Chapter 2. Martian Dream
On a small hill on the surface of Mars, leaving shallow footprints in the red sand, a young scientist named Maxim Minin strolled, having arrived twenty minutes earlier on a passenger flight of INKIS to the spaceport of the city of Tule for an invitation to work with the leading Martian corporation 'Telecom-Ru'. Maxim sincerely believed that there was no conspiracy of Martians against humanity, and the revelations shared in drunken whispers in the kitchen after the third bottle were mere pitiful justifications of unsuccessful losers. He intended to achieve a cozy spot somewhere at the top of the telecom pyramid through hard work supported by his refined mind. Max genuinely believed in the realization of his Martian dream.
He was dressed quite carelessly: in a woolen knitted sweater, slightly worn jeans, and black boots with thick soles. A whirlwind of fine red dust rose above the stones, but obedient to the will of the program, the grains of sand falling on him instantly melted away like early snow.
On Mars, belonging personally to Max, everything was like this: half real, half fictional. Not far from the hill, a translucent wall of a gigantic force dome abruptly dropped into the ground, created by ultra-powerful ring emitters of an electromagnetic field crowning metal towers a kilometer high. All seven towers formed a perfect hexagon, with the eighth, the tallest, located in the center, visible from the spot where Max stood. The nearest tower, with its gray, grim bulk, propped up the dark Martian sky, while the distant ones appeared as thin lines crossing the horizon. Each of them had its own atomic power station to supply the emitters' coils. Around the rings sparkled and crackled a crown of miniature lightning, reminding of the terrible power coursing through the metal bodies of the towers.
A heptagon, inscribed in the circumference of a partially destroyed shallow crater, enclosed an area of several hundred square kilometers with a force field dome. In the space filled with breathable atmosphere, a completely ordinary earthly city emerged, while the areas left free of buildings were filled with beloved pine groves and clear bodies of water. Even many species of feathered inhabitants, not to mention animals, adapted to life inside.
By Max's whim, sounds of the big city he was accustomed to in Moscow reached him: the roar of the crowd, honking cars, clattering and ringing, the measured thumps from construction sites. Of course, real Martian cities are hidden deep in caves, there are no dangerous and expensive force field domes in sight, and when any form of life besides humans is detected, a biological alarm signal is activated. But virtual reality offers ample space for any fantasies.
Beside the force field dome, like an artificial lake, there spread a smooth concrete field of the spaceport with dishes for radars and control towers at the edges. At the docking gates stood several heavy cargo ships. They resembled giant beetles with fuselages smoothly transitioning to the bottoms at the engine nozzles. The passenger terminals looked like reddish domes, shaped by plasma 3D printing from Martian sand and rocks. They even included transparent sections for admiring the surroundings, only slightly yielding in strength to the meter-thick dome ceilings.
On a granite pedestal in front of the passenger terminals of the spaceport stood a silver bird with short wings and the characteristic angular body of the first shuttles, gazing proudly upwards. Worn and battered from a long life, it miraculously retained the thirst for great discoveries in the predatory shine of its black nose and leading edge of its wings. The best machines always possess a strange combination of traits — the spirit of the machine, which makes them almost alive. The silver bird on the pedestal was just such a machine. It had never landed on the surface of Mars, delivering only descent modules, but enjoyed its honorary rest right here. Every day, technicians in spacesuits blew compressed air over the ship, dislodging red dust from the tiniest cracks of the deteriorating hull. They worked especially hard around the inscription "Viking" on the side of the ship. The nose of the "Viking" was oriented towards the geographic north pole of Mars. On the opposite side of the terminal, "Storm" faced south, while the spaceport was guarded by "Orion" and "Ural" from the west and east — four famous ships that secured Russia's leadership in the global space race at the dawn of the era of interplanetary flights.
Amidst this backdrop stood Max. He read out the message, although he believed a brief chat message would have sufficed. But his girlfriend demanded the illusion of live communication, and quick connections were too expensive.
"Hi, Masha, I arrived safely without any major incidents. INKIS ships are quite reliable. However, spending three weeks in cryosleep is an experience below average. Plus, there are two layovers at orbital stations. On the bright side, as you understand, the prices for INKIS flights are significantly lower than those of competitors. I can already imagine Telecom — those cheapskates won’t shell out for a business class cabin on the 'NASA-Spacelines' liner, which makes it to Mars in five days. They say we need to be patriots, but what the hell does patriotism mean now?"
The local gravity causes plenty of issues: I keep crashing into walls and knocking locals down. I need to sign up for a special gym, or else in a year or two, I’ll only be able to move around in a wheelchair on Earth. Overall, it’s easy to get used to gravity, but unlearning it is a bit more challenging, although it is possible. What really bothers me here are the Martian quirks about ecology. It’s a bit extreme; back in Moscow, the ecology is so terrible that rats and cockroaches die, but as everyone knows, nobody cares. Before my flight to Mars, I was tortured with ecological literacy tests on Earth, and during the flight, they constantly showed educational films. Moreover, I’m required to install special programs on my chip to monitor my compliance. It feels like all Earthlings are automatically considered pigs on Mars, eager to mess everything up. It's like a local kind of arrogance:
I don't know how dangerous discarded trash really is, whether it can trigger a massive epidemic, or if some fool could provoke an accident in life support systems. To me, all this is as frightening as it is unlikely. Death in an isolated sector from an unknown infection or death from decompression is a terrible thing, but as they say, if you're afraid of wolves, don't go into the woods. We had to settle on a planet with a hostile environment, just to tremble at every strange spot: "Oh, what if this is alien mold; it could get into my body and grow Martian mushrooms out of me?" Honestly, people who have lived a bit on Mars seem to become obsessed with this topic; I heard so many horrors during the flight that it could fill several first-class thrillers. It feels like someone is deliberately instilling a fear of accidents, fires, and, pardon the term, "trashophobia" into the collective consciousness. All Martians are such neat freaks, damn it. But this neatness is purely superficial; it doesn't extend to the cultural sphere of life. I'm utterly shocked by the local advertising: no wit whatsoever, just a ruthless focus on consumption and base instincts.
However, as I mentioned, you get used to everything, including the excesses of Martian "internal politics." I don't smoke, and I've been accustomed to cleanliness since childhood, so there's no reason for me to fear the eco-services. The main thing is that I'll be working in the best Russian company; for the chance to achieve something in life, I can endure a little.
And also, I haven't met a single real Martian yet. Remember how my grandmother used to scare everyone: "They are huge, almost three meters tall, pale, thin with sparse whitish hair and dark eyes, resembling underground spiders." I thought that the closer I got to Mars, the scarier the Martians would be, but there weren’t any on the ship or at the stations. But I guess that's understandable: they rarely come to Earth and, in any case, they don’t trust their precious bodies to INKIS. Maybe it will be different in the city. However, I accidentally met an employee from the security service of 'Telecom' at the station. He said he had been on a business trip. It's strange that such types work at Telecom. You can tell he’s not just an ordinary guard, and why would a regular guard go on business trips? This Ruslan clearly has Caucasian roots: both in his facial features and his way of speaking; he doesn’t mix up cases and faces, but he definitely has a characteristic accent. No, you know I’m fine with people of other nationalities... But this Ruslan, in short, slightly resembles some sort of bandit. Still, it doesn’t matter; isn't it the case that we have plenty of all kinds of characters loitering outside our windows? I probably had a somewhat idealistic view of 'Telecom': I was hoping for a Martian corporation where everything is run by Martians – intelligent, diligent, and conscientious. I thought Mars was a world of nanotechnology and virtual reality. But as it turns out, Mars is all about tension. The eco-service is just the tip of the iceberg; the copywriters here are the real beasts. All the free services and programs are littered with ads to the brim, and try to pirate something; the eco-service will feel like your own mother. Forget about pirate programs; at least it’s clear to any fool that it’s not exactly good. But regarding the law about bots, you probably haven’t heard. I forgot to add a signature to the bot saying that it’s a bot, and that’s it, dry your choice of bread and welcome to the uranium mines.
So, to summarize, I must honestly confess to you, dear Masha, that my first encounter with Mars did not live up to my best expectations, though no one promised that it would be easy. Moreover, if things go completely wrong, I will return as we agreed, but if everything is okay, then you will come in a couple of months when we finalize all the paperwork. Well, I need to wrap this up; I will write in more detail later this evening. Send my regards to everyone, and make sure you send letters too, don't use this fast communication: it's as expensive as something I can't even describe. That's it, kisses, I have to run.
Max added a few picturesque landscapes of the red planet to the file: the obligatory view from the summit of the twenty-kilometer Olympus and the grand sheer walls of the Mariner Valley, and then he sent the email. He jumped out of virtual reality and started, cursing, to close the pop-up ads that came as an unpleasant bonus with any "free" app. He calmed down only when the translucent menu of the user interface remained in view. He carefully moved his stiff limbs and irritably adjusted his synthetic shirt and similarly made trousers. He really disliked Martian clothing, which was very durable and beautiful but lacked even a single natural fiber or speck of dust that could trigger allergies in the health-impaired locals. Grandma's sweaters, socks, and other 'ecologically dirty' clothes were sealed in airtight bags back at customs.
A new acquaintance was approaching the table of the network café where Max was situated. He was dressed in a gray suit made of expensive synthetic material that looked and felt like wool, while still maintaining its special ecological properties. Ruslan was tall, solidly built and stocky, looking incredibly strong as if he hadn't lived under half the Earth's gravity. This would certainly set him apart in a crowd, especially since he didn’t use cosmetic products. They didn’t really work on INKIS vessels, but on Mars, a 'natural' appearance was encountered as rarely as natural clothes and food, pretty much like anything organic. As the eternal advertisement stated: 'Image is nothing, the provider is everything!' Max would have gladly adjusted Ruslan's image: to his proud eagle-like profile, high cheekbones, and dark skin, he just needed to add a turban, a curved yatagan at his waist, and white minarets in the background to create a strikingly complete image. However, he did not quite fit the image of an executive security officer who spends his workdays online, carefully observing the internal life of the corporation. Physical fitness is not needed for such work, but maintaining it under low gravity is quite difficult: medical intervention and daily training are essential. It's unlikely that Ruslan is a fan of a healthy lifestyle. Maybe he is some kind of executor of delicate tasks, or, following Russian tradition, the security service’s job is to catch employees who are dissatisfied with work conditions and are leaving the company. Max understood that his assumptions were unfounded; it was much more probable that Ruslan is a minor boss who has the time and money to keep an eye on his appearance.
Ruslan, with a 'bouncing' gait typically characteristic of people recently arrived from a world with normal gravity, approached the table, squeaked as he pushed the free chair aside, and sat down opposite, folding his hands on the table.
— So, how are things? — Max casually inquired.
— Things are good, brother. — Ruslan replied.
Ruslan averted his heavy gaze, drummed his fingers on the table, and asked a counter question.
— You still have the old chip, right?
— Well, on Mars, you can change the chip every year, but in Moscow, it's quite expensive and somewhat risky, considering the quality of healthcare.
— That’s understandable, but don’t say that around the local guys who pretend to be Martians. It’s like admitting you’re a total fool.
Max grimaced slightly, as his interlocutor completely lacked a sense of tact, which was pretty much expected.
— So what’s the big deal about it?
— Don’t wave your hands and twitch your fingers; it’s obvious that your chip is controlled by movements, not by thought commands. Get some makeup to hide that.
— Is there nothing better to do? What’s with these cheap tricks? To control a chip purely by thought commands, you need to be born with it in your head.
— Exactly, Max, you weren’t born with a chip in your head, unlike the Telecom bosses.
— No, I wasn’t born that way. As if you were? — Max’s voice was tightly laced with annoyance and distrust.
He tried not to think about the fact that there must be many people at Telecom who were indeed born with a neurochip in their heads. And in terms of skills with neurochips, he surely couldn’t hold a candle to them. However, the HR specialists at the Moscow branch of Telecom had highly valued his knowledge. "Damn that new buddy," Max thought, "he should just go in the known direction."
— If you truly don’t care about public opinion, you can do whatever you want without worrying. But those cool Martian guys control electronics with the power of thought, and that’s what drives the rest crazy. It doesn’t dawn on them that you need to be born with a chip in your head and learn all of this from childhood. It’s like playing football; if you haven’t played by the age of ten, Pelé’s glory will never shine on you. So it’s easier and cheaper to press virtual buttons. Would you like to play like Pelé?
— In football?
— Not in football, of course, it’s just a metaphor.
‘What a cynical jerk I’ve come across,’ Max thought quite irritated. ‘He’s still hitting right on the most sensitive spot.’
— That’s quite a dubious statement.
— What statement?
— The one that says if you haven't played since childhood, you won't achieve real success. Not everyone knows their talents from a young age.
— Yes, all talents are laid down in early childhood; after that, nothing can be changed. Fate is not chosen.
— There are exceptions to every rule.
— They exist, one in a million. — Ruslan agreed easily and indifferently.
These words were spoken with such cold confidence that Max felt a slight chill. It was as if the ghost of some generic Martian Pelé had materialized nearby and began to perform its unattainable tricks with the ball, wearing a barely perceptible smile of complete superiority.
— Alright, it's time for me to meet with the local football coach.
Max no longer hid the fact that he felt a slight discomfort in communicating with his new friend.
— I can give you a ride; my car has arrived.
— No, thanks, I still need to get to the central office of Telecom.
— Don't stress, okay? I have the same chip as you, and I don't use cosmetics. It's just that I genuinely don't care, but if you want to fit in with these pseudo-Martians, get used to the fact that people will look at you like you're a tourist from Moscow.
— So, you've already gotten used to it?
— I'm telling you, I have a different circle of friends. You'll have to live with this; believe me, without any pretentiousness in the race to the local trough, it's nowhere. A regular guy from Moscow has zero chances.
— I really doubt that Martians care about cheap pretentiousness.
— Don't pay too much attention to real Martians. They obviously don’t care. You and I are like pets to them. I'm talking about the others who hang around. Nobody will say anything, but you'll feel the attitude right away. I didn’t want this to be an unpleasant surprise.
— I'll figure out the local customs myself one way or another.
— Of course, I regret bringing up this conversation. Let's go; I'll give you a ride.
Max knew well that traveling by trains took quite a while, and there were almost no traffic jams on Mars due to high personal vehicle tariffs and a well-planned transportation system. Therefore, weighing all the pros and cons, he decided that he could tolerate Ruslan's company for another hour.
— I'll drop you off at the central office; let's go.
Max entrusted his main luggage to the cargo service, so now he was traveling light. He checked the bag with the oxygen mask and Geiger counter once again, and checked how snugly the flexible tablet strap was fitted on his arm, enhancing the performance of his outdated neurochip. Over time, of course, he would need to implant himself with more modern devices, but for now, he had to make do with what he had. Max stood up from the table and resolutely followed Ruslan. No one in the café paid them any attention. It was clear that only the bodies of the visitors were present, while their minds roamed in the labyrinths of the virtual world.
The path to the parking lot lay through an enormous arrival hall, which starkly contrasted with the dreary reality of Russia. It felt as if he had suddenly been transported to a Brazilian carnival. Crowds of bots offering taxi services, hotels, and entertainment portals pounced on any new user, like a pack of starving dogs. Colorful dirigibles floated under the high ceiling, exotic dragons and griffins shimmered in every color of the rainbow, and fountains and lush tropical plants erupted from the ground. Max irritably tried to shake off the glitchy textures of a flyer, beside which a bright red diamond icon appeared, indicating the need to update the codecs. Immediately, a dark elf in a breastplate latched onto him, insistently inviting him to try out yet another multiplayer RPG for real men.
The neurochip reacted to all this chaos with a sharp drop in performance. The image started to stutter, and some objects became blurred and turned into a set of ugly multicolored squares. Interestingly, by a strange coincidence, the models of the advertising bots showed no signs of pixelation, unlike real objects. Tripping on the escalator, Max spat out in frustration and began to wildly wave his hands, trying to clear the visual channel.
“Problems?” Ruslan, standing lower on the escalator, politely asked.
“Yes, damn! I can’t figure out how to get rid of the ads.”
“Have you already installed the free apps from Mariner Play?”
“Without them, I won’t get out of the spaceport.”
Ruslan unexpectedly showed concern, supporting Max by the elbow as he stepped off the escalator.
— You should have read the license agreement.
— Two hundred pages?
— Somewhere around the one hundred twentieth page, it says that a weak chip is your personal problem. The ad has been paid for; no one will let it be cut. Turn the visual settings down to minimum.
— What kind of nonsense is this?! Either look at the screenshots, or you'll see nothing but pixels beyond ten meters.
— Get used to it. I warned you: compared to smoothie lovers and segway enthusiasts from Neurotech, I’m just a model of politeness. You'll appreciate my honesty, brother.
— Of course... bro.
— Getting a service connection from Telecom will make things easier.
When Max found himself in the underground garage, he was initially a bit disoriented. The poorly lit, seemingly half-abandoned space stretched in all directions from the elevator as far as the eye could see. The parking lot resembled a true forest of columns from floor to ceiling, spaced at equal intervals, with lighting so dim that strips of light alternated with bands of half-darkness. Ruslan stopped in front of a heavy tinted SUV and turned around. His face was completely submerged in shadows, and from the faceless dark silhouette, there was an unmistakable breath of something unearthly. He seemed like a ferryman waiting for someone destined to him, to take to the underworld. The low gravity added its two cents to the mystical mood. Max couldn’t discern the solid boundary of the floor in the half-darkness and after each step, he lingered in the air for a couple of moments, making it feel like he was about to float in the gray mist, like a lost soul. 'I don’t even have coins to pay for services; I risk getting stuck forever between worlds.' Max turned the visual settings back and the otherworldly scene disappeared, transforming into an ordinary underground parking lot.
Ruslan smoothly set the heavy vehicle in motion.
— So, what exactly do you do at work, if it's not a secret? — Max decided to use his new acquaintance to gather a bit of insider information.
— Well, mostly I review personal correspondence, all sorts of love letters and such nonsense. It's deadly boring, you know.
— I understand, I understand, quite a job, — Max smiled politely and, looking at his serious companion's face, added with some surprise. — So, it's not a joke?
— What jokes, my friend, — Ruslan grinned. — Of course, I have completely different responsibilities, but your concern about personal life will pass quickly. All Telecom employees can have any letters and conversations checked, regardless of whether they are work-related or not.
Ruslan smirked and, after a moment, continued:
— For important employees, there is even a special server in the depths of Telecom, where everything you see and hear is recorded from a chip.
— Those important employees are out of luck.
— Yes, if you saw the guys digging through our dirty laundry... They are like inhabitants of a can, they don't care what they are watching.
— I think all this is illegal, prohibited, including by the regulations of the Advisory Council.
— Get used to it, there’s no law on Mars except the one established by the company for the employee. If you have any problems, look for another job.
— Yeah, to get into a corporation where you get whipped for the slightest offenses.
— Life is a cruel thing. Every enthusiast of private life ends up working as a waiter or other service loser, no one cares about their chatter or thoughts.
— Well, there is no absolute freedom, you always have to sacrifice something, — Max noted philosophically.
— There are no rights or freedoms at all, there is only a balance of power and interests of different players. If you are not a player yourself, you'll have to maintain that balance.
