new freeway. Just bad luck.
Ilya slipped his e-passport into his pocket, turned around and hobbled towards the exit. My right leg ached and hurt like it always does when it rains. And the one on the left was Onezhrobostroy's prosthesis, and it worked equally badly in any weather.
Having hobbled to the exit, Ilya suddenly realized that he had not thanked and said goodbye to the girl. He felt ashamed, which led him into some confusion. “After what you did, are you ashamed of such nonsense?”
He turned his head, but the girl had already gone somewhere. Ilya shook his head, pressed on the creaking door, and walked out into the rain.
He didn't have a hood, raincoat or umbrella, just a black file folder with buttons. He raised it higher, covering from the rain not even himself, but the phone. Your only sun.
“Sorry, I got distracted for a while,” he wrote. The answer was not long in coming:
- Not scary. Have you made up your mind? Will you come? Inga asked him.
Ilya tore his eyes away from the phone and looked straight ahead. A chain of concrete blocks lined up on the left and stretched far, all the way to the horizon. There it merged with the thick-smelling railroad, rattling trains on the right. Somewhere there, on the edge of the earth, she was waiting for him.
“I will come,” he replied. - I'm on my way.
* * *
Inga had to put down the phone - she almost ran a cart over a baby who got up in the middle of the aisle. He thoughtfully sucked on a pacifier and stared at a colorful poster that read "The Correctional Lottery is your chance at redemption." While Inga was thinking about how to get around the child, the gaping mother jumped out from behind the counters, picked up her child and left, throwing a contemptuous glance. The kid also looked at Inga and for some reason smiled.
She felt uncomfortable. I don't understand them at all, she thought.
She glanced at the shopping in the cart. The bed is cheap plastic. Bath. Large roll of polyethylene film. A tin of paint. Roller. A dozen other little things. And ... it seems that she forgot something important.
- Can I help you? The consultant floated out of nowhere, smiling at the same time with his face and shiny badge.
- Um ... Yes, - Inga came to her senses, - I need a tool for washing the walls. Something stronger.
- Heavy pollution?
- Yes ... Dogs, you understand? Everything gets dirty.
“Ah, I see,” the consultant beamed and began to rummage through the goods. Inga praised herself for resourcefulness. She praised too boldly: immediately, a viscous fear awakened from the depths of her consciousness and asked her the question: “What would he say to that?”
And then he responded. In his voice, of course:
“Wow, how smart are you?”
Her legs buckled. As if in a fog, not remembering how she paid, she left the store and dragged her heavy purchases home. A cold wind blew and drove a giant black thundercloud from the north. The packets strove to cut her fingers with their twisted handles.
“What would he say to that?”
“You are so strong. There are two whole packages!
Fear whipped her legs, pumped blood into her heart, making her already pale face turn white. She automatically reached the house, went up to the sixth floor, and only there, in the apartment, throwing her purchases on the floor, allowed herself to catch her breath. She sat down on a stool in the hallway and began to rub her cold palms. The furrows from the packages burned her white skin.
Memories of his last call burned her memory.
- I'm coming back on Friday. You didn't think we'd be apart for a long time, did you?
Inga looked at the calendar. Another Wednesday.
She glanced at her purchases. The back of the bed cracked. But now it didn't matter. She took the roll of film and dragged it into a small room. There, on the floor, there were still marks from the legs of the bed, which she had barely pulled out the day before.
The phone buzzed. Inga threw the film on the floor. She closed her eyes. I counted to ten. Got the phone. She opened her eyes.
"Who?"
Message from Elijah.
She exhaled and sat up, slid down the wall on her haunches. Before answering, she sobbed several times, struggling with despair, took a deep breath. And only having found the strength to smile, she opened the message.
- What do you think, who will we have - a boy or a girl?
Overjoyed, she replied:
- Don't know. And who do you want more?
- Let me think... Let it be a boy.
- All of you are like that, give you boys) And what would you call him?
- Exactly on I!
“Hah, why is that?
- Ilya + Inga = And ... Ignat?
- Not.
- Hippolyte?
- In no case. Let's get another letter.
— Igor?