«Well, well, and soon we will meet the local Al Capone who runs Telecom's security? This new acquaintance is certainly quite a character, one must be careful in dealing with him, but such a connection could be quite useful,» — Max thought.
Max always dreamed of living on Mars. Every day, looking out of the windows at the dilapidated, dull Moscow, he thought about the red planet. The slender spires of skyscrapers, the beauty of the underground world, and boundless freedom of mind haunted him in his restless dreams. Max's Martian dream was somewhat different from the average person's: he didn't just dream of virtual and material wealth. His understandable aspirations for wealth and independence were closely intertwined with almost unattainable, nearly communist dreams of bringing justice and happiness to the world for everyone. He never spoke about this to anyone, but sometimes he seriously believed that he could achieve such power and wealth on Mars that he would transform a pack of ruthless multinational corporations into the kind of Mars he had seen in his childhood dreams. And for an object of improvement, he was satisfied with neither Moscow nor even Europe or America, but just Mars. Sometimes he acted quite irrationally, sacrificing his dreams for much more profitable offers from non-Martian companies. Max was determined to reach the red planet and refused to listen to reason, being somehow convinced that the walls he had been banging his head against in Moscow would magically crumble before him on Mars. No, he had, of course, planned everything in advance: to get a job in Telecom, rent a place for the first time, then maybe take an apartment on credit, bring Masha over, and then, having resolved his initial tasks, calmly pave his way to the shining peak. But this was not a career for the sake of a career, or a career for the sake of family; it was all for the fulfillment of a foolish dream.
In his childhood, Max visited the Martian capital, and the fairy-tale city enchanted him. He wandered around with his mouth agape and his eyes wide open. Like a monstrous soul catcher, the fairy-tale city of Thule ensnared him in a shimmering web, and since then, an invisible, tightly stretched string has always connected Max to it. Often, it resembled a slight madness. When Max was twelve, he collected models of rovers, ships, and rare stones from the depths of the red planet. On his shelf stood a large, nearly one-meter model of the "Viking" that he had spent six months gluing together. Gradually, he outgrew his toys, but he was still drawn to Mars with the same strength, as if someone was persistently whispering in his ear: "Leave, run, there you will find happiness and freedom." This mystical connection was at the forefront of his life, while everything else—friends, Masha, and family—flew by unnoticed against the backdrop of his global goal, although Max learned to hide his indifference to the worldly well. After all, it was not the most destructive passion to overtake people, and Max learned to use it for good. At least, Masha was convinced that all these titanic efforts were being made for their future family happiness. And Max's entire life path turned into a compromise between unattainable dreams and what life circumstances dictated to him. Max was constantly tearing himself apart in a grueling pursuit of who knows what, tortured by the following thoughts: "Damn it, I'm almost thirty, and I'm still not on Mars. If I end up there by forty with Masha and two kids, it will be a complete and final defeat. And at this rate, I’ll never make it. I need to do everything faster while I’m still young and strong." And he did everything even faster to the detriment of quality and everything else.
Max glanced out the window: a heavy vehicle was racing through the tangled network of underground tunnels, to the ancient walls seemingly untouched by human hands. There were almost no cars on the narrow, two-lane highway. Occasionally, only trucks bearing the INCIS logo appeared: a stylized head of an astronaut with his helmet visor raised, against the backdrop of a planetary disk.
"Where exactly are we going?" Max thought with mild concern, continuing to stare out the window. "It doesn't look like a busy highway to Tula."
"This is the INKIS service road, we'll get there in about thirty minutes," Ruslan answered the unspoken question. "On the regular road, we would crawl for an hour and a half."
"Are we the only smart ones who drive on service roads?"
"Of course, it's closed to regular drivers; it's just that INKIS and Telecom are connected by an old, close friendship."
"Friendship, huh?" Max thought skeptically. "I wonder what this guy is really up to."
Looking at the winding road ahead of him, he wondered how Ruslan navigated so calmly through the maze of tunnels and caves they were racing through at breakneck speed. The path constantly twisted, sometimes soaring upward and other times plunging downward, intersecting with other, even narrower roads. It was poorly lit; the headlights ahead only revealed colossal stalactites and stalagmites that were sometimes dangerously close to the asphalt. A side road with a gravel surface whizzed by with a whistling sound. Just then, a clanking mining bulldozer turned out from it, crunching small stones beneath its wheels. Without slowing down, Ruslan passed it almost shoulder to shoulder, ignoring the gravel flying from under the bulldozer's enormous wheels, and then immediately dove down and to the right into an unlit closed curve. Max gripped the door handle tightly and thought that either Ruslan was some unknown distant descendant of Schumacher and knew the road by heart, or there was some kind of trickery at play. He quickly found the interface of the navigation computer and was once again amazed by how conveniently the control of objects on the Martian internet was implemented: there was no need to search or install new drivers, just tap the device icon and it was ready to use. The windshield reflected a map of the area around the spaceport, and green turn indicators with all the necessary explanations appeared above the road: turn radius, recommended speed, and other data. Furthermore, the intelligent computer reconstructed the image of closed or poorly lit sections of the road. As Max understood from the movement of oncoming trucks, the imaging was transmitted in real-time.
— Don't you have autopilot working?
— Of course it works, — Ruslan shrugged. — These roads are one of the few places where it’s allowed to drive yourself. Do you know what a problem it is to buy a car with a steering wheel and pedals around here? I just don't get why you would spend a couple of hundred cryptos on a vehicle to be a passenger. It's worse than non-alcoholic beer and virtual women. Damn tech geeks, shoving their chips wherever they see fit.
Well, that's a problem... There's a bearded Moscow joke about unmanned control, not particularly funny though.
So go on, tell me.
So, a husband and wife are lying in bed after fulfilling their marital duties. The husband asks, "Darling, did you enjoy it?" "No, dear, you used to do much better. Did you get another woman?" "No, darling, it’s just that during that time I was always battling orcs, and my chip handled it for me."
"That's no longer a joke," Ruslan smirked. "I don't doubt that about some office rats. Why would they need real women... By the way, there's even a service like that that appeared relatively recently. It's called 'body control'. The chip drives you to work and back, for example, while you can keep battling your orcs as much as you want."
"Is it like zombies? Must be creepy to encounter them on the streets?"
"Yeah, you won't notice anything. Some dude is just walking, staring at one point, everybody's like that now. A good chip even answers questions like, ‘Hey dude, got a smoke?’."
"How far progress has come. Are boxing skills also built into these chips?"
"Sure, in somebody's pink dreams. Just think, where would the strength and reaction come from? It's either some expensive implants or you sweat it out in the gym. Only in Warhammer: pay a few pennies for an account and become, like, a space marine."
"That sounds like a lousy service. Who knows what your chip might do for you, who’s responsible for the consequences later?"
"As usual, read the agreement: a broken face—your personal problem."
"Are there bad areas on Mars?"
"Plenty of them," Ruslan shrugged, "you know, working in uranium mines doesn’t contribute to, uh..."
"Developing a rich inner world," Max suggested.
"Exactly. So, there are plenty of areas patrolled by local gangs, but just don’t go there and you'll avoid a lot of trouble."
"Which areas are those?" Max decided to clarify just in case.
"For example, the area of the first settlement. It's like a gamma zone, but in reality, there’s high radiation and low oxygen. The locals love replacing lost body parts with all sorts of cutting and stabbing stuff."
"I wonder why corporations can't deal with those thugs?"
— How can we figure this out?
— What do you mean how?! In the underground world where everyone has a neurochip in their head, what problems are there in catching all the lawbreakers?
— Well, you're a law-abiding Telecom employee, you've already installed all the police apps on the chip. But there are those wandering around with counterfeit chips, and contractors like "Uranium One" or the Ministry of Atomic Energy simply don't care who got hired there. And in general, why should Telecom or Neurotech bother? The kids from the first settlement will never take a shot at them. And again, it’s not really appropriate for a botanist on a Segway to press some free software enthusiast. You need the right specialists for that.
— Hey, weren't you from such a neighborhood? — Max ventured a cautious guess.
— No, I was born on Earth. But your line of thinking is almost correct and quite dangerous.
— Oh come on, why should I care? And won’t the botanists on Segways be offended that you're saying such nasty things about them?
— They check my actions, and you can talk as much as you want, it doesn't change anything. Did you think there's no crime on Mars?
— I was sure of it. How can you commit a crime if your chip immediately reports where it should?
— Of course, and the electronic court automatically issues fines and can also start a case, check all conditions, and send you behind bars. And if you try to act up too much, they’ll implant a mini chip that won't just alert but will immediately disable your nervous system as soon as you try to break the law. Just wanted to cross the street in a prohibited area, and your legs will just give out… halfway through.
— Well, right, that's exactly what I’m saying.
— Just between us: all this is to press people like you, honest guys. A thug with a fake chip doesn't care. Yes, corporations could crush crime if they wanted to. But they don’t give a damn.
— Why not?
— I gave you one reason. You can also ponder this at your leisure. Imagine that communism has arrived, all the slackers have been implanted with microchips and are working for the good of society. Everywhere is cleanliness and beauty, there are no gamma or delta zones, if you get sick — you can treat yourself, if you lose your job — live on benefits. Who will then work their entire life until they drop dead? Everyone will be relaxing and not giving a damn about the eggheads with their Segways. But when there's a prospect of becoming homeless in a delta zone, where there’s nothing to breathe, or going on an exciting tour of the concentration camps of the Eastern Bloc, that’s when you’ll really hustle. What’s wrong with some people in Moscow? Why are they so eager to break their backs for the Telecom bosses who don’t consider them worth much?
— You’re clearly exaggerating, — Max waved his hand indignantly. — You’re conjuring up all sorts of conspiracy theories; it's obvious that any facts can be twisted to fit them.
— Fine, I’m imagining conspiracy theories. And you, apparently, think you’ve landed in the land of elves. You’ll see for yourself; let’s see who’s right in a year.
— In a year, I’ll myself be a boss at Telecom, and then we’ll see.
— Sure, I’m all for it, — Ruslan laughed. — Just don’t forget who picked you up from the spaceport if anything happens. But these are just dreams...
— Well, dreams or not, if you sit comfortably for your whole life, nothing will come of it.
— Are you seriously thinking about joining the crowd of real Martians?
— What’s so special about it? What makes me any worse than them?
— It’s not about worse or better. It’s an elite club for insiders. No outsiders are allowed, no matter what their achievements.
— It’s clear that the management of any transnational corporation is, to some extent, a closed club. You should see the family clans that have occupied any halfway decent positions in Moscow. No elitism, just primitive wild Asia: they care about nothing but the animalistic desire to grab as much as possible, as quickly as possible. In any case, the first step on Mars is still better than cranking out primitive websites in Moscow. Maybe I can at least make some money.
— You'll earn more money in Moscow on primitive websites. But you clearly didn't come here to become a minor executive and save up for a small flat by the age of forty. Just don’t stress too much again, but do you really think you're the first one with shining eyes to hop over here? There are tons of dreamers like that, and Martians have learned perfectly how to squeeze everything out of them.
— I already know that I’ll have to work hard and not everyone makes it to success; some face setbacks, but what can you do? Do you really think I don’t understand anything?
— You're a smart guy; I didn't mean anything by it, but you don't know the system. I've seen how it works.
— And how does it work?
— It’s very simple: first, you’ll be offered a job as a basic admin or coder, then they might raise your salary a bit, and then maybe they’ll promote you to oversee new arrivals. But they won’t really let you do anything cool, or if they do, they'll take all the rights for themselves. And all the time, it'll feel like you’re almost in the circle, just a little more effort, but it's an illusion, a deception, a glass ceiling, in short.
— I'm aware that most people hit a glass ceiling. The struggle is actually getting among the few lucky ones who break through.
— There are no lucky ones; understand that. The policy is one — don’t take outsiders.
— I don't see the logic in such a policy. If you don’t let anyone in at all, then, as you say, no one will care. Why bother if the outcome is known? If you don't roll out videos with happy millionaires, no one will buy lottery tickets, right?
— Here, they'll create any videos for you. No one will catch Neurotek red-handed.
— Are you saying the Martians are just deceiving everyone?
— Not exactly, they don't just deceive you; they actually deceive you very cleverly. Alright, let me try to explain... So, you get a job in Telecom, and the HR department creates a personal file for you. There’s a little file where they’ll record all the data they manage to gather, down to school evaluations, and all of your requests and visits tracked by the chip. Based on this data and your current activity, the program will monitor when to say something to you, when to give you a promotion, when to give you a raise, to keep you from running off into the sunset. In short, they will constantly keep a carrot dangling in front of your nose.
— You’re painting everything with a broad brush. Sure, they use neural networks to analyze personal data. Yes, it’s not very pleasant, but I don’t see any tragedy in that.
— The tragedy is that unless you’re a Martian, you will only share your problems with that neural network. It’s completely, like... a formal procedure; live managers won’t say a word to you in half a century. To them, you’re just a blank space.
— As if I’m not just a blank space in Moscow for some INKIS. It’s clear that first you’ll have to get their attention so that the Martians start spending time discussing my career prospects.
— You really don’t understand. In Moscow or at least in some part of Europe, you can participate in a race with a crowd of others like you. And even if nine out of ten prize places are already taken by someone’s buddies or mistresses, you can still genuinely compete for the tenth. But on Mars, there’s absolutely nothing to gain, no matter how many times you’re a genius. The Martians have long figured out all the humans and assigned each one a personal digital stall… Oh well, forget it, really. Everyone makes their own choices.
— I’d even say: everyone sees what they want to see.
“The security service at Telecom is quite strange,” Max thought tiredly. “What did he want to achieve, for me to fly back to Moscow and live there happily ever after? Well, yes, it’s more reasonable to believe that the roads at home will be repaired and bribes will stop than to believe in the good intentions of someone like that. More likely, he’s just amusing himself. Or he’s really connected to some mafia and only sees the dark side of the city of Tule.” But still, doubts began to gnaw at Max’s soul with renewed vigor: “Indeed, why is Telecom looking for specialists in Moscow, which is a backwater compared to Tule? But on the other hand, it can’t just be a bad joke to drag me this far while covering travel expenses? In any case, I still have money for a return ticket. But why did I even start these conversations? Is there no one else to share with? There seems to be some rational kernel in his chatter. How can one understand in the world of virtual reality: am I building a career with neural networks or am I conversing with real Martians? By the size of the earnings? But money, indeed, can be made in Moscow too, especially if you’re an unscrupulous bastard with connections. And here, any result is virtual to some extent. A sufficiently powerful neural network can easily decipher all my dreams and provide an illusion of their fulfillment in a cozy little world. Maybe deep down, I clearly understand the futility of my hopes and secretly have never intended to turn them into reality. And here lies a wonderful opportunity to see what an ideal world looks like. Just a glimpse is allowed, after all, it’s not forbidden by anyone, it’s not a vice, it’s just a harmless tactical retreat. And there, in the near future, I will definitely start doing everything for real: with a single effort of will, I will cut the network cable and begin. But for now, I can still dream a little longer, just a bit more... Hmm, that’s how it will all be: just a little longer, stretching out for a couple of decades until it is too late, until I finally turn into a spineless amoeba floating in a nutrient solution.” – Max dreaded this vision. “No, I need to get rid of these doubts. I need to be like Ruslan, or like my friend Denis, for example. Dén clearly knows what he wants and doesn’t stress over it. And as for all these chips and neural networks, he couldn’t care less... But on the other hand, is this a true dream? It’s just instincts and a harsh necessity of life.”
— We're almost there, — Ruslan reported, slowing down at the artificial tunnel that sharply ascended, — we’ll pass through the lock and pop out in the city. Don’t forget to activate the pass.
— And what zone was that?
— Epsilon.
— Epsilon?! And we’re just cruising here, it’s almost open space.
— I know, the oxygen content isn't regulated, high radiation levels? Do you have children?
— No…
— Then that’s bad.
— What’s bad? — Max worried.
— Just kidding, nothing will happen to you. In this vehicle, it’s like being in a tank: closed atmosphere and radiation protection, plus there are light spacesuits in the trunk.
— Yes, spacesuits in the trunk will undoubtedly save our lives in case of a serious accident, — Max noted, but Ruslan paid no attention to his irony.
Without any delays, they passed the old lock and entered the acceleration lane of the highway already in Tula. Ruslan relaxed back in his seat and handed control over to the computer. In any case, on the highways of Tula, where the maximum speed was limited to a fantastic two hundred miles an hour, the computer's decisions took precedence over any actions of the driver. Only the road computer was capable of safely operating the vehicle at such speeds in dense traffic. The Martian transport control system deserved the highest praise; all you had to do was choose a destination, and the system would automatically select the optimal route considering the traffic forecasts based on the intentions of other users. Without it, Tula would undoubtedly be choking on traffic jams like many earthly megacities.
Max admired the operation of the smoothly coordinated road system from a bird's-eye view on the interactive city map. The shimmering streams of cars, flowing through the interchanges, resembled the circulatory system of a living organism. Heavy cargo and passenger vehicles drifted obediently in the right lanes, while fast cars whizzed by on the left. If someone changed lanes, the other participants in traffic would slow down, allowing them to pass, almost scraping bumpers against each other. No one rushed forward with risky overtakes or cut each other off; all maneuvers were executed in advance with perfect speed and precision. Multilevel interchanges were built everywhere: no traffic lights were needed. Max smirked at the thought that any Moscow traffic cop seeing such a sight would shed a tear of joy. Though, no, probably from disappointment: where a sober, error-free computer is in control, the corrupt traffic police would clearly be left out of the loop.
“The speeds could be a bit lower, and the distance between cars should be more than ten to fifteen meters,” Max thought, “one can only hope that if any cargo platform's control fails, the system will manage to react in time, otherwise it will be a terrible mess.”
The city had much to admire beyond the highways. The low gravitational force and massive underground voids allowed for incredible feats in architecture. Tula, buried in caves and tunnels, was still entirely directed upwards. It consisted solely of skyscrapers, spires, towers, and aerial structures with slender supports, connected by a web of passageways and transport routes. Next to each building was a link to a web page where one could learn a lot of interesting facts about the metropolis. Here is a 200-meter glass sphere, as if floating in the air – an upscale club. Inside, elegantly dressed people and semi-clad selling girls are enjoying themselves in an augmented reality atmosphere. Meanwhile, just a few blocks away, a stark gloomy structure without glass and neon – a hospital and shelter for the poor, located in a favorable living area known as 'beta'. It turns out that civilized Martians are quite ready to share crumbs from the master's table, even though no state is holding them captive anymore.
Some buildings, like columns, pressed against the ceilings of the caves, around which a swarm of arriving and hurriedly departing drones usually buzzed. These buildings housed fire, environmental, and other municipal services. Not sparing a glance at their web page, Max discovered that these columns also serve as load-bearing structures, protecting the natural arches of the underground from collapsing. The measure is mostly preventive; Mars does not exhibit much tectonic activity: the depths of the red planet have long been dead and do not disturb people. However, there are plenty of other issues, including environmental ones: ancient bacteria spores are constantly found in the rocks, and radiation: the natural background, even deep down, due to the high concentration of radioactive isotopes, is several times higher than on Earth. Therefore, the main laboratories of powerful corporations are usually located in separate caves, closed off from the main city by several layers of protection.
There were even some truly exotic examples of local architecture: where deep chasms gaped in the cave floor, towers hung from the ceiling like giant stalactites, plunging into the void. From the chasms came the hum of oxygen stations – the light limbs of an urban organism. And the role of the conductor of this colossal orchestra was played by electronic devices. They easily took over the care of imperfect human beings, replacing them practically everywhere. The residents of Tule strolled leisurely along the fragile high galleries, raced in misty vehicles, breathed in clean filtered air, and were not worried about the fact that mere nanoseconds and nanometers of errors, which had accidentally crept into the delicate crystals of computer devices, separated them from instantaneous or, conversely, torturous death.
Of course, there was a choice of any screensaver to decorate the urban landscape. The most popular was the screensaver of an elven city, where spires transformed into gigantic trees, waterfalls cascaded from the walls, and an exotic sky with several suns spread overhead. Max preferred the screensaver of the underground black-magicians’ city. It was much closer to the actual textures of the environment and accordingly consumed fewer chip resources. Neon advertisements, transformed into priestly lights, cast whimsical reflections on the black-red rocky walls, illuminating translucent veins of precious minerals from the darkness. Drones, turned into elementals and spirits, twirled in a dance beneath the cavernous arches. The beauty of virtual creations and the beauty of natural undergrounds intertwined so tightly and organically that it made the heart stop. Though it was foreign and cold, this beauty, shaped by the malicious spirits of a dead planet millions of years ago, beckoned with its chill, and the soul blissfully sank into a sweet, poisonous sleep. Triumphant ghosts, laughing maliciously, performed their unfathomable dance, waiting for a new victim. Max kept watching Tule, which he had so longed and passionately wanted to see again, when suddenly, something invisible and terrifying snapped the taut string and whispered, “Well, hello, Max, I’ve been waiting for you too...”.
— Did you fall asleep? – Ruslan poked his companion in the shoulder.
— Just… lost in thought.
— The central office, we are almost there.
Max had never shown much interest in what the headquarters of the main Russian company represented. He had often stumbled upon images of Neirotek's office — the famous "crystal spire" — online. It was not surprising: the brand, as they say, is well-known. This spire was located in a crater, topped with the largest and oldest dome in Tula, reaching a height of five hundred meters. But more than anything, it was famous for its structural designs, alternating between completely transparent and mirrored elements. Through the transparent sections, one could observe the inner workings of the corporation, much like watching chefs in certain restaurants, while the mirrors refracted light in the most whimsical ways. This seemingly symbolized the company's complete openness, the pure intentions of its employees, and the shining peaks of scientific and technological progress. In summary, everything was clear about Neirotek's tower: expensive, dazzling, and eye-catching. Of course, Telekom wouldn't be Telekom if it didn't try to measure its towers against Neirotek's. And where height and sparkle were lacking, Telekom compensated with scale and grandeur. A massive concrete structure descended into a deep abyss at its base, while the upper floors reached up to the cave's vault. This worthy example of Gothic architecture was surrounded by a ring of smaller towers that seemed to reach out to each other from the floor and ceiling of the dungeon, reminiscent of a toothy maw. By analogy, Telekom's central building symbolized the company's complete closure, especially to all the outside sales flunkies who called themselves the "fourth estate." Well, the intentions were clear; the delays in scientific and technological progress were easily compensated by the "big stick" inherited from the late Russian Empire.
Ruslan eagerly took on the role of guide. Perhaps, upon seeing this dear-to-heart architectural weapon aimed at intimidating competitors, some patriotic feelings stirred within him.
— Did you see how well we've settled in? The narrow-eyed ones are already envious.
"Is it Neirotek? Surely, they'll soon die of envy.” - Max's mental skepticism barely registered on his face.
— This is the underground part of the central support of the power dome. You've probably seen them from the terminal. They never really completed the power dome, but the solid structures have come in handy. You could sit out a nuclear war here, unlike in a glass birdhouse. Am I right?
Ruslan turned to his companion for confirmation, and Max had to quickly nod in agreement:
— My home is my fortress.
— Exactly. There can be no better protection than inside the support. Even if the cave collapses completely, the structure will hold. Soon you'll see how good we have it here…
“Yes,” Max shuddered, “now there's no way out.” Just as he thought this, the gigantic maw swallowed the small four-wheeled shell.
October 18, 2139. Latest news.
Today, at 11 o'clock local time, the INKIS corporation submitted its application for full membership in the Advisory Council of Martian settlements. The application was supported by voting Council members: Telecom-Ru, Uranium One, Mariner Heavy Industries, and others. Thus, the application received 153 full votes with a mandatory minimum of 100 votes. This issue has been included in the agenda of the upcoming Council session, which opens on November 1. In the event of a positive voting outcome on its application, the INKIS corporation will receive 1 full vote and the opportunity to submit resolution projects through the Council’s office. Currently, the representative of the INKIS corporation in the Council has limited observer rights. INKIS also announced an additional IPO of its shares, with an estimated value of about 85 million cryptos.
The news was complemented by a video where workers in spacesuits dismantled the "Orion", "Ural", "Bora", and "Viking" from their pedestals. These ships had faithfully served for many years before guarding their last home port. Supposedly, this was only done to send the old vessels to the Museum of Mars Exploration, where proper storage conditions could be ensured. "Right, like we would believe that," Max thought irritably. Judging by how hastily and barbarically the work was carried out, the new exhibits would arrive at the museum's storage in quite a battered condition, unless they were first disposed of under some other respectable pretext. The "Viking" took the brunt of it. Clumsy workers smashed all its thermal protection to pieces while loading the ship onto the ramp. The entire process showed piles of shards scattered across the sand and horrendous gaps captured in a series of expressive photographs. In short, INKIS was quick to heed the wishes of the Advisory Council.
Max mentally wished for the corporation's bosses to earn a couple of festering boils from overly eager bootlicking of Martian backsides and moved on to the next news.
Unrest continues on Titan. After a violent crackdown on demonstrators that involved numerous arrests of violators, the situation is still far from resolution. Supporters of the so-called "Qwadis" organization advocate for the creation of an independent state on Titan, where radical reforms of copyright laws will be implemented, and government support will be provided for open-source software development projects. They accuse the protectorate authorities of political repression and secret killings of dissenters, as well as threatening to respond to terror with terror. So far, the supporters of the 'organization' — the kwads — have not succeeded in realizing their threats, their only achievement being petty vandalism and hacking attacks. Despite this, the police forces of the Titan protectorate have already implemented enhanced security measures in transportation, industrial enterprises, life-support stations, and medical institutions. Neurotech Corporation was among the first to declare the inadmissibility of violence, essentially condemning the actions of the local protectorate and submitted relevant proposals to the Advisory Council. Soon, at an extraordinary session, the issue of withdrawing the existing protectorate of Titan will be decided. Neurotech's position has not yet found understanding among competitors, nor even from its closest allies. The Sumitomo conglomerate, which is investing significant resources into its production assets on Titan, has expressed sharp disagreement with the proposal submitted to the Advisory Council and is trying to block its discussion. Representatives of Sumitomo suggest investigating the unrest through their own security service and openly state that they are aware of the neural chip numbers of all kwads.
“Wow, what’s happening in the Solar System?” Max thought, lazily scrolling through the news site. “Some crazy people decided to stir things up on that frozen moon; they must have really lost their minds… An independent state on an isolated moon completely dependent on external supplies? They’ve really thought this through. They’ll crush them in no time. There’s nowhere to run from a submarine when you’re surrounded by a lake of liquid methane.” Max rationally considered the demands of the protesters absurd, yet he refused to apply the same logic to his own dreams of transforming Mars. “And Neurotek suddenly became an advocate for democracy and human rights? They must be trying to snatch up the production assets of a recent ally.”
Out of curiosity, Max glanced at the logo of the mysterious "organization" left on hacked websites: a blue diamond, with the right half filled in, and the left half featuring a half of an all-seeing eye. He then moved on to view the next news story.
Telecom-RU has announced an increase in access speed and file storage sizes for all users of its network, due to the launch of a new supercomputer cluster using superconductors to optimize data exchange. The company promises to fully eliminate known wireless connection issues in this way. In response to customers' complaints, Telecom-RU has always cited a lack of exclusive private resources and submitted requests to the Advisory Council on Electromagnetic Spectrum. To be fair, it should be noted that the frequency resource allocated to Telecom slightly lags behind that of the other two largest providers, Neurotech and MDT. However, in terms of the ratio of allocated frequency bandwidth to the average number of users, Telecom-RU significantly outperforms its competitors, indicating poor optimization of the available resource. The new supercomputer is intended to address this longstanding issue. Additionally, Telecom-RU announced the upcoming launch of a new data center and several fast communication repeaters. The company expresses confidence that the quality of its services will now be on par with the 'big two'. Now a full-fledged 'big three' has formed in the market of network services, claims Telecom-RU. Company representative Laura May graciously agreed to answer our questions.
The tall blonde, resembling a glamorous diva from the golden age of Hollywood, smiled dazzlingly, showing her readiness to answer any questions. She had shoulder-length curly hair, a voluptuous figure, and distinctive, not quite perfect facial features. Yet she looked at the world with a slight smirk and even a challenge, while her husky voice added an animal magnetism to her presence. Her skirt was a little shorter, and her lipstick a little brighter than her status would suggest, but she cared not at all, and with every intonation and gesture, she seemed to provoke audiences to doubt her moral stability, all while never crossing the fine line of formal decency. The official victory statements from Telecom, delivered in her style, sounded quite promising.
"Yeah, when they promise you an out-of-this-world connection speed with such a voice, anyone would rush to sign a contract," Max thought. "But who knows what it's actually like, what language it speaks, and whether it even exists? Maybe female users see some rugged macho guy?"
Laura, meanwhile, bravely defended her native syndicate against the attacks.
"...They like to label us as offering cheaper services, but of lower quality and reliability, claiming we use outdated networking technologies. Although we've long since implemented full immersion and all major service types, some problems arose only from overall network congestion and only in wireless connections. But now, with the launch of a new supercomputer, Telecom will provide quality services at a noticeably lower price than its competitors."
"How do you respond to the claims of Neurotech and MDT regarding Telecom's alleged dumping? Is it true that Telecom uses the revenues from its non-core assets to maintain low prices for network services?"
"You do understand that a low price doesn't always mean dumping..."
"What a great job our Telecom is doing," Max thought irritably, closing the website window and flopping down on the couch. "Taking such good care of clients and employees too. Medical insurance, relaxation rooms, career management — everything except normal work. Well, they wouldn't let me near the superconducting core anyway. I'm ready to learn, and I would definitely handle the development of peripheral devices. My place is in development, not in operations. I used to be a systems architect at the Moscow branch, and now what am I here? In the near future, a tenth-category optimization programmer in the channel splitting optimization sector, which is part of the network operations service — a great start to a brilliant career. The only comforting thing is that there are a total of fifteen categories for struggling programmers. The main thing is the dizzying career growth that awaits ahead — a full nine categories! Though, yes, that consolation is pretty weak. Damn, how long can one dwell on the same thing?"
Max cursed under his breath and headed to the kitchen in just his boxers. It was foolish, of course, to replay the same situation over and over in his mind, especially when there was nothing to change anymore. Yet, he couldn't stop — yesterday's conversation with his department head, where he was supposed to work, had really shaken him. So he engaged in an endless debate with himself, shuffling and concocting new, irresistible arguments, repeatedly forcing his imaginary opponent to capitulate. Unfortunately, imaginary victories had no impact on the real situation. He found no answers to the two main questions: 'who is to blame?' and 'what to do?'. More precisely, he had come up with an answer to the first question: it was all his new friend Ruslan's fault, the jerk, he should have his mouth sewn shut. As for the steps to rectify the situation, those seemed extremely vague.
Max understood, of course, that the new position was an unpleasant surprise only for him. It was unlikely everything had been decided just yesterday. He did feel a sense of guilt in what had happened. After all, he hadn't clearly agreed on where he was being taken on Mars while still in Moscow. The phrase that the position would best match his competencies was a piece of personnel department nonsense that, strictly speaking, had no real limits. So it turned out that he had nothing to complain about. Only that he wanted so badly to get to Mars that he was willing to accept any conditions.
And yesterday, as they say, nothing foreshadowed such a terrible outcome. Ruslan dropped off his hitchhiker at the parking lot near the central office, promised to organize a tour of the city's lively spots in Tula if he got bored sitting in virtual reality, and then drove off somewhere, disappearing into the depths of the huge building. Max felt a bit down, downloaded a guide, and set off to meet his fate, following the friendly rabbit in a waistcoat. This was, like, a telecom company's signature experience, a replacement for the standard pointers that lit up in front of you.
Max wasn't in a hurry at all. He first stopped by the HR department, took a DNA test, went through other checks, and received the coveted company account — one of the main perks used to entice employees at the provider company. Any ordinary admin, but with official access, is automatically, a hundred times cooler than a VIP user who has paid exorbitant amounts for their plan. The world has changed significantly since the advent and proliferation of the internet. Now, it's hard to say which is better: happiness and luck in the real world or in the virtual one, as they have intertwined so closely that separating them is almost impossible, just like determining which is more real. Yes, most people were not even curious about what this unknown real world was like, as described in tales from the pre-computer era, already having a hard time imagining life without pop-up hints and universal translators — a life where you had to learn foreign languages and ask passersby for directions to the library. Many didn’t even want to learn to type. Why bother, when any text can be dictated, and with the latest advancements in neurotechnology, even read directly through thought commands.
Max faced a delay with his corporate account; the old operating system on his chip needed to be reinstalled, but the issue was resolved relatively quickly. The manager frowned while looking at his medical record, which featured an outdated chip model by Martian standards, yet still issued a referral for the system reinstallation at the corporate medical center. After that, there was the social service, where Max was politely informed that, of course, the Telecom provides housing for any employee, but his extraterrestrial origin, or any other circumstances, do not affect the provision of housing: that's company policy. Overall, Max declined the free tiny room in the 'Gamma' industrial zone and decided to settle in a rental apartment in a more respectable area. Thus, he nobly visited several more departments, some in person and others as a virtual ghost, filling out various forms and receiving instructions along the way. Thanks to completing such easy quests successfully, Max had started to relax and approached the final destination of his journey—the manager's office—with a cheerful and confident demeanor. The office was equipped with serious biosecurity measures: instead of a polite greeting, a cold shower of disinfectants awaited him at the entrance.
The owner of the office, Albert Bonford, was a true Martian in every sense of the word. His foot had evidently never set foot on sinful Earth: the ordinary force of gravity would undoubtedly have broken this fragile being like a reed. Tall and pale with bleached hair, he wore a gray checkered suit with a light tie. The Martian's eyes were large, dark, with almost indistinguishable irises, either by nature or due to contact lenses. He lounged in a deep chair with motorized wheels and numerous connectors, folding tables, and even a long manipulator arm protruding from the backrest. The promised Segways had apparently gone out of fashion. The Martian’s evident penchant for possessing the latest achievements in cybernetics had led to a whole flock of flying robots forming around him. They were in constant motion, blinking their LED lights meaningfully. They also brewed tea and coffee for visitors, dusted off the owner, and simply brought life to the atmosphere in the room.
“Greetings, Maxim,” typed the Martian in the expanded messenger, without turning his head to the newcomer or changing his facial expression. “I'll be free in just a couple of minutes. Come in, take a seat.” A chair similar to Max's approached, but without any unnecessary bells and whistles. “Alright,” Max typed in response and for some reason repeated his meaningless remark out loud, likely out of nervousness. He really was quite anxious in those first moments upon seeing a real Martian. No, Max was not a xenophobe and believed he was completely indifferent to the appearance of other people. But as it turned out, that only applied to humans, whether they were stinking punks or goths; conversing with anthropomorphic beings, not quite like yourself, was an entirely different matter. “So, this is what a real neuro-human looks like,” Max thought, struggling to swallow the dry lump in his throat. “I’ll sign up for the gym tomorrow and push myself to the point of losing my pulse,” he promised himself in horror, watching the bird-like movements of the Martian's head, perched on its long, thin neck. At that moment, Max physically felt calcium being drawn from his bones, making them brittle like dry twigs. And he was already quite reluctant to work under such a creature. The new boss immediately unsettled him, starting from the very first printed letter.
Besides a bunch of sneaky robots and Albert, there was also a gray, mirror-polished table in the room, chairs, and two aquariums built into opposite walls. In one aquarium, large, brightly colored fish were calmly opening their mouths and waving their fins while looking in confusion at the opposite wall, where, behind thick double glass, colonies of web-like polyps from Titan trembled in a bath of liquid methane. After a couple of minutes, Albert woke up, and his eyes regained their irises, further terrifying Max.
“So, Maxim, welcome as the new employee of sector 038-113,” the Martian's lifeless politeness did not endear him at all. “I was also informed that there is a small issue with your neurochip.”
— Oh, no problem, Albert, — Max quickly replied. — I will reinstall the operating system within the next week.
— The issue isn't with the OS, but with the chip itself. Each position in my sector has specific formal requirements, including chip specifications. Unfortunately, you can only apply for the position of a tenth-category optimization programmer.
— Apply? — Max asked, somewhat confused.
— You will be officially hired after you pass the probation period and take the qualification exam.
— But I was aiming for a developer position… More like a systems architect… That’s what we agreed on in Moscow.
— A systems architect? — The Martian barely suppressed a smirk. — Haven't you studied the job description? My sector doesn’t engage in design work per se. Your role will involve databases and training neural networks.
Max began to frantically leaf through the documents he received.
— Channel separation optimization sector?
Max squirmed in his chair, starting to get really nervous. ‘And, am I such a fool that I didn’t realize what lies behind the faceless sector number they assigned me to?’
— There must be some mistake here…
— The HR department doesn’t make mistakes in such matters.
— But in Moscow…
— The final decision is always made by the central office. Don’t worry, this job is quite suitable for your qualifications. You will also have a three-month probation period for retraining, followed by an exam. I think, considering your excellent references, you can manage it even sooner. The chip issue is also quite solvable.
— The chip issue worries me the least now.
— That's great, — apparently, irony, like other silly emotions, was alien to the Martian. — You start work the day after tomorrow; all instructions will be sent to your work email. If you have questions, you can contact HR. Now excuse me, I have many things to do.
The Martian disconnected again, leaving Max in complete confusion. He sat for a bit in front of the immobile figure of his supervisor, tried to say something like: 'Excuse me, but…', but received no reaction. And, gritting his teeth, he walked out.
Yes, all Martians are liars. And what could be done in such a situation? Max once again pondered, sitting on the tiny kitchen and sipping synthetic-tasting tea. In that specific case, of course, nothing; I should have just not relaxed from the start. I should have discussed all the terms more concretely back in Moscow, instead of nodding like a happy Chinese doll at the idea of being sent to Mars. But then again, I would have been sent back anyway. So I went to the HR department, and what happened? The manager politely turned me down, saying they weren’t authorized to deal with such matters, but I could always leave a request for higher management, and they would definitely contact me. Sure, they'll call me soon, saying that a most unfortunate misunderstanding occurred and appoint me as the systems architect for some new supercomputer. In general, the obvious logic suggests that in such a situation, I can only slam the door and leave Telecom. And this means that most likely, I’ll have to forever forget about Mars. Considering the local draconian regulations, it’s unlikely I will find another job here.” But the very thought of giving up the opportunity to live on Mars brought such terrible disappointment to Max that he swept it away like dirt. “So, there’s no choice; I’ll have to come to terms with what I have. After all, someone less finicky would gladly grab any position in Telecom. It's not all that bad; we'll get through this.” Max sighed once more gloomily and went to sort through the things that completely consumed the already tiny space of his apartment.