Silence. A long, drawn-out silence.
— Inga? Everything is fine?
- Lets change theme.
* * *
In the evening, Ilya settled down on a bench at the railway station with the proud name "Ozernaya". Most of the trains passed by without slowing down, so the platform was empty. There were not enough boards near the bench under the canopy, but Ilya did not feel much sadness. At least it's dry.
He received several letters from Onezhrobostroy. The first of them was called "The Order of Dismissal". Ilya deleted the entire pack without reading it. There was no way back.
He extended his prosthetic leg forward, exposing his metal foot into the rain. The iron didn't care.
His tired gaze caught on a faded poster from the time of the renovation of civil society. The already familiar silhouette of the “investigator” robot and an inspiring inscription.
“Machines figure out criminals. Punishment is the task of citizens. Together - on guard of justice.
They were called “investigators” only by news announcers. Ordinary people called them "trackers", and also "gravediggers". The robots took the bodies for examination and launched the analysis of the incident - the most complex simulation, called the "investigation". Ordinary people called it "fortune-telling."
“Typical divination goes on for three days,” Ilya reflected. - I have time. Now I'll rest a bit and move on."
He closed his eyes for a moment and apparently dozed off, when suddenly an excessively loud rumble of thunder made him shudder and wake up.
It was not thunder, but the cursing of an old man who stumbled over an outstretched prosthesis.
- Set up your skis here! - he was indignant, rising from the wet asphalt. - And now I'm completely wet.
Ilya shook his head to wake up and smiled faintly.
"I'm sorry, father," he said amiably. - Sit down and dry off.
“I just didn’t have enough scandals,” he thought with annoyance.
The old man grumbled for show, but accepted the invitation. He sat down, ruffled like a sparrow, and also stretched his left leg forward.
- Why don't you bend your leg? he asked.
Ilya with difficulty bent his leg and clicked his heel on the asphalt.
- It bends. Just uneven.
- Onezhrobostroy craft?
- Guessed.
The old man nimbly lifted his trouser-leg and exposed his leg prosthesis. Outwardly indistinguishable, according to the standard patterns of the Onega plant. Just the perfect fit. The old man wiggled his metal fingers, and the pistons in his shins rustled obediently, softly, melodiously.
“So I’m amazed,” the old man continued, “whoever I meet with a Onega prosthesis is a terrible hack. And you see, I'm lucky. Master from God.
Ilya looked at the old man's prosthesis as if spellbound. Mentally took it apart, lovingly smeared it with a glance and reassembled it, bend to bend, line to line, like a flower. He rarely saw his own work in action.
“You did everything right,” he thought smugly, and immediately became ashamed: “And yesterday, was it also right?”
“My grandmother was unlucky,” the old man grew gloomy and took out a crumpled pack from his bosom. - Will you?
“I don’t smoke,” Ilya shook his head.
The old man stuck a cigarette between his teeth and continued, forgetting to light it.
- The legs were taken away, they put two prostheses. Most importantly, I tell her - wait a minute, where are you in a hurry, let's stick one, we'll see. And she kept dreaming that she would be as lucky as me. But I know the statistics, I see that these master parasites usually give out. Killing such masters is not enough ...
The old man kept talking, talking, while the rain drummed on the roof, and his accusatory speech lulled Ilya.
“Exactly,” he muttered through his sleep, “it’s not enough to kill.
He leaned back against the shabby, rough wall of the stop and closed his eyes. He wanted to stop thinking about prosthetics and the factory. An image of Inga flashed before my eyes. Still, smiling, just a photograph, a drawing in the dark. And this drawing blurred like fog, spread colors in the rain.
Ilya was thrown into a cold whirlpool of sleep.
* * *
Closer to the night, Inga cleared the room, leaving only a heavy desk-desk near the window, and spread the film. The film was transparent, through which you could still see the footprints of the bed legs on the parquet. These marks unnerved her. They reminded that not everything can be washed off even by the strongest means.
Thinking about the footprints, she involuntarily looked at the wall, at the empty unfaded rectangle and the lone nail sticking out.