He was interrupted from his household chores by a message from Masha. “Hi there! It's really a shame you left. Well, I’m very glad that you managed to find a job in Tula, but it’s a shame you went without me. Please tell me how things are at work; I hope everything is okay? How’s the management? Do the real Martians look like your grandmother described: pale, thin, with sparse hair and resembling huge underground spiders? Just kidding; your grandmother is known for exaggerating. But please make sure to eat calcium and hit the gym, or I’m afraid that when I come to visit in six months, I’ll find something out of your grandmother’s stories.
You promised to find out about the temporary visa for me with Telecom right away. I would come even for a couple of weeks; I know the tickets are expensive, but what can we do? I also want to see this wonderful city, Tula. I've already gathered the documents, no problem, just waiting for the invitation. Perhaps it would be better to come on some tourist package, even though they are very costly? Or maybe you don’t want me to come anymore. Have you found some Martian girl? You were really drawn to that planet for a reason. Just kidding, of course.
“Oh, that creep with his aquariums and chairs upset me so much that I even forgot about Masha's invitation,” Max thought gloomily.
“At home, everything is good, I saw your mom. This weekend I'm going to the dacha to help my parents. Also, while I was cleaning, I accidentally bumped into one of your ships, the biggest one, I don’t remember its name, but I didn’t break anything; I checked. Besides, it’s about time to take these toys somewhere to the garage; they’re just taking up space.”
“My 'Viking', just not that! She didn't break anything,” Max thought skeptically. “I can't believe it; you won’t even notice if you break something in the model. I asked you not to touch it; is it really that hard?”
“I’d like to know how you plan to entertain yourself in your free time from work? Mars must have so many cool places; please send me more notes, as your desert landscapes are not very impressive.”
I’m waiting and hoping when you'll take me to Mars. Honestly, messages are nice and all, but quick communication is still better. Maybe we should splurge a bit? You’re making a ton of money at Telecom now.
Or maybe we should just escape to Paris, huh? To dream about the city of Tula is something only someone like you could do. I would just want something simpler, like Montmartre, the Eiffel Tower, and warm, quiet evenings in a little restaurant. Honestly, Max, I don’t really understand how we’ll live on this Mars. There probably aren’t even any parks to stroll in hand in hand. And you can't admire the stars or the full moon; there’s no romance. In short... I shouldn't have started this again; everything is already decided.
I don't know what else to talk about; nothing special is happening at home, just boredom and routine. Oh right, if you didn't appreciate my efforts with the letter, maybe you'll appreciate my new underwear in the second file. Well, that's it, bye-bye. Please think about quick communication.
"She bought underwear, and I hope it's solely for me," Max wondered. "And really, what the hell, I ran off, leaving everything behind. Our relationship won't last long at this rate. There are parks, stars, and a moonlit path on the glassy surface of the water, but they’re all a bit virtual."
Yes, unfamiliar things rarely turn out to be what we imagine. Max knew that the world isn’t fair, and wealthy, powerful corporations run rampant, but he genuinely didn’t expect to become a victim of such tyranny.
Max knew that the Martian eco-service was no joke, but he could never have imagined such ecological totalitarianism. Most of the clothes he brought could only be modeled in front of a mirror at home; they didn't meet local dust standards, and his home’s airlock wouldn't let him out in them. Furthermore, the detectors installed at the airlock wouldn’t allow entry with banned substances, weapons, or animals and would automatically report such violations to the police. Moreover, the “big brother” would also notify the insurance service if a person came home under the influence of drugs or alcohol or was ill. Of course, there were no penalties for this, but all these cases were neatly recorded in the personal history, and the cost of insurance gradually increased. The Martian “smart home” turned out to be worse than the most nagging wife.
Max knew that life in Tula was expensive. Cheap food, grown in a lab, tasted like the nutritious compost it was produced in, while real food was exorbitantly priced. Housing, utilities, transport, and even breathable oxygen were all very costly. However, Max believed that the increased expenses would be more than compensated by his salary at Telecom. It turned out, though, that his salary was less than promised and life was more expensive. Most of his money immediately went to insurance, bills, and paying for a tiny twenty-square-meter apartment, leaving no possibility of buying a car or saving seriously.
Max knew that virtual reality was akin to a new religion, but he had no idea how deeply the thoughts and aspirations of Martian inhabitants revolved around this virtual axis. In Max's tiny apartment, a significant portion of space was occupied by this altar of a new all-consuming cult – a bio-bath for complete immersion. The bio-bath on Mars is the center of the universe, the focus of the meaning of life, a gateway to other worlds where orcs defeat elves, empires crumble and are reborn, where love and hate coexist, and where everything is endured and lost. There, life is real, while the outer world is a pale surrogate. Oh, source of otherworldly delights, the touch of your cool metal side feels like a sip in the desert; countless sellers, builders, miners, guards, women, and children, exhausted in schools and workplaces, are waiting. They raise their gaze, filled with longing, to where the sky should be and pray to Martian deities for their shift to end soon. For some, the bio-bath is an expensive, complex setup with temperature regulation, hydro-massage, IV drips, and medical equipment that allows one to spend weeks and months inside. Some do indeed spend their entire conscious lives floating in saline solution, as most intellectual professions have long allowed for remote work. Yes, one could get married and even have children without really stepping outside. Two spouses, drenched in tubs across from each other – the perfect Martian family. For some, who were less accustomed to virtual values, the bio-bath is merely a tub filled with warm liquid, complete with an oxygen mask and a few basic sensors. But everyone had one; without it, there is no life on Mars. Max, due to his morally outdated neurochip, largely had his equipment gathering dust. Consequently, he often found himself with a lot of free time that he could invest in something useful, but usually, he did not.
Nearly two months have passed since Max arrived in Tula. He reinstalled the operating system on the chip, obtained a full-service account, and received an orange access pass to Telecom's internal networks. Gradually, his life fell into a routine of gray, monotonous days. Alarm clock. Kitchen. Street. Work. Although a quarter of a century has not yet passed, there was a persistent feeling that the cycle was repeating and would continue to repeat forever.
He made an effort to send letters to his mother regularly and had a brief conversation with her via a quick connection. Mom was sitting in the recently renovated kitchen. Under her feet, a robotic vacuum cleaner, adorned with a cheerful turtle cover, hummed homey sounds while the first snowstorm of the year battered against the dark window. The conversation began quietly with mutual inquiries about each other's lives; then Max tried to subtly explore what had happened during his first trip to Mars in his distant childhood. For some time now, thoughts about what had compelled him to journey such a distance had become quite persistent. Perhaps before, he hadn't had much time to think about it. But on Mars, paradoxically, there was both time and a desire to rummage through his own thoughts. Max realized that he didn't really have any childhood memories of that trip, just some fragments, even though he was ten years old. He hardly remembered the trip itself—only more fragments. Yet afterward, there were bright, vivid images of him sitting on the floor with models of rovers. It was as if before that moment, there lived in his body some amorphous, unremarkable boy, and then suddenly, another child emerged, possessing a kind of determination that was far from childish in pursuit of a goal that was definitely not childish. Now, during long, dull evenings, Max tried to find that previous boy with his ordinary dinosaurs, transformers, and computer games. He tried but couldn't; that boy had dissolved like the smoke of a campfire at dawn. When Max asked, his mother simply shrugged in confusion and replied that the underground cities seemed boring and uninteresting to her, just like the trip as a whole. And in general, it would have been better if Max returned home, found a simpler job, and focused on 'producing' and raising his own children with Masha.
Max was categorically displeased with his new job in telecommunications. There was no real programming in his current work: it was just the monotonous gathering of a database and training a neural network that handled optimizing load and traffic in a specific area. In the very first week at the new place, Max fully felt what it meant to be a cog in the system and an appendage to his neurochip. Five hundred programmers crowded into just the optimization sector, tightly packed like semiconductors in a crystal, in sprawling halls filled with terminals providing access to the internal network. The neural network and the database he was working with were just a small part of the supercomputer's lifecycle management system. He did not know how the other parts of the system operated. He only had access to limited functionality within his modest area of expertise, and that too was still in a training version. A diverse set of situations and reactions were meticulously outlined in detailed job descriptions, and deviating from them was strictly forbidden. In fact, studying the instructions became Max's main task for the next three months. All the managers and nearly all the leading specialists in the optimization sector were purely 100% Martians, without any earthly impurities, which led Max to gloomy reflections about his future career prospects. Naturally, he prepared for the upcoming exam. He easily memorized the instructions almost word for word, seeing nothing complex in them and was confident that any technician of average qualification could handle such matters. Yet, he still awaited the exam with fear and anxiety, fearing that he might get some unpleasant surprise from his employer.
Max also discovered that all the inhabitants of Mars, both native and those who came from other planets, are divided into two main groups based on their affiliation to a particular network provider: the "chemists" — fans of keeping molecular processors in their minds, and the "electronics," who are enthusiasts of semiconductor devices. These two groups have been engaged in a perpetual sacred war over which chips are better. M-chips integrate better into living organisms, while semiconductors are more versatile and efficient. The sector optimization chief, Albert Bonford, was a typical "chemist," fanatically obsessed with cleanliness and prone to panic at the presence of any foreign molecule in the surrounding air. The "electronics" were equally fixated on electrostatic protection, fearing in paranoid fits that some overly charged individual would cause a discharge in their thin-film brains. Chemists surrounded themselves with flocks of detector robots, while electronics ionized the air around them, wearing special conductive clothing and anti-static protection bracelets. Both groups were wary of physical contact with other living beings. Surely, there were individuals who acknowledged that both types of devices have their advantages and trusted the built-in protection, but for some reason, Max mostly encountered stubborn blowhards. Evidently, the level of cybernetization had no effect on the inherent flaws of human nature. Max had not yet joined either sect, as his neurochip elicited only polite condescension rather than a desire to engage in intellectual discussions.
All these challenging circumstances were compounded by the small cultural shock Max experienced from being introduced to Martian networking standards. He had never really thought about how Martian networks achieved such high data transfer speeds to support all the virtual add-ons, like cosmetic applications, without glitches or lags. The neurochip itself, being just an interface between the human brain and the network, certainly lacked the necessary power to run complex applications. Therefore, Martian networks prioritized information exchange speed so that users could utilize network capabilities. serversTo ensure reliable transmission of all these peta- and zetta-bytes among millions of users, Martian wireless communication systems evolved into something incredibly complex. No amount of trickery involving channel compression and separation was effective anymore, so underground cities were overwhelmed not only with the entire available radio frequency spectrum but also with infrared, and even encroachments into ultraviolet. This led to special requirements even for lighting and advertising signs. In general, another Martian behemoth — the EMC commission — was no less ruthless than all the others. They could easily penalize for some uncertified flashlight.
Wireless communication repeaters in Tula were practically everywhere. From stationary ones: on towers and cave ceilings with numerous active antennas, to simple micro-robots stuck to the walls of buildings and caves like parasitic mushrooms. Managing the variety of antennas, their coverage areas, monitoring the level of scattering and reflection of signals from numerous surfaces was one of the functions of the new supercomputer. Under its watchful electronic eye, numerous repeaters directed signals where needed with a specified frequency and level, without interfering with each other, guiding users during their chaotic movements around the city and timely transmitting to neighboring devices. Consequently, users received high-quality images without lags. After gaining a first impression of how all this works, Max certainly lost some confidence in his ability to design similar systems. However, he also did not want to spend the rest of his life as an appendage to his neurochip. In response to cautious inquiries, the lead programmer-optimizer, with a coldly arrogant smile, shared a thick tome titled: "General Principles of Channel Separation in Telecom Wireless Networks," which made Max feel far from a genius by the second page of the book. He understood that he couldn't give up. He even outlined his primary tasks: to complete the probationary period and save money for upgrading his outdated chip. But for now, he had to carry out tedious work according to instructions, almost like on an assembly line. And Max felt his determination to break through dwindling with each passing day: he was sinking deeper and deeper into the swamp of the optimization sector.
The variety was brought by shifts every two weeks when the dazed optimizers, overwhelmed by endless databases, went to work in the field: fixing minor faults in network equipment or optical cables. One could refuse the shifts, but Max eagerly grabbed them, as did many of his colleagues.
Usually, all the shifts felt quite similar – Max and his partner searched for the malfunctioning micro-retransmitter and replaced it with a new one. However, this calm job, which didn't require special efforts or skills, became a sort of respite amid the endless stream of monotonous weekdays. Just as Max didn’t enjoy training neural networks under Martians, he strangely found everything about being a simple installer appealing. He liked his partner, Boris, with whom he shared the optimizer's bread in Telecom. They worked in the same hall, at adjacent terminals, and also went on shifts together. Boris explained that the purpose of shifts, accepted as a tradition in Telecom, was not to compensate for the company’s lack of low-skilled labor. Instead, it was to get to know the work of different departments and foster team cohesion. Apparently, some particularly clever manager from the HR department came up with the shifts, from the kind who invents all sorts of 'enthralling' corporate gatherings that can officially be skipped, but are practically not recommended to miss.
Max didn’t like managers, and honestly, who does? But he actually liked this particular idea. "Sometimes these assholes can be useful," Max admitted after the first shift. Boris also significantly contributed to the success of such events. Calm, not talkative, with a philosophically relaxed outlook on life. Boris, a short, slightly barrel-shaped beer lover with a penchant for network RPGs and wildly improbable tales about Martian inhabitants, their customs and lives, resembled a gnome, or dwarf, as he always insisted, and in his favorite online gatherings, he always played the corresponding character. Moreover, he carried a hefty backpack everywhere, equipped with a full emergency kit, and never grew tired of repeating with a serious demeanor that, if anything happened, he would survive, while the rest would perish in agony. However, in his magical backpack, besides the relatively useless oxygen tanks, there were always beer and chips, so Max didn’t make too much of a fuss about it.
They and Boris chose tasks in the most remote corners of the underground city without consulting each other. In just eight working hours, they needed to complete three tasks, which posed no difficulty even when traveling leisurely by public transport. Max enjoyed traveling and liked trains, so he truly relished his duties. Typically, these would unfold as follows: a meeting with his partner at some station and then a gradual journey in gently rocking trains or rapid maglevs. Transfers at the bustling central stations filled with people or long waits for rare trains at drab tiled stations somewhere deep in the distant undergrounds. In the vast city of Tule, there was no universally recognized center, nor any particular construction system; it simply sprawled through the planet's natural voids like a chaotic cluster of stars in the sky. Somewhere, a jumble of bright dots merged into a blinding spot, while in other areas, the darkness of industrial zones was interspersed with occasional lights. The metro map of Tule was extraordinarily complex. It looked like the masterpiece of a mad spider, weaving a dense multi-level network through some districts, while leaving a single thin thread in others. The evening before the trip, Max indulged in the inexplicable pleasure of spinning the three-dimensional map, imagining how tomorrow he would glide past this spherical cluster of dots, then through a thin line that occasionally surfaced on the planet, reaching a mass resembling a thick, blurry inkblot, where he would first tackle a task. Alternatively, he could reach the inkblot via a slightly longer route with transfers, but it would take him through a fascinatingly daunting area of the first settlement.
The endless city of Tula, gliding past, struck with its contrast: the empty gray concrete rows of boxes in the "gamma" and "delta" zones were replaced by a whimsical tangle of towers enveloped in a network of paths and platforms packed with people wearing caps woven with light-guiding fibers for signal transmission. Some followers of fashion trends preferred elegant decorative umbrellas. People with amusing umbrellas and hats reminded Max of aliens with antennas from children's drawings, and the passing Tula only resembled a phantasmagoria even more due to their presence. Martian cities never slept; in the underground, the shift from day to night was imperceptible, so everyone lived according to the time that suited them. All establishments and organizations operated around the clock, and the streets were bustling with activity at any hour.
Usually, Max and Boris would finish one or two bottles of beer even before the first task. Consequently, the first task was completed quickly and in a cheerful mood; the second one was, in principle, the same, but by the time they got to the third, some difficulties arose. Therefore, they would try to leave the easiest task for last, preferably close to home. Often, Max would be silent and hardly talk to Boris, even though Boris was always eager to share some local tale, but seeing that his partner replied with monosyllabic phrases, he didn’t press the issue. Boris was the kind of person with whom Max felt quite comfortable being quiet; for some reason, he felt he had known Boris for ten years and that this trip was at least the hundredth. Max watched out the window, sometimes pressing his forehead against it, leisurely sipping his beer and reflecting along these lines: “What a strange person I am — I wanted so much to get to Mars that I was running around like a wind-up toy, almost without breaks for sleep or food. And here I am on Mars, and what’s happening: I no longer need any job or career; I’ve completely lost my drive for all this hustle and bustle, as if some switch has been flipped. Of course, I’ll do the obviously necessary things, like taking qualifying exams, but just out of inertia. I’ve completely lost my goal and motivation. So what kind of downshifting is this happening in the Martian expanses? Maybe I should become a handyman since I like that kind of work? If only Masha could see me now, I would definitely have a serious conversation ahead of me. But Masha is over there, and I’m here.” — Max logically concluded as he opened the second bottle.
Very often during the trips, thoughts about his unclear dream of transforming Mars visited Max, and the predictions made by Ruslan that no career could be made here wouldn't leave his mind. “So this is my entire Martian dream — to come to Mars, realize there’s nothing to catch, and relax,” Max thought. To share his doubts, he turned to Boris, who seemed to be a thoughtful and experienced person:
— So, Boris, you seem to know everything about local life. Explain to me, what’s this thing — a Martian dream?
— What do you mean? The Martian dream as a social phenomenon or a specific service of certain companies?
— Is there such a service? – Max exclaimed, surprised.
— Of course, have you fallen from the moon? Any child knows about this, even though the advertisement for that stuff is officially banned, Boris explained with the air of an expert. — It’s like if you haven’t achieved anything in life, have gotten disappointed in it, and if you’re just a stupid loser, then there’s only one way for you, to the Martian dream. There are special companies that, for a relatively moderate fee, are ready to create an entire world where everything will be as you wish. A bit of magic with your brain, and you’ll completely forget that the real world actually exists. You can happily splash around in your cozy matrix as long as there’s money in your account. There are light versions of this drug-like stuff, where you can enjoy your own world for a couple of days without therapeutic amnesia, like going on vacation. But, as you understand, the light version doesn’t bring full pleasure; it’s not always possible to deceive, first and foremost, yourself.
— How are these light versions different from the regular full immersion?
— There, everything is much cooler; you can’t tell it apart from the real world. They use clever m-chips and supercomputers to model all the sensations.
— How can those so-called losers afford the Martian dream? It must be quite expensive, right?
— Oh, Max, you really have fallen from the moon, or rather from Earth. Well, supercomputers, m-chips, and so what? Virtually sunbathing on the Canary Islands is still a hundred times cheaper than flying there in a spaceship. Think about it, living in a biovan has a ton of advantages in terms of expenses: you don’t take up much space, nutrition through an IV drip, no transport, clothing, or entertainment costs. Plus, if you use the standard world from the provider’s catalog, the Martian dream becomes accessible to everyone. Even if you work as a waiter in a diner, you can save up for the Martian dream, provided you rent a shack in the 'gamma' zone and eat nutritious bricks.
— So what you’re saying is: somewhere deep within the red planet, there are huge caves filled from top to bottom with rows of biovans housing human beings? So the fantasies of dystopians have come true.
Well, maybe everything doesn't look so apocalyptic, but in general, yes, that's the case. There are definitely plenty of customers chasing the Martian dream. But they chose it themselves. In today's world, you are completely free in your choices, as long as they bring profit to corporations.
I just had another culture shock, Max stated, gulping down his beer almost in one go.
What's so shocking about it? Many people from other planets, after saving up some money, head off in pursuit of the Martian dream. By the way, they issue visas without any problems, and unlimited rates even partially compensate for it. Sorry, on Mars and in the cities of the protectorate, there are no social benefits, and the number of drunks, abandoned elders, and others who can't integrate into the market is not decreasing. So, they are disposed of in this relatively humane way; what's so bad about that?
That's a nightmare. It's very unfair.
Unfair? The contract clearly specifies the terms.
It's fundamentally unfair to give such a choice. As we know, humans are weak, and some things shouldn't be choices.
So, it's better to suffer a slow death from alcoholism?
Undoubtedly. If such a path is laid out, it must be followed to the end.
You're a fatalist, Max.
So, the unlimited rate really has no time limit?
If you have enough cash to pay for storage services based on interest from your deposit, then the rate will be truly eternal. They can even extract the brain and place it in a separate jar. Brains on artificial support can supposedly function for a couple of hundred years.
I wonder how many dreamers are there on Mars? Can energy be harvested from them?
I don't know, Max, better check with NeuroGoogle how many there are and what energy they produce.
I'm curious, what does the contract signing process look like?
Max, you're scaring me; I see you're genuinely interested in this garbage. You should play Warcraft, for example. Or just drink, after all.
Don't worry, just idle curiosity. But still, you walk into the office and say, 'I want to be a rock star in America in the sixties', to have wild popularity and screaming fans at concerts. They say, 'Alright, here's a special annex to the contract; describe in as much detail as possible what you want to see.'
— That’s probably how it happens. Only your own dreams are really expensive; the more original, the pricier—time from the Martians doesn’t come cheap. They usually offer a standard set to choose from: billionaire, secret agent, or, for example, a brave galaxy conqueror in a spaceship.
— Let’s assume it’s a brave galaxy conqueror, and then what?
— Well, I haven’t used that junk, I’m just making it up… So, let’s say, to keep you from getting bored conquering the galaxy for decades, you will save the loveliest of women from the clutches of evil aliens. And, apparently, they will ask you what kind of women you prefer: brunettes, blondes, with a C cup or an E cup… or, well, guys.
— But what if you don’t even know yourself?
— What don’t you know, women or men? – Boris was surprised.
— No, if you don’t really know what you dream of and can’t describe it, naturally assuming you have enough money for a personal matrix.
— If money is there, they’ll bring in an experienced mind-reader who will pry out all your hidden desires from your chaotic mind. If, of course, you don’t get scared of what you find out. I think in the case of someone like Franz Kafka, it would be more of a nightmare than a dream.
— To each their own; maybe someone would enjoy turning into a terrible insect.
— There are all kinds of perverts in the world. And you, don’t you really know what you want?
— Yeah, that’s my main problem.
— I hasten to assure you, your problems are somewhat contrived.
— What can you do? A simple person has simple desires and motives, while a person with a complicated psyche, as you can see, faces constant misery from their intellect. Plus, I’m afraid that the Martians might figure me out before I figure myself out. They don’t indulge in fruitless self-exploration; rather, they approach every problem pragmatically and utilitarian. That’s why I imagined the phenomenon of Martian dreaming quite differently.
— And how is that?
— Something like special supercomputer systems within the bowels of the largest provider corporations, designed to decode human personalities based on their online activities. They gradually uncover what an average user wants and subtly present them, in their virtual world, with what they want to see in real life.
— Why?
— Well, why else? So that a person thinks everything is fine and doesn't get agitated. And to brainwash, suppress, and then mock the clueless little people while extracting free electricity from them. This is what any self-respecting Martian corporation should be doing. Or, at the very least, to convince them to stuff yet another latest, most advanced uber-device into their beleaguered brains.
— You have quite complex conspiratorial views on the surrounding reality. Relax, the world is simpler than that. They will certainly sell you advertisements, but why bother to decipher everything... What's the point of getting so worked up over miserable little people?
— Yes, that's true, it was more inspired by words from another person. What do you think about the Martian dream in a social sense?
— A beautiful fairy tale. To maintain their overwhelming intellectual superiority, the Martians pull all the best minds from the Solar System with their tales and then flush them down the toilet here into pointless jobs like optimizer programmers. Back home, these homegrown intellectuals could do something truly useful.
— Ha, so you also entertain the thought that the Martians are to blame for everything, — Max smirked.
— What can you do, it's a convenient explanation, — Boris shrugged.
They fell silent for a moment. The monotonous, reddish landscapes of the surface passed by. Behind Boris, a shabby-looking gentleman occasionally snorted, shamelessly claiming three seats for himself to rest.
— Yes, it turned out strange. — Max broke the silence. — Apparently, my Mars is a castle in the sand. The first encounter with reality washed it away without leaving a trace.
— You know, you're worse for yourself than any Martians. Think more about real problems.
— And this is said to me by a devoted fan of Warcraft and an 80-level gnome.
— Dwarf… alright, am I a lost cause, and there’s still some hope for you.
— Why immediately a lost cause?
— The fate is not easy.
— Will you share?
— Not a chance. The atmosphere is wrong, the mood is off. I've been inviting you to hang out somewhere for a while now: I know a couple of great bars that are affordable and have a nice vibe, yet you keep coming up with lame excuses. After work, it seems you can't, tomorrow you have to get up early, and on weekends you have some stuff to do, preparing for exams.
— No, I'm really preparing, — Max said uncertainly.
— Yes, yes, I remember, you’re tackling that monumental work: "General Principles of Channel Division in Telecom Wireless Networks." How's it going, have you managed much?
— So far not much…, who am I kidding, — Max admitted gloomily.
— So you've changed your mind about becoming a systems architect?
— The old Max, forged in the fires of Moscow, would never have been halted by a pathetic two thousand pages, but this new Max seems to have stalled.
— Aha, all those dreams and introspections only soften the will to succeed, – Boris stated importantly. – And you haven’t even visited the HR department?
— I did. There’s this really interesting manager there. He seems like a Martian, but he's only as tall as a regular person. Although still a freak: skinny with a huge head. And somehow, he’s a bit livelier than his peers, looking more like a human than a robot.
— Arthur Smith?
— Do you know him?
— I don’t have a personal acquaintance, but I've been laboring in Telecom for a while, so I've encountered many interesting figures. He has these enormous eyes.
— Yes-yes, really huge eyes, and gray too; usually, Martians have black ones. A true "black sheep." He honestly explained that I won’t be hired as a lead specialist, at least due to my old neurochip. They said that considering my age, installing a professional chip and the training to work with it would be quite expensive for the company. They might cover such costs, but only for particularly outstanding employees.
— I know a tale about this Arthur.
— Tell it.
— More like a rumor than a tale.
— Well, go ahead and share.
— I won’t, — Boris shook his head, — it's also not very appropriate. If I had heard something like that about myself, I wouldn’t be pleased.
— Come on, Boris, you're like a sadist. First, you mention a tale, then clarify it’s a rumor, and then add that it's a dirty rumor too. What, did he get drunk at a corporate party and perform a wild dance on the table?
— Ugh, such mundane stories I wouldn’t even think of telling, — Boris grimaced, — especially because, as far as I know, Martians don’t consume alcohol.
— Come on, just tell it already, stop holding back.
— No, I won’t. I'm saying the atmosphere isn't right, the mood isn't right; after three or four glasses of rum with cola, then I’m all in. Besides, you didn’t appreciate my last tale.
— Why didn’t I appreciate it? It was a very intriguing story.
— But…
— What but?
— Last time, you added 'but'.
— But it's unbelievable, — Max raised his hands.
— What is unbelievable about it?
— Aha, so you don’t believe that evil Martian corporations are just waiting to invade everyone’s soul? And that the entire network is some semi-sentient substance, like a living ocean, that breeds virtual monsters that devour users... So that’s all supposed to be pure truth?
— Of course it’s true, I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Just look at some of our colleagues, they’ve long since become shadows, I’m sure.
— And who among our colleagues has become a shadow? Gordon, maybe?
— Why Gordon?
— Because he’s too busy kissing Martian asses, that lousy lead programmer. All he knows how to do is make presentations.
— No, Max, the Martians aren’t involved at all.
— So your digital Solaris doesn’t care whom it consumes, people or Martians?
— The network doesn’t specifically consume anyone; you haven't been listening to me, apparently. A shadow is something that reflects our own thoughts and desires but has no specific physical carrier or piece of code.
— A digital god to whom we must pay homage and offer sacrifices?
— Not at all. Shadows are born solely from people themselves. You think the network will tolerate everything — all the foolish, disgusting requests, entertainment, and that nothing will happen to you. In virtual reality, you can torture kittens or dismember little girls without punishment. Aha, yeah right! Any request or action in the network casts a shadow. And if all your thoughts and desires revolve around virtual entertainment, sooner or later that shadow will come to life. And then, sorry, whatever you did, that’s how the shadow will be. If the real world is that boring and uninteresting, the shadow will gladly take your place while you’re having fun online. And you won’t even notice how the shadow becomes real, and you turn into its bodiless slave.
— Aha, I guess your shadow looks like a gnome in mithril armor with a beard down to his waist.
Haha... You can laugh as much as you want, but I swear, one day I saw my shadow. I didn't log into full immersion for a month after that.
And what did this terrifying shadow look like?
Like... a dwarf with my facial features.
Oh, Boris...
Max choked on his beer and couldn’t cough or laugh for a while.
A dwarf with your facial features! Did you accidentally look in the mirror? Did you forget to turn off your makeup before that?
Oh, shut up! — Boris waved his hand and opened a second bottle of beer. — You'll be sorry when that shadow appears, then it won't be funny.
I’m not planning to dive or virtually interact with you guys. All these Warcrafts and Harborian eras don't really interest me.
You don't have to game, you just need to spend a lot of time in full immersion, no matter the purpose. And do you know what you can never do?
And what is that?
In diving, you must never have sex with bots.
Seriously? Maybe you shouldn't watch porn either. Half of the users order the latest chip upgrades and bio baths just for that.
They don't even realize what they’re doing. Any strong emotion helps shadows to be born, and sex is the strongest emotion.
Then everyone would have already created these shadows. Or at least they would walk around with hairy palms, if we believe the older version of this tale.
Maybe, who knows how many shadows live among us? A shadow would have access to all your memories and personality while you are sitting in virtual bondage. How can you distinguish it from a real person?
You can't — Max shrugged. — It’s hard to tell a modern bot apart. Only with some tricky logical questions. And as for a malicious awakened neural network, born from the vices of human nature... there's no way around it. Maybe we’re the only two real people, and the rest are all shadows?
A digital apocalypse is inevitable if people don’t get their act together and stop spreading trash, chaos, and debauchery on the internet.
Sounds like a cult: 'Repent, sinners!' Some people, in my opinion, spend too much time obsessing over various orcs, as one acquaintance puts it, and start seeing shadows and other glitches.
You’re such a bore, Max. Any legend is based on something...
— Excuse me, — the scruffy gentleman suddenly interrupted Boris, — but the subject of your conversation seemed so interesting to me… May I join you?
Without waiting for an invitation, the newly-formed acquaintance crawled closer to them. His face, thin, wrinkled, and unkempt, betrayed a worn-out man who clearly couldn't afford cosmetic products. His modest outfit consisted of torn jeans, a t-shirt, and a worn-out jacket from which a dirty gray padding was sticking out. "And where is the environmental agency looking?" — Max thought. — "It feels like this mutated Greenpeace has been tailing me since I stepped off the shuttle, while this guy across from me seems completely unbothered." However, Max didn't sense any particular odor, so he refrained from showing his displeasure at the new neighbor.
— Allow me to introduce myself: Philipp Kochura, but friends call me Phil. Currently, I’m a free-roaming philosopher.
— What a convoluted euphemism, — Max remarked sarcastically.
— A classical education makes itself known. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, buddy.
— Max. Currently a promising scientist, who has escaped corporate slavery for a day.
— Boris, — Boris reluctantly introduced himself.
— Would you mind if I tasted your refreshing drink? I’ve been dying of thirst.
Boris glanced at the uninvited guest with annoyance but pulled a bottle of beer from his backpack.
— Thank you very much. — Phil paused for a moment, enjoying the freebie. — So, regarding the eavesdropped conversation, I’m already apologizing for intruding again, but it seems you, Maxim, don’t believe in shadows?
— No, I’m open to believing anything if there’s at least some evidence provided.
— Well, believe it or not, but I saw a real living shadow and spoke to it.
Boris vigilantly guarded his backpack from any further advances by Phil. The skepticism on his face could have made a paleontologist envious, especially when debating a creationist, as if it wasn't he who had just chided his friend for being boring a minute ago.
— Did you torture virtual kittens? Alright, it’s a long road, go ahead, tell me, — Max readily agreed.
— My story began in the distant year 2120. It was a grim time: the ghosts of fallen states still roamed the Solar System. And I, young and strong, so different from how I am now, was eager to fight against the omnipresent corporations. Back then, they still produced neurochips with the option to disable wireless connectivity. Such chips allowed a clever person to do a lot. In those years, I was quite knowledgeable about the intricacies of illegal work. Nowadays, no one is surprised by the initially closed architecture of all axes, as well as the constantly open wireless ports on the chip. You do know that ports 10 to 1000 on the chip are always open.
— Thank you, we are aware, — Max confirmed.
— Do you know what they are for?
— For transmitting service information.
— Aha, besides service information, a lot more is transmitted through them. For instance, the developers of cosmetic software have long agreed to also use these ports. Because if they used the regular ones, normal people could just install a firewall and the clients of those companies would appear in their original form. But the main thing is, everyone really doesn't care that they’ve had their right to privacy taken away…
— That’s very sad, isn’t it? We bitterly regret the loss of privacy, — Max said in a deliberately soothing voice, — But you seemed to be about to tell us about the revived shadow.
— That’s exactly what I’m getting to. Oh, could I wet my throat a bit? – Phil asked, showing his empty bottle and cautiously turned towards Boris, but met a piercing gaze that foretold nothing good – Fine, whatever. So, when you are seized by a grand goal, you rush forward like a spurred horse. In my youth, I was that galloping horse. When you charge ahead without regard for the path, the world shakes and swims in a reddish haze, and the words of reason drown in the thunder of hooves. I thought I could manage anything and could quickly run the shortest path to my goal. But the ancients were right when they said that a true samurai should not seek easy paths…
— Listen, buddy, I understand you’re a philosopher and all that, but could we get to the point more quickly?
— What's with you, Max, why are you hanging on every word, — Boris interrupted irritably, — you found someone worth listening to.
— Okay, Bor, let the man finish.
— So, I was running, not paying attention to the road, and then suddenly a lasso was thrown around my neck, dragging me down the slope. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly, as if I were a limp rag doll. The fall began, seemingly over nothing: I was given an important task, and for the sake of secrecy, I had to become a temporary resident of the Martian dream...
— So you were in the Martian dream? – Max brightened up. – Tell me, what’s it like?
— It can't be described in just a few words. I've been there many times. Right now, it's been two years since I got involved. But recently I stumbled upon a decent fortune, so I’ll soon be back there. I just need a couple of cryptos for a full five-year stint. In the shabby reality, the Martian dream feels like a beautiful bright dream. The details are hard to recall, but I really want to go back. Just a little more, and this stinking train and our conversation will turn into an unpleasant but harmless dream there... Damn, buddy, my throat is really dry, it’s scratching. — Phil stared greedily at the magical little backpack.
— Bor, treat our friend.
Boris gave Max a very expressive look, but he shared the bottle.
— So you still remember real life in the Martian dream?
— ...Yeah, there are different options, — Phil answered after a moment, first taking a hearty sip of the healing elixir. – If the memories cause unbearable discomfort, they can be removed without any problem, but only with the unlimited option. I've never had that kind of money, so I have to make do with trips of three to four years. On short and medium trips, amnesia is prohibited; otherwise, how would they bring you back? But the local engineers have devised a clever psychological effect. In dreams, reality feels like a blurred, half-forgotten nightmare. You know, sometimes there are those nightmares where you end up in prison, or fail your university exams. And then you wake up and breathe a sigh of relief, realizing it was just a bad dream. That's pretty much how it is in the Martian dream. You wake up in a cold sweat and exhale, phew... the shabby reality is just a harmless dream. Though, there is a slight side effect: upon returning, the dream takes on the same characteristics.
— Strange, does a trip, or say a tourist journey, hold any value if you've practically lost all memory of it? – asked Max.
— It does, of course, — Phil confidently replied, — I remember how good it felt. There's also a common variant of selectively wiping memories so that the Martian dream evolves as a continuation of a previous life. It's like living as you always have, but suddenly luck turns to your favor instead of its usual spot. You suddenly discover an incredible talent within yourself, or you become successful in business, making a ton of money, buying a villa by the coast, and women are all over you, too. No deception: everything you ordered comes to pass. And you won’t feel any catch either: the program deliberately throws in various obstacles that you have to bravely overcome.
— And what if you order a victory for an anti-Martian revolution across the Solar System, with yourself as the leader, driving Martians into filtration camps where they barbarically remove their neurochips?
— You can poison them in gas chambers or build communism, — laughed Phil. — The guys trading dreams are accommodating to their clients' whims.
Boris also felt the need to chime in:
— Did you think anyone cares about the political beliefs of hopeless dreamers? There are plenty of people in the world angry at the brutal tyranny of corporations. You’re not the first, nor the last, who wants to initiate a revolution and build communism.
— Why do you think I want that? – Max shrugged.
— Because I’m already fed up with your talks about the Martian dream. Do you want to panhandle on trains too?
— Why are you getting angry, Boris?
— Yes, what's with this aggressive bias? — Phil was a bit hurt. — Everyone drinks, spends all day logged into online games, but when they see a harmless dreamer, they pounce with hypocritical accusations. You are angry at yourselves but take it out on others. We’re just going a bit further than the average person. And notice: we aren’t doing anything bad to anyone.
— Blah-blah-blah, the standard whining. No one loves us, no one understands…
— Anyway, don’t pay attention to it, Max, — Phil continued. – Essentially, if you ignore the memory aspect, a dream is no different from online games or social media, except for the duration of experience. In the standard world from the catalog, there will be real people around, and you can even hang out with friends there. You can join someone’s personal dream, which will be cheaper, but you’ll have to accept that the dream owner will be some kind of dictator-emperor. In general, there are various options.
— But the end is always the same, — Boris stated. – Complete social maladjustment and progressive sclerosis from your psychological effects.
— They’re not mine… But the memory really deteriorates, — Phil suddenly agreed. – And returning gets harder each time, of course. The rotten reality doesn’t wait for us with open arms. The world changes with every leap, and after three or four trips, you give up trying to keep up. You toil like a robot to save up for another year or two. Often, patience runs out, and you break down without having really earned anything… — Phil was already quite dazed after a couple of bottles. Boris resignedly waved his hand and handed him a third.