“I can fill this void,” she said to herself and was surprised at her own audacity. She went into another room, opened an old, creaky closet, and pulled out a box that was forbidden to be taken out.
Everything that Igor did not like was kept in it.
Inga stopped in indecision. She lifted the cardboard edge and immediately caught her father's displeased glance at the photograph. At the same time, it seemed to her that someone was standing behind her and pulling, as if by strings, her heart - it froze so sharply and pounded so hard again.
She could easily imagine what he would say to her. It was scary to imagine.
“He treated me badly. Shouldn't have done it.
She furtively turned around, as if she had climbed into a strange house and rummaged through other people's things, then with both hands she took out a framed photograph and pressed it to her chest so that no one would see.
"You shouldn't have done that," she repeated. - It will piss him off. And nothing will work.”
But someone stronger, more courageous dragged her, resisting, back into the room. Her hands themselves raised her father's portrait and returned it to its rightful place.
"That's it," she said in a whisper, taking a few steps back. - Like this!
She was suddenly overwhelmed with indescribable joy. Like a puppy stealing a bone from a sleeping dog, she twirled in place. Then she winked at her father and went into the bathroom to wash off the dust and sweat.
"It's been a busy day."
Having doused her face with cold water, Inga looked at her reflection. Joy was replaced by bitterness. A pale shadow, a ghostly likeness of the Inga that she was only recently.
In the clinic, she was no longer embarrassed to say that she did not look well. It was said that it was enough to be sad for the father and drive yourself to the grave.
“All this time,” thought Inga, “they didn’t see? Or didn't you want to see?
She examined herself. She touched her thin shoulders with her fingers. Then, as if for the first time, she saw the scars and scratches on her wrists and sat on the edge of the tub, looking at them.
They always scratch painfully, she thought. - Fluffies have a pathological fear of people in white coats. They can be understood."
Inga closed her eyes and tried to remember herself on the day she graduated from the veterinary school. “Then I dreamed that I would treat animals. I wanted to see them happy, I wanted to see their owners smiling. I didn’t know that I would have to euthanize more often…”
She looked back at the scratches. They have long healed, dragged on. Those who can be cured are scratched. The doomed do not scratch. They look with loving eyes and believe you, until the very end they believe.
Six months ago, when Igor was so suddenly sent to another city, Inga was brought a dog. A beautiful Labrador named Druzhok. Beaten, he weakly wagged his tail and humbly awaited his fate. The owners paid for the euthanasia and left without even looking back. Either Inga was scattered that day, or the dog turned out to be lucky, only he survived the injection. Without waiting for him to be taken to the cremation, he suddenly came to his senses and simply left. Given his second chance, he could go anywhere. And he went back to his owners.
From them, he again got to Inga on the table. She stroked his poor broken head for a long time, and then interrupted this circle.
* * *
Запись: c64cc26a-6e5e-4788-b8cc-7e4c4103d871
Предыдущая запись: dd752b29-11db-43dc-945f-c22db3768368
Subject: Artyom Shilov, 35
Clarification of cause of death: premeditated murder
Verdict #1
Defendant: Ilya Karpov, 31
Revenge: Allowed
* * *
Tyoma was loved at the factory. Tyoma liked to have fun and amuse, arranging innocent pranks. Tyoma also believed in justice. In his opinion, everything was too easy for Ilya. Because of the injury, he was taken to the factory under a preferential program, leaving a “normal guy” without a job. The plant even gave him a prosthesis - just like that. Disgusting in quality, outdated, made “for fuck off” by the same Tyoma. But still, Ilya got it as a gift.
And if so, then in fairness, the life of a cripple should have been a little more complicated. To be honest.
A hundred stretched lines, sawn steps and accidentally unpowered machines later, justice was still not considered restored.
The first letter received in the morning was from the factory and began with the words "YOU ARE A CARPID". Elijah was not surprised. For some reason, he suddenly felt childishly offended. “If Tyoma had done it, they would have praised him.”
But that petty resentment faded in the face of chilling fear. Got a status update on his case. In just a day and a half, not three as he had hoped, the machines delivered their verdict. Now even the old man had the right to break his head without a twinge of conscience.
“If only I could go faster,” Ilya thought despondently, wandering along the railroad tracks. The streets would have been shorter, but the chances of getting caught by someone's eyes were higher. By nightfall, he would probably make it to the next Post Office and try his luck in the Correctional Lottery again.
"I should be lucky."
Rain clouds rumbled somewhere to the south, but the sky was covered with a gray haze. Ilya trudged along, dragging his unruly leg, and the trains went by and went by. Freight, passenger - in a chain, one after another. They drove heavy concrete blocks, a huge train, four hundred wagons - to build new residential boxes. Wagons loaded with people followed, staring blankly out the windows, at the floor, at the ceiling. Someone was holding telephones in their hands and, if the train was not moving very fast, Ilya managed to feel their predatory look. They saw him, had time to read his accusation and sentence on the news, and greedily craned their necks, trying to see. The oppressive boredom of their trip was dispelled by vivid dreams of how the chain in their hands falls on the head of the accused. They huddled up against the windows, memorizing his bewildered face to savor the bewitching vision, on their way from one gray box to the next.
Ilya hid his face behind the collar of his work jacket and hobbled forward. There was no other choice.
Closer to noon, he decided to rest, sitting on the bank of a stream under the railway bridge. At least no one could see him there. He took out his phone and wrote to Inge that everything was fine. She didn't answer.
“If you walk all night,” Ilya thought, throwing small pebbles into the river, “tomorrow I will be there.”
Suddenly, the phone chimed. Call from an unknown number.
Ilya was about to drop it, but suddenly he thought: “What if this is from Inga?”
And picked up the phone.
Silence.
- Yes? he asked timidly.
“Hi, Ilya,” a female voice said familiarly, “this is Nadia. From the post office, you were with us yesterday.
Elijah remembered. That's right, a blonde with lilac lips, from the post office.
- I remembered your number, I felt that it would come in handy. I see you have serious problems?
“There are a few,” Ilya answered restrainedly.
- So I have ... some difficulties. The voice sounded significant. I thought, why don't we help each other?
Ilya began to guess where she was driving.
- Sorry I am…
“Come on,” Nadia interrupted him insistently, “I checked everything, you have a preliminary marriage. You haven’t seen each other yet, so, you’ve been talking online for a couple of months. Bullshit, not marriage, easy to annul. I work until three and I can pick you up - you didn't drown too far, did you? Quick check-in, sleepover and that's it - paternity reprieve is in your pocket. In the end, you go to your Inga for this, right?
Ilya seemed to be doused with cold water.
“No,” he almost shouted into the phone and dropped the call. “No, no, no,” he continued to convince someone already in a whisper.
“I really want to be with her,” he justified, “I didn’t know that this would happen. I didn't want this to happen."
He slipped the phone into his pocket and began to climb out from under the bridge. The prosthesis treacherously slipped off the gravel, and Ilya had to practically crawl on all fours.
Nothing, he thought, prices have dropped. Bonuses for revenge now - a penny. Not like in the forties. And then - the case can still be clarified. If the system regards this as revenge, bribes are smooth from me. Revenge is everyone's right. Yes, the matter will be clarified yet, ”he encouraged himself.
A couple more kilometers along the railway - and it's time to turn into a matrix of concrete blocks. residential areas. It is equally dangerous at night as during the day.
“Now they no longer arrange hunting, as before,” Ilya thought, peering into the half-empty streets. Nobody looked in his direction. Nobody wound a chain around a fist. Already good.
Ilya with difficulty turned away from the saving railway track and timidly moved towards the houses. He walked, looking down at his feet, his hands in his pockets. He walked, and the rattle of the prosthesis on the asphalt seemed to him a deafening clang.
“Killing such masters is not enough,” he repeated angrily to himself and smiled sadly.
In front of a deserted highway, he stopped and looked around. Empty, except for the electric car rushing at full speed.
“They drive like crazy,” thought Ilya and decided to wait, nervously swaying in place.
The electric car stopped right next to him. The side window rolled down, and bright lilac lips insisted:
- Can you sit down? Or are you going to hang around like that?