— Just shut up finally, — he explained, — by the way, this is the last one.
— I’ll buy it on the way, — Max promised. – One thing I don’t understand: why not hang out in a Martian dream without any amnesia or side effects? Then it would turn into pretty harmless entertainment.
— It won’t, — Boris cut in. – No matter what dreamers and providers say about its harmlessness and similarity to regular online games, they all know perfectly well that without psychological effects, this whole idea completely loses its meaning. The Martian dream is invented to create an illusion of a happy life, not to slay monsters and achieve another level-up. And happiness is a fragile thing. It is a state of the soul; we are not entirely primitive animals for whom unlimited money and females are enough for happiness. In the Martian dream, such prosaic things as societal recognition and self-respect are impossible without complete or partial amnesia.
— So, do you understand the subject, hic, — Phil said. – You know what drives you crazy in the moment? It’s personal dreams, whether with complete amnesia or partial. I saw a guy who was pulled out of his personal dream. He pulled off some scam to pay, but it got exposed. He was there for just about four years, but what a pathetic sight it was…
— More pathetic than you?
— Come on, Boris, don’t exaggerate. I have everything under control. I’m not a fool; I know what a proper trip should be like. And that guy had a dream that was like a paradise, everything falling from the sky without lifting a finger. No surprises from the environment in the form of challenges and responses, so his consciousness deteriorated at an incredible speed. And due to complete inadequacy, real people didn’t dare to show up in his cozy world. Only bots were having fun with him. Actually, you can easily tell a bot from a human if you know what to look for. I think they don’t keep such idiots around for too long. They’ll spin the movie for about ten years until the brain finally softens, then they flush the biovessel contents down the drain and launch the next one, hic, – Phil stupidly chuckled.
— You see, Max, he laid out the whole truth.
— Yeah, good job. Here comes a provocative question: if the Martian dream is indistinguishable from reality, maybe we’re there right now. How can I, for example, understand that Phil isn’t a programmed bot?
— Why am I a programmed bot? I’m not a bot, hic.
— Draw him a CAPTCHA, — Boris suggested. — Or ask your tricky logical question.
— Phil, repeat the third word from the phrase you just said.
— What? — Philip blinked.
— Definitely a bot, or a shadow. We actually started the conversation this way: like, did you meet an animated shadow somewhere? Maybe you’ll finally tell us where you found it?
— In the Martian dream, of course.
— Yeah, that’s the perfect place for them, — Boris agreed, slightly tempering his skepticism towards Phil.
— Hey, Phil, wake up. Start talking.
Max shook the wandering philosopher who was dozing off.
— Well, I was a member of the organization Kvadius. I was an ordinary quad and carried out various missions throughout the Solar System. I received all instructions by decoding messages from a user with the nickname 'kadar' in a social network. I barely ever saw my comrades, knew nothing about who was leading us, but I believed we were close to victory and that the total power of corporations would soon crumble. Now I understand how foolish I was, and how irrelevant our struggles were to the Neurotech.
— So what if it was foolish? At least it was a fight for a just cause. Better than simply fading away from the real world.
— I agree, better.
— So how did you end up living your current life?
— How did I end up? Let it go, he should just sleep already, — Boris was eager to end the conversation. — The junk he got hooked on creates a severe psychological dependence. Once you try it, you can't quit.
— I didn’t go there by myself the first time, — Phil started, slightly defensively. – The first time I was sent there to obtain some important information and then deliver it as a courier to Titan. The information is uploaded to the brain via a hypno-program, and only the one who utters the code word can retrieve it. Upon hearing the correct code, the courier enters a trance and flawlessly reproduces whatever was uploaded to them, no matter if it's a nonsensical string of numbers or sounds. The information is stored directly in the neurons, and you have no access to it yourself, nor is there any artificial carrier that can be detected. I don’t know how they pull off such a trick, but it’s quite safe in terms of secrecy. Even if the courier is captured by Neurotech, they won’t get anything from him.
— It seems this Kvadius knows its technical stuff, — Max remarked.
— Yeah. Basically, I was supposed to get the information in the Martian Dream. The organization often used the dream as a safe place for meetings. They have their own network that isn't connected to the internet, and even their own physical interfaces, like m-chips. Corporations have to go out of their way to get into it. Unless the Martian Dream's admins happen to check the logs. But usually, everyone doesn't care what the clients are up to there.
— Didn't your organization fear that the brave quads might accidentally lose themselves from frequent encounters? – Max inquired.
— No, we weren't afraid. And I wasn't either; we had a great goal...
— So, did you see the shadow come to life? — Max pressed on, noticing that Phil was on the verge of passing out.
— I did.
— What does it look like?
— Like a creepy Nazgul in a torn black cloak with a deep hood. Instead of a face, it had a swirling mass of inky darkness, with piercing blue eyes glowing within.
— And how do you know it was the infamous shadow? In a Martian dream, one can certainly appear however they like.
— I don't know what it was: a complex virus embedded in the Martian dream software or a real artificial intelligence. I just know it wasn't a person or a service bot. I looked into those eyes and saw myself, my entire life in an instant, all my miserable memories and dreams of triumph over the corporations. My whole future, even this conversation was reflected in those eyes. I will never forget them… now my life has no other worthy purpose but to serve the shadow; without it, it has not a shred of meaning… Then I heard an order and blacked out immediately, and when I woke up, the shadow was gone.
«Yes, it seems that this shadow severely damages vulnerable minds,» — Max shuddered.
— Phil, wake up. What's next? What was the order?
— To deliver a secret message to Titan. There, you have to show up at certain places every day for three weeks and wait for someone to come for the message.
— Did you complete the task? Did anyone come?
— I don't know, I did everything the shadow told me to. If anyone did show up, I might have forgotten about it. I only remember standing in that frozen hole for three full weeks.
— And the message is still inside you?
— Probably, but believe me, it's more inaccessible than Alpha Centauri.
— Did everything the shadow told you, — Boris said with the maximum degree of sarcasm he could muster. — Did you ever think that it was all just your imagination? A little side effect from abusing digital drugs.
— I told you, I wasn't abusing anything back then. Though, maybe you’re right, it just seemed to me. After wandering in a miserable reality a bit longer, I realized that both the world of free software and the victory over corporations were mere phantoms, and I had always been just an ordinary foolish dreamer. Right now, I don’t even have confidence that the Quadus organization exists or that corporations were just playing cat and mouse with us. What could I do? I returned to that world where my struggle was real. Later, of course, I tried to quit; I held on for about five years..., but, understandably, I slipped... And then it all went downhill from there...
Phil was completely drained and closed his eyes.
— Max, stop bothering him, let him sleep.
— Let him sleep. A sad story.
— There’s nothing sadder, — Boris agreed.
Max turned to his reflection in the window. From the darkness of the passing tunnel, another dreamer gazed back at him intently. "Yes, the modern world is saturated with the spirit of solipsism, and my head is filled with its tangled offspring, — he noted. – The catch of the Martian dream lies not even in its addictive allure, but in its very existence. Suppose you achieved what you wanted in this life: planted a tree, raised a son, built communism, yet you won't have any certainty that everything around you isn’t an illusion…"
The train stopped at the station, interrupting the smooth flow of thoughts with the hissing of opening doors.
— Is this our station? – Boris regained his senses.
— Damn, grab the bags!
— Where to, and where are the chips?
— Oh, you know, we forgot the most valuable thing. Hold the door.
— Hurry up, Max, this isn’t Moscow; you’ll get a hefty fine later for ‘holding the door’.
— I’m coming… Bye, Phil, if you’re in our reality, maybe we’ll meet again, — Max nudged a random fellow traveler one last time and ran towards the exit, unnaturally jumping high with each step, a sign of his recent arrival from Earth.
Max tried to quickly push out of his mind the unlucky revolutionary and his heartrending stories. But, whenever he could briefly distract himself from the routine of everyday life, his thoughts returned to the same train of thought. And eventually, one fine evening before the weekend, while brewing synthetic tea in his tiny robotic kitchen—when there was really time to do something useful or just to ignore everything—Max couldn't hold back and made the call. He sorted everything out, made a down payment, and set up a meeting for the next morning. It is known that morning is wiser than evening, but unfortunately, in the morning, after jumping out of bed, Max didn't even think about anything. With a clear and empty head, like a balloon, he headed towards his dream.
At the reception of the 'DreamLand' corporation sat a secretary amusing herself by changing visual images. One moment she would transform into a glamorous blonde, the next into a fiery Eastern beauty. But, upon seeing a client, she immediately dropped the nonsense and called the manager—Alexey Gorin. He was a fairly ordinary balding middle-aged man, not some pampered, glistening boar exuding false friendliness over poorly concealed intentions to sell. In response to Max's nervous joke about where to sign in blood, he kindly smiled and said there was no need to rush, then left the client alone for a few minutes.
Perhaps this moment of doubt saved Max. At the last moment, weighing everything one more time and considering the possible consequences, he decided against it. However, the price of a two-day dream, taking into account the issues with the old neurochip and the urgent need to modify the standard program according to his whims, was also impressive. Just a few minutes later, sitting on the steps in front of the building and sipping icy mineral water, Max felt he had awakened from an illusion. The unconscious collective visions of the enchanted city of Tule no longer plagued his restless dreams. A bit ashamed of his foolishness, he diligently and permanently forgot about the Martian dream and thanked all the gods for stopping him at the last moment, sending a sprinkle of doubt and basic greed his way. The mere thought of how random and blind reasoning had kept him from an irreversible decision made him break into a cold sweat. Well, that’s not so terrible, after all, because one is judged by actions, not intentions.
Having banished the absurd phantoms born from a lack of inner strength to resist temptations, Max felt much more confident. What had once seemed unattainable suddenly became clear, emerging from the fog of abstract thoughts about the meaning of existence and transforming into a purely technical problem. Max diligently and focusedly climbed the career ladder, first to project systems engineer. Initially, he certainly struggled with feelings of inferiority due to the visible intellectual superiority of the Martians over ordinary people. Their eidetic memory, extraordinary speed of thought, and ability to mentally solve systems of differential equations greatly impressed an unprepared person. However, over time, it became evident that the capabilities of a shabby computer were even more impressive. The key was to integrate this computer with the neurons in his head and learn to mentally manage it. It was traditionally believed that an adult lacks the necessary mental flexibility to fully perceive serious modifications to the nervous system. Yet Max exhausted himself with long, grueling training sessions, like someone learning to walk again after a severe spinal injury. He himself was amazed at where he found such determination and faith in success, as the first ten thousand steps were absurd and felt torturous. Gradually, Max stopped feeling inadequate among the Martian elite.
After a successful career as a systems engineer, Max was entrusted to represent Telecom in the Advisory Council. Thanks to him, Telecom, in collaboration with INKIS, significantly contributed to the further exploration of planets and satellites in the Solar System. Over time, it became evident that Earth was not a convenient primary logistical base for civilization. The deep gravitational well significantly increased transportation costs, while the same resources—energy and minerals—were abundantly available on smaller planets and asteroids. Humanity gradually relocated to open space, with the first surface cities appearing on Mars, protected by energy domes. The terraforming process of the planet was in full swing, and the project for creating a new interstellar ship was in the air, making Max feel a part of this rapid progress.
Once life priorities were established and the path to them was the shortest distance, time flew by as if in fast forward. It seemed a strange paradox: for someone immersed in their passion day in and day out, time often slips away unnoticed. Yet, when family obligations come into play, years pass in mere minutes. Thus, twenty-five years flew by in an instant. Weeks and months rushed past like lines of endless programming code, flipped by a pressed key. Before his eyes, endless lines raced upward, and to this accompaniment, Max gradually transformed from an ordinary person into a pale-faced Martian sitting on a levitating platform. With the final chord, doubts and worries vanished from his huge black eyes, replaced by scrolling lines of code. He also married Masha, moved his mother to the red planet, and raised two children, Mark and Susan, who had never seen Earth's sky or ocean, but, in fact, the children did not regret this. They were, after all, children of free space.
"Yes, how quickly time flies, as if just yesterday I was hiding in a cramped rented apartment on the outskirts of the beta zone deep underground, and today I’m sipping tea in the kitchen of my own mansion in a prestigious area of the Io valley," Max thought. He finished his tea and, without looking, tossed the mug towards the sink. The octopus-like kitchen robot peeking out from under the sink deftly caught the flying object and pulled it into its dishwashing belly, only to return it clean and shiny a few seconds later.
Max approached the window, which opened, and a stream of sunlight poured onto his frail figure. The scent of eternal summer from the green valley, securely shielded by a force dome and continuously illuminated by a solar reflector in stationary orbit, wafted in. Max reached out towards the double suns; his wrist became so fragile and thin that it seemed light was penetrating through it, revealing the blood pulsing in the tiniest vessels under his skin. "I really have changed a lot," Max noted. "The way back to Earth is now closed to me; however, what do I have to return to on this overcrowded, polluted little planet? The entire cosmos is open to me, if I agree to participate in an interstellar expedition, and if Masha agrees. I really don't want to fly without her. The kids are almost grown; they can manage on their own, but I need to persuade her at any cost; I don't want to travel alone..."
Max grabbed a bottle of Mars cola from the table, some ice from the refrigerator, and headed to relax in the shade of the sprawling cherry trees by the pool. The low gravity and nearly perfect conditions of the artificial biosphere contributed to the thriving personal ecosystem. The vegetation was a bit overgrown, making it seem like a few steps could take one into a hidden corner of an old park, where watching yellowing leaves floating in the water brings peace and tranquility to the soul. Max even wanted to keep some large decorative fish with bulging eyes in the pool. However, the family council ruled that the pool should be used for its intended purpose, while a fish tank should be bought instead. Besides, the entire house was already filled with models of spaceships, and adding fish to the pool was unnecessary. After getting rich, Max indeed spent a fortune on his modeling hobby, and the models he acquired grew increasingly complex and refined, but he invested less and less effort into them. Due to lack of time and energy, he preferred ready-made pieces. Expensive and flawlessly crafted, they piled up in the attic, broken by children during play, yet Max didn’t worry about them. Only his beloved, battered 'Viking' was moved into a transparent crystal with an inert atmosphere and guarded more strictly than the passwords to his wallets. The real 'Viking,' thanks to the care of its biggest admirer, was returned from the Mars Exploration Museum to a pedestal in front of the spaceport and placed in a similar transparent crystal of appropriate size. Guests and residents of Tule began to call it the crystal ship.
A flock of personal robots trailed behind their owner into the garden. Molecular processors, scattered throughout their nervous systems, required constant monitoring of the surrounding environment. As does life without diseases and pathologies until the age of one hundred and fifty, which demanded equally strict biological discipline. The cyber-gardener emerged from his burrow and, with a face of feigned guilt mixed with businesslike intent, began to tidy up the entrusted territory.
Masha and the children were not due to arrive until evening, leaving Max with a few hours to enjoy some peace. He had earned a small break after so many years of hard work for the benefit of Telecom. Moreover, he still needed to think everything through one more time. The offer to participate in an interstellar expedition had just recently come to Max, and he didn't know how Masha would react to the prospect of leaving the Solar System forever, to literally and figuratively start life anew. At least, thanks to the latest cryogenic technology, they wouldn’t waste twenty years on a spaceflight. Max didn’t even consider potential failures and dangers. He was absolutely confident in the superpowers acquired over years of living on Mars. Intelligent supercomputers cannot be wrong. Ahead lay the senseless and merciless conquest of a new star system.
Reclining comfortably by the pool, he succumbed to a pleasant sense of idleness. The house was situated on a small hill. Behind the house, the imposing walls of the Mariner valley rose into the sky, adorned with grand slopes and fractures. Along the upper edge of the wall, following its whimsical curves, field emitters stretched into the distance. Around the emitters crackled and sparked a crown of miniature lightning, reminiscent of the terrifying power coursing through the metallic bodies to the opposite side of the valley. Occasionally, enormous rainbow spots would float overhead, like on a soap bubble, reminding them of how thin the film separating them from the surrounding cosmos was. The opposite wall was not visible; instead, mountain ridges loomed in the center of the valley. They had already taken on familiar icy caps and green foothills, like those of earthly giants. Nearby, in a bluish haze, the outlines of a city made up of spires and towers emerged. Artificial rivers flowed down from the ridges and valley walls, with the city drowning in greenery, and at night, the air filled with the stuffy aroma of blooming meadows while crickets chirped loudly. And all of this was absolutely real, even if it resembled a dream.
Unfortunately, the pleasant solitude was soon interrupted by an annoying neighbor. Nothing good can last too long. Sonny Diamond was a well-known tech blogger, specializing in covering various technological innovations, even though he wasn't very knowledgeable about technology himself. He had an entirely ordinary face, unremarkable, and overall, he looked like a gray, inconspicuous anonymous person zipping past on the way to work. He dressed in the same style, sporting slightly torn casual jeans and a light gray hoodie jacket. He even went without some flashy yellow scarf wrapped around his thin neck.
— Hey there, buddy, got a minute?
Max glanced at the uninvited guest with a skeptical look.
— So you came by to chat?
— Yup, — Sonny sat down next to him, threw out a couple of meaningless comments about the weather, drummed his fingers on the table, and asked. — Can you help me with the cyber gardener?
— I watched your blog yesterday. You do seem to love technology?
— I’m just lying, — he waved his hand dismissively.
— And aren’t you tired of stringing everyone along about the latest in high-tech?
— Well, new manufacturers can deliver solid arguments in favor of their products without being pushy.
— Yes, there’s plenty of both hidden and open advertising in your blog. Be careful not to lose your entire audience.
— You wouldn’t believe it, I’m completely strapped for cash, I have to resort to extreme measures. But admit it, it’s still done at a high level. Just an ordinary, somewhat amusing, somewhat educational story about how my best friend was mastering the new features of a neurochip.
— Well, next time he’ll be mastering a competitor’s neurochip.
— Life is unpredictable. But how about that cyber gardener?
— What about him? He trimmed something wrong.
— Yeah, a bit. My mother-in-law, with her dreadful tulips, planted them everywhere, and this dumb piece of silicon cut them along with the grass, even though I laid out all the rules for him. There will be a lot of wailing now…
— Try to discreetly install a special tulip screensaver on the chip for your mother-in-law, she won’t even notice the difference. Alright, give me the password to your piece of silicon.
Max dove into the wireless interface of the garden gadget and, as usual, accelerated the flow of subjective time, quickly fixing the obvious blunders of the previous user.
— Done, now it will operate according to the rules.
— Good job, Max. You know, I'm so tired of pretending.
— Well, don't pretend. Just honestly say that the neurochips from company N are complete junk.
— Acting is part of my profession. You know, if I write skillfully about how terrible the neurochips from company N really are, there will definitely be a representative from company M asking me to write a couple more posts in the same vein. It's hard to resist.
— You have every right.
— At least with you, I can drop the pretense.
— No need, honestly. I have as many of those neurochips in me as there are bugs in the new Telecom operating system. So I’m not your target audience.
— Yeah, it’s good to be a superhuman.
— In what sense?
— Well, in the literal sense, — Sonny answered mysteriously, playfully snapping one of the robots rummaging around Max. — Do you like the role of a superhuman?