Door opened. Ilya was confused. What to do - sit down? Or continue to stand, attracting attention? Already the first onlookers began to turn around at them ...
Ilya cursed to himself and sat down on the seat, putting his right foot on the road and holding on to the door.
- Can you stick your leg in? Nadia suggested, straightening her hair.
“We're not going anywhere,” Ilya said as calmly as possible. - What do you need from me?
- I already told you. You need to ask, don't you? For a man who committed a double murder, you're too broken.
Elijah felt a lump in his throat. He took his phone out of his pocket and saw one unread update.
Запись: 7eec7b1c-a130-455d-a76e-ea4064434e51
Предыдущая запись: c64cc26a-6e5e-4788-b8cc-7e4c4103d871
Subject: Svetlana Narzaeva, 12 years old
Clarification of cause of death: negligent homicide
Verdict #1
Defendant: Artyom Shilov, 35 years old
Revenge: Impossible (accused is dead)
Verdict #2
Defendant: Ilya Karpov, 31
Revenge: recommended
“You are now number one in the charts,” Nadia remarked. - If someone needs bonuses, then you can get a good deal. Moreover, you are a cripple, even I can handle you.
"That's a lie," Ilya whispered. - Lie.
“I’m amazed,” the blonde pouted and grabbed the steering wheel. Do you get such offers every day? Say "thank you" and let's go.
Ilya stared listlessly at the phone. “I remember her eyes,” he thought for some reason. -She was laughing. I forged that little prosthesis out of her laughter. I couldn't be wrong."
“Ale,” Nadya pushed him on the shoulder, and Ilya looked at her haunted, “are we going?” Or should I go out and call those guys?
* * *
On Friday morning, Inga woke up full of determination.
“I euthanized twelve innocent furries yesterday,” she told herself. “And I can do it today.”
She washed and dried her hair. She found a half-forgotten tube of lipstick in the bowels of the bathroom. She unfolded a new black, no frills, dress.
She tried not to forget anything that Igor could not stand.
She spent the next two hours waiting. I sat in the kitchen, on a stool in the corridor, on the floor in the room. And smoked a lot. The phone got in the way in her hands, and she put it on the table.
Every now and then she cast a glance at her father's portrait, and this cheered her up.
Igor never called, never knocked. She knew this very well.
But when the state key turned in the lock and the door handle clicked, she became paralyzed.
When the door creaked, her heart sank with fear. Inside her, the still undead Friend whined and scratched. He asked to return to his beloved owners.
Igor entered and stood on the threshold, studying the changes.
He smiled, pulling on the strings.
"Well hello," he said softly. - Bored?
Without waiting for an answer, he entered and began to pace the room, looking around, as if on a tour.
“You look good,” he remarked. “I always said black suits you.
Inga blushed and looked down.
— I see you started a renovation? It is high time. He rolled over on his toe, and the plastic sheet rustled nastily. From this sound, goosebumps ran down Inga's hands.
Igor noticed the portrait on the wall, walked over and smoothly raised his hand, grasping the lower edge of the frame with his fingers, just as he usually took it by the chin.
“Now he will break it and leave it,” Inga said to herself. “And then…then…”
- Old friend. - Igor smiled ... - I almost forgot what he looks like. Why did you hide his portrait at all? There was reproach in his voice. Inga's heart sank. Inner Buddy puffed up his ears.
Igor made a circle around the room and went to her. He walked as if not noticing that she was sitting in his path. Closer, closer and closer. When it seemed to Inga that he was about to step on her, Igor stopped. He looked down at her and his eyes twinkled.
“You didn’t think we were going to be separated for a long time, did you?”
Inga could not stand his gaze. She turned away and bowed her head. It was like she was guilty of something.
Something was beating inside. It beat and screamed. Only Inga did not hear.
Igor moved away from her and turned to the window, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
“I’ve heard rumors around here,” he began meaningfully, “that someone has swindled you into a preliminary marriage.
Pause. Silence. Just the tapping of his fingers on the glass.
- It was a little thoughtless, you must admit. - He sharply pressed his hand on the glass and slowly dragged down - to a disgusting creak. “You should have discussed it with me first. Your eternal way of complicating everything.
Now he was annoyed. His footsteps quickened, he made another circle around the room and stopped in front of her again.
"I guess I'll have to deal with this problem?"
“No,” Inga replied dully.
- Sorry, what?
- No. She raised her head and stood up slowly. He left her too little space, she had to get up, pressing herself against the wall.
- I understood you correctly - will you go right now and correct your stupidity? he asked categorically.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Good girl,” he said somewhere to the side and walked away. Inga, as if in a fog, went up to the table and pulled out a drawer.
When Igor turned back to her, a blued barrel was staring at him. And two frightened eyes looked over.
Inga was waiting for his reaction.
Igor did not raise an eyebrow.
“Ingochka,” he smiled affectionately. — I am the second person in the city. Even if I slash your beautiful face right now, nothing will happen to me. No blockchain records, no investigation, no revenge. Nothing. And if you even think about...
A shot rang out.
Inga barely held the gun in her hands. Her ears rang, and she almost fell, her back against the table. Opening her prudently closed eyes, she saw Igor writhing on the floor, holding on to his bloodied thigh. In his eyes there is hatred, mockery, rage - but not a drop of fear.
Inga pressed herself against the table and aimed her gun at Igor. And he, blushing with anger, reached out to her.
- You're in deep trouble! he snapped. One more move and you're done.
Inga glanced at her father's portrait. He smiled at her from the wall.
“I'm pregnant,” she lied.
Igor froze.
“I’ll smash your beautiful face right now,” Inga continued, “and nothing will happen to me. And in a year's delay, I'll find a way to get out. I will find.
Fear.
Finally she saw.
Fear in his mocking little eyes.
“I… you…” He blushed terribly and reached out to her again, clinging to her former submissiveness.
“Thank you, Druzhok,” thought Inga.
And then she broke the cycle.
Ten minutes later, she was sitting on the balcony, smoking, looking up at the gray clouds, then at the crowds below. She saw how two robot gravediggers - thin as poles - rushed and flew into the entrance. I heard them come in through the unlocked door and start circling the room. One of them drove to her balcony, carefully scanned and sped away. The second one packed the body in a plastic bag, hung it up to him, as if on a hanger, and deftly dragged him away.
There was a room left, blood stains on the film and splashes on the wall. These marks will be washed away.
Inge really wanted to feel relieved. She took a drag on her cigarette and exhaled a puff of smoke. The smoke dissipated, mixed with the gray sky. Relief never came.
“You didn’t think we were going to be separated for a long time, did you?” echoed in her head, and she wasn't even surprised by the way her heart clenched in fear.
“Looks like we won’t break up at all.”
She looked down. A gravedigger with a sack was just turning a corner and almost knocked down a man coming out of there. He recoiled from the robot as if from a ghost, and pressed himself against the wall of the house. And then, looking around, he hobbled along the path in her direction.
Inga dropped her cigarette and rested her palms on the railing.
She recognized Ilya in the cripple.
* * *
Запись: bb7ece22-3f5d-4739-a8dc-8125219f141d
Предыдущая запись: 7eec7b1c-a130-455d-a76e-ea4064434e51
Subject: Igor Lesnikov, 38
Clarification of cause of death: premeditated murder
Verdict #1
Defendant: Inga Karpova (Shepeleva), 28 years old
Revenge: recommended
* * *
They sat on the floor, side by side, without touching each other's eyes. A black pistol lay between them, lying like a faithful watchdog.
Inga smoked and listened to Ilya's heavy breathing. Ilya was sick from lack of sleep and cigarette smoke. The air was filled with the realization that they were still strangers, strangers to each other.
Inga put out her cigarette on the film and exhaled noisily. Ilya struggled with sleep and tried not to close his eyes.
Falling asleep now would be quite inopportune. It's better to talk.
“You…” he cleared his throat, “you should know what happened.”
Inga did not answer, staring at one point in the area of \uXNUMXb\uXNUMXbits shoes. Then she suddenly woke up, feeling awkward, and nodded briefly.