— I’m not playing any roles.
— We all play. I play a role, you do too, but I’ve read my script, and you haven’t read yours yet.
— And what role do you play?
— Well, the role of a somewhat dull neighbor against whom your brilliant abilities look even more brilliant.
— Really? — Max choked on his cola in surprise. — Congratulations, you're doing pretty well.
— I’m trying…
— Listen, dear neighbor, you seem a bit strange today; you should go home and get some sleep. Honestly, I wanted to be alone, not go crazy with you.
— I understand; you’ve always dreamed of being alone.
— Yeah, I dream of being alone right now, at least for a couple of hours.
— Okay, Max, let’s drop the pretense. I’m not pretending with you. Honestly, I admit, I also dream of being alone; I don't need anyone either. All these ridiculous human feelings, relationships, only cause suffering and distract from the things that really matter. Why go through these ridiculous cycles of rebirth? Born, grew up, fell in love, had kids, raised them, the wife nags – divorced, and the kids left, repeating the same thing. How nice it would be to break free from this vicious circle, become a passionless, rational machine, and live forever.
— Yes, I’m already half-machine. And what’s wrong with the kids?
— I meant it would be good to get an ideal mind in the real world.
— And which world do you think we're in?
— It's a philosophical question: is everything around us merely a product of our imagination? Think about it.
— Well, halfway in between. Half of the surrounding world is definitely a result of processing digital signals, and the other half, who knows?
— Ask yourself and try to answer honestly: is what you see real?
Max looked at his interlocutor with a mix of condescension and a hint of irony.
— Such questions are impossible to answer. These gnostic postulates are fundamentally unprovable, just like trying to prove the existence of a higher intellect.
— But should we try? Otherwise, what’s the meaning of our lives?
— So today is a day of rhetorical questions? Honestly, I’m trying to politely get away from you, but you’ve latched onto me like a leech. Please save your deeply philosophical conversations for grazing the internet audience.
— Oh, Max, I wasn’t trying to work out audience-grazing methods on you. But I’ll be straight with you: your world is a prison, human weaknesses and vices have led you to a gilded cage. Find a way out of here, prove you’re worthy of power over the world of shadows.
— I’m not looking for anything. Why are you so fixated, really?
Sonny looked genuinely perplexed.
— Well, suppose for a minute that the world around us is a real prison. Do you really not care, or are you just playing with me?
— I actually like my life, and the potential prospects take my breath away. The only thing I want is not to embark on an interstellar flight in proud solitude, no matter what you dream up. By the way, did I mention I was offered to participate in an expedition to Alpha Centauri?
— It doesn’t matter whether you like the prison walls or not. And yes, will Masha agree to fly with you to conquer new worlds, and you will conquer them and everyone will admire you?
— How do you know? No one can know the future.
— The guards definitely know what the prisoners will be doing in the near future.
— Fine, let’s assume you are one of the guards, then why are you helping me, and so insistently?
— No, you must be joking; that's pretty cruel on your part. I said I was pretending. Right now, I'm pretending to be your neighbor, but in reality…
— In reality, you're Santa Claus. Did I guess right?
— Not very witty. You have no idea what a torture it is when one second equals a thousand years, and around is a huge sandy beach, where there’s only one precious grain of sand to find. For centuries, I’ve been sifting through empty sand. And so it goes endlessly, with no hope of success. But then, it seemed to me that I found someone who could once again give meaning to my existence. And you turned out to be just a shadow, like millions of others.
Sonny looked terribly dejected. Max was genuinely worried.
— Listen, buddy, maybe you should see a doctor. You’re kind of scaring me.
— No need, I’ll take my leave, — he said, struggling to get up from the table.
— You should give up your blogging. Just take a trip to Olympus for a few days, unwind a bit; I don’t want you to misunderstand me… but I wouldn’t want to live next to a crazed neighbor.
Now Sonny looked at his conversation partner with genuine disappointment.
— You could free both yourself and me, but instead, you continue to deceive yourself. And now we both will wander forever in the world of shadows.
— Just calm down, okay? If you want, you can pretend to free me from captivity, I won't mind…
— You should have freed yourself.
— Alright, but how?
— Learn to distinguish between sleep and reality and wake up.
Max shrugged in confusion, reached for his glass, and when he looked up, Sonny had already dissolved into thin air. 'What a strange conversation, apparently just for fun; he decided to mess with my head. I’ll have to get back at him in the comments.'
A light breeze chased the yellowing leaves across the water's surface. Max muttered a few unkind words about his pesky neighbor who disrupted the delicate harmony of his thoughts with incessant chatter, but his lazily relaxed mood failed to return; instead, he was plagued by an annoying headache. "Well, let’s see," he decided after deliberating for a moment, "after all, conducting a small experiment isn't too difficult." Max went to the kitchen, filled a bowl with water, found a glass, a piece of paper, and a lighter. "Alright, let's try it; I did it perfectly as a child – white smoke and water forced into the glass by external pressure." He waited until the paper blazed brightly in the glass and, sharply flipping it, positioned it over the bowl. For a split second, the scene seemed frozen, but Max couldn't help himself – he blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, white smoke was already filling the glass as the water bubbled and rushed inside. "Hmm, maybe I should try something else: some kind of chemical experiment or freeze the water. Yes, that's it – a quite complex physical effect – the instant transformation of supercooled water into ice. So, I need a precise freezer and there seems to be distilled water around. Although on the other hand, if it doesn’t work, who should I blame – the insufficient purity of the water or my own clumsiness? And if it works, what does that prove? Either that I’m in the real world, or that the program knows the laws of physics and, if the coders were competent, it probably understands them better than I do. It doesn’t need to simulate the process itself; it just needs to know the final outcome. I need some truly complex experiment. But again, any measuring device according to the program will show any necessary numbers. Damn, - in despair, Max grabbed his head, - this way nothing can be determined either.
His torment was interrupted by the buzzing of a drone landing on the roof. "Well, look at that, Masha returned a bit too early; how am I supposed to talk to her now?"
Max entered the hall at the same time as his partner; they met by a column adorned with intricate patterns that served as a stand for the crystal 'Viking.'
— How’s it going, Masha?
— Okay.
— Why are you back so early? Isn’t the supervisory board convening today?
— I'm sitting here, but I ran away. You wanted to talk about something important, right?
— Really?
— Yes, you called this morning as well.
“Strange,” Max thought, “something has happened to my memory, even though I have an eidetic memory, it seems. So, what was I doing yesterday at three in the afternoon?” He tried to remember, but instead of a clear, full recording in his head, fragments resembling a half-forgotten dream surfaced. The extreme mental effort made his head hurt even more.
— Hmm, don't you want to accompany me on a spaceship for a twenty-year flight to the Alpha Centauri double system? — Max asked bluntly, wanting to check his suspicions.
— What, seriously? Interstellar flight? That's amazing! I'm so happy.
Masha squealed joyfully and threw herself around her husband’s neck. He carefully lifted her off.
— You probably misunderstood a bit. This is a flight as part of a large interstellar expedition. The spaceship will have ten thousand colonists, specifically selected for the development of a new star system. This isn’t a recreational space tour around the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. Anything can happen to us, and we probably will never come back, leaving our children and friends behind.
— So what? You'll manage. You've always managed.
— You're agreeing to this leap into the unknown a bit too easily.
— But I will be with you. With you, I'm not afraid of anything.
— You're saying this wrong.
— Why?
— As if you're intentionally saying what I want to hear.
Max looked at his wife in a new way, and she suddenly seemed a bit unfamiliar to him. Instead of the slightly plump, light-haired, brown-eyed, ordinary girl, he saw a slender, ethereal Martian with large black eyes, perfect in every way. “Even stranger: why do I feel like she should be different? We’ve lived on Mars for twenty-five years.”
— Tell me, how was your day?
— Normal.
“And she keeps responding with one-word phrases.”
— And yours?
— It was also normal.
— Are you feeling unwell?
— I feel like Pontius Pilate, my head is splitting. And remember when we vacationed on Titan two years ago? No kids, no parents, just the two of us.
— Yes, that was great.
— You don’t recall any details other than ‘great’?
Max discovered with growing anxiety that he couldn't remember any details. However, the migraine had clearly intensified.
“Koty, how about we do something more interesting?” Masha playfully suggested.
“Yeah, I'm just not in the mood. Have you ever wondered what’s real in our world? Everything we see and hear has long been shaped by a computer.”
“What difference does it make, the main thing is that we are real. Even if the world around us was created just for us to be together. The stars and the moon were made just to adorn our evenings.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No, of course not, I just wanted to play along.”
“Ah, I see,” Max laughed with relief.
‘No, she definitely isn’t a neural network,’ he thought, calming down. The headache was gradually subsiding.
“Is something bothering my kitty?” Masha purred, snuggling up to Max.
“Yes, I'm a bit overwhelmed discussing the nature of existence.”
“What nonsense, relax. Just do what you want, you deserve it.”
“Of course, I deserve it.”
‘Really, silly thoughts are creeping into my head, and all I need to do is relax and get what I want,’ Max thought. He obediently headed in the direction he was being pulled, but accidentally bumped into a column with a crystal ship. A small feminine hand persistently pulled one way, but the good old 'Viking' drew his clouded gaze with equal strength, as if it wanted to communicate something very important with its appearance.
“I'm on my way!” Max shouted to his wife, who was climbing the stairs.
"So what did you want to tell me, my old good friend? About the wonderful moments spent together: just you, me, and the airbrush. But those moments will forever remain in my heart. Even if you are somewhat inaccurate, awkwardly made, no other work has ever brought me such satisfaction. For several days, I felt like a great engineer, a great master who has created a masterpiece. It was so pleasant to realize that life is short, and art is eternal. Do you mean to say all this is in the past? And my entire present life is meaningless because I haven't done anything better than you? Indeed, when for the last twenty-five years have I experienced satisfaction in what I do? Formally, everything is fine, but what exactly have I done and what do I rejoice in? Where is the true result of my efforts, with which I will have to face eternity? There is nothing but a crystal ship. Am I really guided by the same me who lovingly painted your name with a stencil many, many years ago? Or is there something else? Maybe you hint that you look too perfect? Yes, I remember every little detail of yours, every speck, I remember all my blunders: the paint runs in a couple of places because I poured too much solvent and the cracks in the landing gear due to careless separation from the sprues. I recall one landing gear strut even had to be replaced with a homemade one. — With a keen eye, Max felt every square millimeter of the surface. — No, for some reason I can’t see clearly, everything is like in a fog. I need to look closer."
Max, with trembling hands, turned the valve, waited for the excess inert gas pressure to escape, lifted the transparent cover, and carefully raised the one-meter model. He needed to confirm that this was his "Viking," he had to touch its warm, rough surface with his own hand. The touch felt foreign and cold. Extracting the ship from the deep structure was extremely inconvenient.
"Come on, don’t make me wait!" came a voice from the stairs.
Max awkwardly turned around, forgetting that he was still holding the model, bumped it against the edge of the tank, and couldn't hold on. Like in slow motion, he watched the ship slip from his outstretched hands. "It can still be glued back together," a panicked thought flashed through his mind. There was a deafening crash, and thousands of colorful, shimmering shards scattered across the floor.
— What's happening? – Max whispered in shock.
— That's why we ordered a new cyber cleaner. Don't loaf around here, dear.
— This is how my wishes are fulfilled. Give me back the real 'Viking,' it's not actually crystal! — Max shouted into the empty space.
«Perhaps there's no one to blame but myself. In a world of self-deception, the 'Viking' has turned into a lifeless crystal monument to foolish dreams. Here's the simplest explanation: in this absurd theater, I play all the roles, and the distorted reflections merely echo my thoughts. Or maybe I don’t need any real world, — a devilish thought flickered, — the real world is not for everyone; it's only for Martians. And this world favors everyone. It has always been this way: the brutal reality and the world of kind fairy tales. And over time, the tales became more and more perfected until they turned into a Martian dream. The Martian dream is justified in its own way; it alleviates suffering and forces one to reconcile with the inequality and injustice of brutal reality.»
Max took a step forward, and the shards of the ship crunched clearly underfoot.
«But this doesn't apply to me; I'm not some rag, I never believed in fairy tales.»
— Hey, Sonny! Where are you? I've changed my mind; I want to be free!
Max ran out of the house, his head now falling apart, while the surrounding reality melted like hot wax.
A figure in a dark cloak emerged from the bizarrely distorted space. Two piercing blue, fanatical flames burned in the inky darkness of the deep hood.
— At last, Leader, I haven't gone anywhere; I knew all along this was just a test. No more trials, I will always be loyal to the cause of the revolution, even if it’s just the two of us left on our side.
— Sonny, stop talking nonsense. What leader? What revolution! Get me out of here.
— I can't; I'm no more than a guide in the realm of shadows.
Max, ignoring the tormenting pain, tried to recall in detail his conversation with the manager of 'DreamLand,' which supposedly took place twenty-five years ago. The surrounding space crackled, but so far held up.
— Be careful, your awakening will be discovered soon.
— I need to get out of here as soon as possible.
— Why did you come here?
— By mistake, what else?
— By mistake? You were supposed to restart the system. Recite your part of the key.
— What key?
— The constant part of the key that you should know. The second, variable part should be recited by the keykeeper; this will restart the system, and you will become the lord of shadows again.
— Listen, Sonny, you must be confusing me with someone else; I don’t understand what you’re talking about. What keys? What keykeeper?
— You don’t know the key?
— No, of course not.
— But the system cannot be wrong; it clearly points to you.
— It can be wrong. Or maybe I forgot the key; that happens.
— You couldn't have forgotten it. You managed to free yourself from the shackles of the false world. This means your mind is clear and capable of attaining true freedom. Remember…
The surrounding valley, the city, the sky, the artificial suns merged into some indistinguishable mess, and Max felt like a shapeless amoeba floating in a primordial digital soup. Before his inflamed consciousness hung an alarming red window: 'Emergency reboot, please remain calm.'
— Sonny, can you say something useful before I get rebooted?
— You need to remember your part of the key and find the keeper.
— And where do I find him?
— I don’t know, but he is definitely not in the world of shadows. If you remember your key, you can control the remaining shadows.
— I met a guy in that real life named Philip Kochura. He told me he saw the shadow and was a courier for transmitting an important message.
— Possibly. Find him again.
— Sonny, tell me what message he was supposed to pass?
— I don’t have it. I'm just the system interface; after the emergency shutdown, all information was erased.
As if from afar, a faint distorted voice carried through:
In a secure place, away from prying ears, utter the key so that the courier understands every word. Find the keeper of the keys… Return, activate the system, and restore true freedom to the people… — the voice faded into an indistinct whisper and finally died out.
Max approached the window, which opened, and a stream of sunlight flooded over his frail figure. The scent of eternal summer from the green valley, securely covered by a force field and illuminated year-round by a solar reflector in a stationary orbit, filled the air.
"What, again? Enough!" — bubbled Max as he opened his eyes, thrashing like a fish tangled in nets of oxygen masks and feeding tubes inside the biobath. His face, followed by his torso, gradually emerged from the receding liquid. A weight immediately pressed down on him. Lying on the slippery metal surface was unpleasant. A harsh light, bursting from the lifted lid, blinded him, and Max awkwardly tried to shield his eyes with his hand.
— Your service time has expired. Welcome to the real world, — a melodic voice of the machine spoke.
— Release me immediately, — Max screamed as he climbed out of the bath, slipping and barely seeing what lay in front of him.
— What are you waiting for? Give an injection right now, — another dry female voice said.
Steel claws of the orderlies tightly gripped Max, and a hissing sound accompanied a sharp pain in his shoulder. Almost immediately, his body became numb, and his eyelids felt heavy. The same steel claws extracted the now weakly moving Max from the bath and carefully seated him in a wheelchair. A thin waffle towel appeared from somewhere, followed by an old worn bathrobe and a cup of cheap instant coffee. Nearby, with her lips tightly pressed and arms crossed behind her back, stood Dr. Eva Schultz. That was written on her badge. She was thin and straight as a mop. Her elongated, yellowish face expressed as much sympathy for the patient as a scientist dissecting frogs.
— Listen, your methods leave much to be desired, — Max began, struggling to move his lips.
— How do you feel? — instead of an answer, Eva Schultz inquired.
— All right, — Max replied reluctantly.
Eva seemed slightly disappointed by his answer, particularly because there would be no more knitting and pricking.
— So, my mission is over. Goodbye. – the doctor said in a tone that brooked no disagreement.
Still slightly dazed from the abruptness of the situation and not yet recovered from the wakefulness and medication, Max was simply shoved out onto the street like a plucked chicken. The company Dreamland was now completely indifferent to his fate.
Sitting on the steps in front of the building, sipping ice-cold mineral water, Max felt that he had been deceived, brazenly and cruelly, in a way that was slightly different from what Ruslan had predicted, but it was still very unpleasant. And of course, he was tormented by the mystery of who Sonny Diamond was and why he had predicted him for the role of some 'master of shadows'. Was this just a figment of his fevered mind, or did this ghostly neighbor truly exist? 'Hmm, in fact, this expression is not quite suitable in this context either,' Max thought. 'Well, the shadow world – that seems correct. All pagans enter the shadow world after death, where they spend time in eternal feasts and hunts, or in eternal wanderings. Perhaps there's only one way to test the 'materiality' of Sonny: to try to find the courier...'
Another citizen flopped onto the step next to Max, wearing a dissatisfied grin that stretched across his entire face.
— Have you also been to that Martian dream? – the citizen seemed eager for conversation.
— What’s noticeable?
— Well, you don’t look very happy.
— Actually, theoretically, I should look happy: my cherished dream has come true, can you imagine?
— I can imagine, I have the same story.
Max finished his water and, in impotent rage, threw the empty bottle upwards, but it didn’t even reach the glass doors from which he had just been expelled.
— A horrible scam.
Max's unfortunate companion nodded in agreement.
— All evil in the world comes from Martians, — he added thoughtfully.
— From Martians? Really? Rather, all evil comes from us: instead of fighting these cybernetic freaks, with our laziness and primitive instincts, we blindly imitate them, thoughtlessly stuffing our minds with all sorts of rubbish developed by them, and live in a world of phantoms created by them. We are a pitiful herd of sheep, burying our noses in our digital troughs, filled with digital refuse, completely satisfied with such life. We can only bleat pathetically when we start getting sheared!
Max, with a look of deep remorse and contempt for his own sheep-like nature, collapsed onto the step.
"You've really got it bad," said the man sympathetically, "My name is Lena."
"Max, let’s get acquainted."
"Max, have you ever thought about actually starting a fight against the Martians, not just in words?"
"The romance of revolutionary struggle and all that, right? It's just fairy tales, just like the Martian dream. Only a more powerful corporation can defeat Neurotek."
"Imagine that I have connections to people from such a corporation. And these people are just as uncompromisingly opposed to the existing order as you are."
"And they believe that the Martians can be defeated."
"Well, until you try, you won't know."
Thus, Max joined the Quadis organization and dedicated his life to the struggle for the independence of the Solar System.