— That girl… Sveta. I saw her once. I ran into at the checkpoint when I was walking to the shop, and my mother was taking her out in a wheelchair. She said something and the girl laughed. I have never heard such laughter before. Cheerful, sincere. I came to the machine, and the boss gave me a drawing - a small prosthetic leg. Never before has it been so easy for me to work. I swear to you, it was a masterpiece. I imagined how she would run, laughing, and worked, worked ... By the end of the shift, everything was ready, it only remained to calibrate. Just calibrate. My replacement came - Tyoma. Even though we didn't get along, I hoped that at least he could handle it. At least it will calibrate properly.
Ilya clenched his fists from impotence.
- In general, a month later, in the middle of the day, the boss comes and gives me this very prosthesis. Asks to carefully disassemble for parts. And Sveta... Sveta died. She stumbled, fell and hit her temple. I spent half a day with this prosthesis. Just sat and looked at him. Half an hour before the end of the shift, I came to my senses and decided to check the calibration. Ilya paused for a moment, gathering his courage. “Perhaps it was better for me not to. I had to take it apart and forget it. In general, when Tyoma came, I ... - Ilya faltered.
“Hit him with that same prosthesis?” Inga finished slowly for him.
"Yes," Ilya answered weakly.
- Understandably.
She picked up the pack from the floor and began to take out the next cigarette. Ilya turned to her and touched her palm. Inga barely restrained herself from pulling her hand back.
- And you? What's wrong with you?
“Sorry,” Inga replied colorlessly, “I’m not in the mood for confession today.
We may not have tomorrow.
The pale shadow of a smile.
- You're probably right. She freed her hand, shoved a cigarette into her brightly painted lips, and brought the lighter up. There was one person who was very offended by my father. Something they didn't share. With this man we had a ... affair. That is, I had an affair, and he just took revenge on his father, through me. Then the father died, and the man stopped even pretending to love.
“Understood,” Ilya said and looked around. Cramped, dark room. And stuffy, like before a big thunderstorm.
The phone buzzed in silence. Inga and Ilya shuddered and looked at each other. Then Ilya patted his pocket, took out his phone and read the message.
— What is there? Inga asked without much interest.
- They write that you and I are number one in the hit parade. Family with three murders. Great premiums.
Inga chuckled.
- That's how ... What else do they write?
- That in our place they would hurry with a delay.
- Wow, - Inga dragged on her cigarette, feeling something burning in her chest, - that's what they want ... People.
Ilya turned off the phone and looked at her. Then he plucked up courage and asked.
- Tell me ... But didn’t you yourself - didn’t want to?
“I wanted to,” Inga answered after thinking. - And even believed - a few days ago - that everything will be fine with us. That we really will ... there will be a baby. And the three of us will survive, get through it all.
Ilya nodded. He imagined it himself. Something bright, sunny… Until the rain and blood washed everything away.
“Now…now what do you think?”
Inga turned to him and answered. Firmly, viciously - but she was not angry with him, Ilya felt it.
“Drag another person into this world… To hide behind him? And then count the days until the end of the delay. And they,” she nodded at the phone, “will count. And if our baby is born, they will not forget him either. We have already given ourselves to the slaughter. And now let's give it away, shall we?
The phone buzzed again, trying to tell about something important. Important not for them.
“No,” Ilya shook his head, “we won’t do that.
He tossed the phone through the open door into the hallway, not with a swing, but like throwing pebbles to bounce them off the water. He knocked against something loudly and fell silent. Inga watched him go, and then turned to Ilya - he leaned against the wall, closed his eyes and smiled.
“True, we don’t have much choice then,” he said sleepily, “but at least… at least I can get some sleep.”
Inga moved closer to him, hugged him, and he laid his head on her knees.
Will you wake me up when they come to kill us?
“Sleep,” Inga said wearily and stroked his hair. With her right hand, she tightly gripped the pistol and looked thoughtfully out the gray window.
Steps on the stairs forced Inga to pull her knees up and stretch her arm forward. She cocked the trigger.
“Just try to get in,” she whispered. “Let someone try to get in.”
Source: habr.com