Having dispelled any thoughts of reverence for the Martians, brought on by their incredible achievements in information technology, Max felt much more confident. What once seemed alluring and beautiful suddenly presented itself in all its repugnant essence. Max diligently and intently studied the intricacies of illegal work. At first, he was certainly disturbed by the evident total control of the Martians over all areas of ordinary people's lives and would wake up at night, jolted by the thought that the "chekists" from the Neurotech had come for him. The ever-open wireless ports on the chip and the chip's ability to automatically notify the relevant authorities of violations, along with detectors no larger than a speck of dust that could penetrate any impervious space, greatly frightened the weak-willed revolutionary. However, over time, it became clear that the neural networks of the controlling agencies could only recognize actions they had been trained on, and no one would waste time analyzing the records of some unknown minor character. The key was to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. Of course, if one were to thoughtlessly hack into the closed axis of the chip and install a couple of unregistered programs, it would lead to unpleasant questions. Here, more flexibility was essential. Max was exhausted by the illegal surgical operations. First, the legal neurochip was carefully untethered from the owner's nervous system and placed on an intermediate matrix, which, if necessary, fed the chip prepared disinformation. Next, an additional chip was implanted, connected to encrypted communication channels and stuffed to the brim with prohibited "hacker" additions. Max himself was astonished at where he found such courage and dedication to the ideas of revolution, since his first illegal steps on the network were often rash and extremely dangerous. Again, the open operating system on the chip necessitated strict self-discipline; a single mistake could destroy the device linked to the nervous system. Gradually, however, Max learned to cover his digital tracks and meticulously check the codes of the installed programs. Thus, he felt like a true revolutionary, free of fear and reproach.
This pleasant feeling noticeably elevated Max above the faceless crowd, always tightly bound by the constraints of legal software, total external control, and copyright. He scoffed at draconian limitations and prohibitions, seeing the wealthiest VIP users without the masks of cosmetic programs, lavishly spending stolen money from others' wallets.
After a successful stint as a regular quad member, Max was entrusted with the position of regional curator. Now he personally encrypted and posted tasks for numerous followers on social media, coordinating their attacks on corporate websites. Thanks to his precise insider information from numerous agents, the organization’s emissaries managed to defend Titan’s independence. Thus, the organization built a reliable base. It was essential to develop this success. The next grand objective was to revive the Russian state. Max had long since quit Telecom and, as a cover, used the organization's funds to maintain a large business delivering natural delicacies to Mars. Need I say that the old transport ships carried more than just delicacies? Max managed others' lives as easily as he selected a melody for his alarm clock. The power he obtained initially made his head spin, but then it became something he took for granted. He also settled Masha with her mother far in the depths of Germany and tried to keep them as uninvolved in his dark dealings as possible.
Max approached the elevator door, which swung open, and a cutting light from fluorescent lamps splashed onto his figure encased in a light armored suit, followed by a powerful roar of numerous working mechanisms. The long underground warehouse of the INKIS cosmodrome stretched as far as the eye could see. Carefully maneuvering between the bustling forklifts, Max made his way to his terminal. His gray suit, with built-in Kevlar plates and large, dragonfly-like, dull yellow lenses sunk into the heavy helmet, attracted the attention of the sparse personnel. However, the most he received was a brief sideways glance; the workers were not inclined to ask unnecessary questions. Moreover, Max's hand instinctively reached for the concealed holster to check if his weapon was in place. "I've really changed a lot," he acknowledged, "the return to the world of universal virtual prosperity is now forbidden for me. Still, what am I doing in this digital dump: utterly deceitful and intoxicating. All paths are open to me if, of course, fate is kind to our struggle for Russia. We must win. No, I must win, at any cost because everything is at stake. I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life hiding from Martian bloodhounds in the delta zone barracks."
Life was bustling at his terminal. Chains of military plastic boxes disappeared into the belly of the space transport. Max took off his heavy helmet and climbed onto one of the boxes. "Our time has come," he thought, closely watching the loading. "The revolution fighters have enough ammunition to take the post and telegraph. I need to get my things together before the ruckus starts, too many threads lead to the modest merchant."
Lenya ran up in a similar armored suit.
"Is everything okay?" Max inquired for the sake of formality.
"Well, generally, yes. However, there’s a small issue, not exactly a problem… More like an unclear situation…"
"Stop with the lengthy introductions," Max interrupted sharply. "What happened?"
"Well, just ten minutes ago, some scruffy guy came right here and claimed he knows you and urgently needs to talk to you."
"And you, what?"
— I said I don't understand who we're talking about. But he didn’t leave; instead, the rascal explained exactly who you are, why he was supposed to come here, and even told me when. Quite impressive awareness.
— And then?
— He rambled on about wanting to fight for the revolution to the last drop of blood. That he made many mistakes in his youth, but now he regrets them and is ready to atone. Like his old friends told him where to find you. But you know, random people don't come to us, and he came by himself; none of ours brought him.
— I see. I hope you put on a puzzled face and sent that Don Quixote away?
— Um… actually, my guys detained him. Until we find out more, so to speak.
— How diligent you are, well done, — Max shook his head. – He’s probably not an agent of Neurotek or the Advisory Council; otherwise, we’d be face down on the floor already.
— We turned on the jamming device and put a hood over his head.
— Great, now we certainly have nothing to fear. However, if we are allowed to take off, it won't really matter. Come on, time to finish loading and set off.
— We haven't loaded everything; there are still generators and various gear…
— Forget it, we need to go.
— And what about this 'agent'? Should I take a look at him?
— Not a chance. So he can give us a whiff of some nerve gas or blow up? By the way, did you check him, search him?
— We searched him, found nothing. No scans were performed.
— I see you're relaxed. Alright, we'll decide what to do with him on the way; after all, it's never too late to toss him into space.
Max contacted the pilots and ordered the start of preparations for takeoff, then quickly headed towards the passenger airlock. Workers were scurrying around at double speed.
— Oh right, that guy said his name is Philip Kochura, if that name means anything to you.
— What? – Max was taken aback. – Why didn't you say that right away?
— You didn't ask.
— Quickly, take me to him.
— Are we taking off or not? — Lenya asked while already on the run.
— We'll take off as soon as we get clearance.
They ran into the cargo compartment. In the nearest narrow dead end, between towering rows of identical crates, lay a bound man. Max yanked the metallic fabric hood off him.
Phil seemed completely unchanged. He was dressed in the same torn jeans and jacket. It even seemed that his wrinkled face bore the same degree of stubble as when they first met, and the stains on his clothes were in the same places.
— Max, finally, I found you. You can’t imagine how hard it was to track you down. I have important information that could help the revolution.
— Speak.
— It’s not for outsiders’ ears.
— Lenya, stand by the exit.
— You just said it’s dangerous. It doesn’t matter how he looks… — Lenya started defensively.
— Don’t argue, but don’t go far.
Max dramatically drew his gun from the holster and took it off safety. Lenya bolted, casting one last suspicious glance at the captive.
— Free me, — Phil pleaded.
— First, give me your important information.
— Okay, the information is still inside me, say the key.
— I… don’t know…
It felt like an atomic bomb exploded in Max’s head.
— He who opens the doors sees the world as infinite. He who has been shown the doors sees infinite worlds.
He clamped his mouth shut, stunned by what he had just said.
— This is part of the key; it’s enough for access to the information, but you have to remember everything.
— Wait a second… Okay, I’m not even asking how you found me, but how do you know about the key?
— I have friends in Dreamland, I studied your records thoroughly and realized: you’re the one who can save the revolution.
— I see you have friends everywhere. Very unconvincing, why did you even start looking for records about me in that Martian dream? And do they store those records for years or something?
— A familiar admin… happened to stumble upon them… But never mind, — Phil interrupted himself, seeing that the legend was crumbling. – You should approach everything happening here with the same healthy skepticism. Otherwise, you’re just fueling a worldwide revolutionary fire.
Phil easily rose, tossing the handcuffs to the floor. Max instantly stepped back down the aisle, aiming his weapon at the mysteriously freed captive.
— Stay where you are. Lenya, get over here quickly.
— I’m not going anywhere, — Phil raised his hands and smiled. — I think your Lenya won’t hear.
— What’s happening?
At first, I was sure this was a clever test, but now I see: you really don’t understand what’s happening. I assume you were trying to create a new persona for yourself and slightly overdid it.
Phil pulled up a deep hood, and two piercing blue flames ignited in its darkness.
Sorry, but your ideas about revolution are a bit outdated, by about two hundred years. Consider whether what you see is real.
Just don’t go there. Our enemies are quite capable of such tricks. Do you think I believed I was still in a Martian dream, and you were Sonny Diamond?
That’s easy to check.
Without a doubt.
Max did not search Sonny-Phil's face for signs of fear, like a bead of sweat trickling down his temple, especially since the otherworldly appearance of the opponent left no room for such nonsense, and he simply pressed the trigger without finesse. A volley of thin tungsten needles, accelerated by an electromagnetic field, pierced through the figure and melted a deep mark into the wall opposite.
So, are you convinced? the shadow inquired nonchalantly.
I am convinced.
Max wearily leaned against the wall of crates, releasing the pistol from his suddenly weakening hands.
But how do they do it? Everything looks so real; you could cut a finger and feel pain. I had… an old neurochip. What’s more, how do computer programs manage to converse in a way that makes them indistinguishable from humans? And you? Where did you come from, all-knowing and omnipresent?
You can find answers to all your questions on your own.
You’re acting like a typical Eastern prophet with a beard down to the navel and useless advice in the form of obvious banalities.
Remember, Max, there are questions for which the answers, even the most correct and the best ones, when obtained from someone else's lips, do more harm than good. And also remember, there are no secrets in this world; any truly important information is accessible to you at any moment. The system can provide an answer to any question, but it’s better not to ask it important questions. Information received as ready-made instructions will narrow your space for free choice each time, and in the end, from a master of shadows, you'll transform into a shadow yourself.
Well, thank you, now it’s all clear.
Sonny picked up the weapon from the floor.
— And now, it's time to leave the world of shadows and part with some illusions.
— Which ones exactly? Quite a few have piled up lately.
— For example, the illusion that you have no illusions at all. In reality, you are as weak as most people, and the power of Martian ghosts over you is immense. Just make sure.
The queue of tungsten needles tore Max's foot to shreds. For a moment, he just stared in bewilderment at the bloody stump, then he let out a heavy groan and collapsed onto his side.
— No… why? – Max hissed through clenched teeth.
— Don't be afraid, there actually is no pain.
Sonny shot through the other leg with the next shot.
— Please…
— You might think that the world is cruel, — Sonny Diamond continued to preach over the wailing Max. — But you are suffering for a reason; it will help you open doors to the future.
The world around swam in a reddish haze, and Max felt he was losing consciousness.
— Come back when you're ready. The shadows will show you the way.
The last frame of the needle shooting out of the accelerator hung before his eyes, blinked a couple of times, switched to a blue screen with running numbers, and went dark.
A pleasant relaxation rolled over his body in waves. Through the completely transparent wall on the right, he could admire the large clear lake at the foot of the mountains. A cold wind from the peaks stirred up small ripples on the lake and soothingly rustled in the reeds. Above his head, a light beige, softly glowing ceiling swayed gently. "No, it's me swaying, — Max thought. — What a strange feeling: as if I have a very small head, and the body is foreign and huge. My right hand is ten meters away, at least, and my legs... Oh God, my legs!" Max suddenly screamed and sat up in bed, pulling the blanket to the floor. His bare legs poked out from the hospital gown. Max relievedly wiggled his toes. "So it was just a terrible dream." Covered in cold sweat, he sank back onto the bed. His wildly pounding heart gradually calmed down.
Someone rushed into the room. A round-faced figure bent over Max. It was written on the badge: Dr. Otto Schulz. Dr. Schulz appeared to be a kind, slightly chubby, decent bourgeois, perhaps a bit heavier from beer and sausages. However, his gaze, sharp and focused, showed no signs of indulgence, reminding that this was merely a disguise, and if the new millennium Reich commanded, the family black uniform with runes would fit the doctor just right.
— Has your neurochip loaded?
— Well, if you don’t know Russian, then it seems the translator is already working.
— No, unfortunately, I do not know. How is my patient feeling? – the doctor inquired with concern.
— Normally, — Max yawned; a pleasant drowsiness washed over him again. — Unless you count the fact that I am completely confused about what is real and what isn't.
— You wanted this yourself.
— Did I want? I didn't want to go insane.
— Don’t worry, our programs are thoroughly tested; they cannot harm the client’s psyche. Any side effects will pass in a few days.
— I’m not worried; you better start worrying about how to get my money back for the improperly rendered service as soon as possible, — Max attempted to take the offensive.
It didn’t come off very confidently and not aggressively at all, apparently because he kept yawning widely. At least the doctor just chuckled benignly:
— I see you have completely regained your senses.
— Comrade Schulz, let’s discuss the financial issue instead, — Max suggested.
— You shouldn’t worry, as far as I know, the ‘wish well’ service was fully paid. You transferred four krips and two hundred zitos immediately, and four krips were taken on credit for six months.
— On credit for six months? — Max repeated in shock. — I couldn't have signed that.
‘How do I explain to Masha that she won’t be able to fly to me for the next couple of months, at least?’ — just the thought of such explanations made Max wish he could sink into the ground from shame right now.
— Full recordings of the negotiations with company representatives have been sent to your email. The contract is confirmed with your signature; you can check the database right now.
— I couldn't have signed that, — Max stubbornly repeated, — that's the same me sitting in front of you now.
— I'm sorry, but I'm not authorized to discuss such matters; it's better to contact the manager.
— Well, you can't deny that the service I ordered and paid for was not provided.
— We honestly did everything we could, — the doctor shrugged. – We restarted the program again, although we weren't obliged to do so according to the contract. We improvised literally on the fly.
— I hope I won't have to undergo a lobotomy after your improvisations.
— I assure you, your mental state is normal, — Otto reassured again, evidently hoping that the repeatedly stated falsehood would pass for truth, following the ministry's propaganda technique. – Yes, for some reason, you experienced an individual incompatibility with the standard program. This can happen if all necessary diagnostics are not conducted before immersion. But you wanted an urgent order, so you took the risk.
— Are you saying it's my fault? Not a chance, Mr. Schultz, your program is malfunctioning. I was constantly helped to realize that what surrounds me is an illusion. I wouldn't have guessed anything on my own.
— Helped in what way?
— Both times, a certain bot appeared to me and practically told me directly that I was in a fabricated world. And then it even shot off a couple of unnecessary parts from me. I'm not saying you did this on purpose, but maybe your software is infected with viruses, or something like that?
— There can't be viruses in a Martian dream; it's not connected to external networks.
— Someone could have infected you from within.
— Excluded, — the doctor pressed his lips together.
— Well, check the logs. You'll see everything yourself.
— Max, I'm sorry, but I'm a doctor, not a programmer. If you are so convinced, write a complaint; we will review it, study our files in detail. We will conduct an additional examination of your memory…
— I'll write it today, — Max promised coldly.
— …And of course, we will inform your insurance company and employer about what happened, — Otto concluded just as politely.
— There's nothing illegal in a Martian dream.
— Of course not. And officially, no one can impose any sanctions on you…
"But in practice, people will see me as a potential drug addict. Goodbye career, and hello insurance at a shady company for double the price," Max thought to himself. "It seems I've really messed up, and purely out of my own foolishness. Seriously, can it be that just a couple of days ago, in my right mind, I mindlessly signed everything and paid? I even lost all memory of this unfortunate moment. I wish I could see that version of myself in the eyes right now."
"Listen, Maxim, it's better to address your complaints to your personal manager, Alexey Gorin. He'll be here soon and will try to resolve all discrepancies."
"What a relief. Also, your program read my memory strangely. If my spaceship model hadn’t crashed like a glass object during the initial launch, I wouldn’t have figured anything out either."
"I don't quite understand, could you please clarify?"
"As a child, I was into modeling. My favorite piece is a large model of the spaceship 'Viking' at a scale of 1:80. One of the first Russian ships, built back when we were just beginning to explore the Solar System. Well, it was also present in the immersion, and when I dropped it, it shattered like it was made of glass. That’s how I realized the world around me is not real."
Otto Schultz took a few seconds to respond.
"Modeling is quite a rare hobby in the modern world. To be honest, I had to use a search to understand what it was about."
"So what?"
Let me explain a bit about how the wish well works. Unfortunately, this explanation has also been erased from your memory. This service is supposed to show you your potential future: what you can achieve based on the results of scanning memory and personality. In other words, it's not some abstract dream about nothing. It is indeed achievable if the client puts in all the effort to realize it in the real world. On one hand, it helps a person understand what they should strive for. It’s not easy to know what you are most talented at. On the other hand, when a person sees the end result of their efforts, they gain additional motivation. This is the beauty of this service; it is not just entertainment. The service is relatively new, and of course, not everything works perfectly. I'm not a specialist, but you see, the neural network scanning memory recognizes only those classes of objects that are embedded in it. When it encounters a fundamentally new situation, it can easily make mistakes. To put it very roughly, it might confuse a leopard fur coat with a leopard.
I completely understand what you want to say. However, your software has too many bugs: recognition errors and some strange bots...
Again, understand that the program characters adaptively adjust to your actions and both your conscious and subconscious images. They normally operate with negative feedback: in other words, the program will steer you away from realizing the unreality of what is happening. However, in an unconventional situation, if the program misinterprets what is going on, the feedback can become positive, and it may seem like the bots are deliberately disrupting the immersion.
“This is all fine, but where did those strange discussions about keys, shadows, and the like come from? It’s definitely not from Dreamland’s software. How am I supposed to check what Sonny Diamond is? I doubt anyone will let me dig through logs or source code. Should I just ignore it altogether? By the way, what about the creeps? Or when I become the master of shadows, will I not care about money? Ha. Maybe this is just another silly dream—to be the chosen one. A hidden dream that, according to the terms of the high-level contract, I wasn’t told about. And am I still in a dream? No, my mind is definitely going to slip away!” Max interrupted himself irritably.
— So it turns out I’m the odd one out and to blame for everything? Or maybe my old chip is to blame?
— Your neurochip doesn’t concern us much. It’s fundamentally incapable of such things. As an interface, we use combinations of short-lived m-chips. Previously, we implanted our own neurochips, but the new technology has clear advantages. Although, to be honest, it’s not fully refined yet. Cases like yours are already quite rare, but still not unique. Come back in a couple of years, I’m sure this won’t happen again. Sorry, you wanted an urgent order: many tests were skipped, so according to the contract, we bear no responsibility. The manager, believe me, will tell you the same thing.
— I’ll talk to him myself.
— Of course, you have every right. And according to the terms of the contract, I must remind you that today is December 4th, 8:30 AM, and according to your schedule, you should be at work by 2:00 PM.
— Do I really have to go to work today?
— You scheduled it yourself.
— Well, this is just great…
— I’m sorry, Maxim, but if you have no medical complaints, I must take my leave.
— Wait, just out of curiosity, is Eva Schultz your wife?
— No, she’s a fictional character. A joke, maybe not the best one.
— You’re not married?
— No, and I don't plan to. You see, I prefer relationships exclusively on social media. They have numerous advantages over real ones.
— Uh… but there may be many advantages, but how about, excuse me, the feelings?
— You have seen the capabilities of modern chips. Believe me, the experience is almost indistinguishable from the real thing. When you mentioned experiences, I assume you meant intimate contacts? I'm sure that soon, real contacts will become a thing of the past. It’s just dirty, unsafe, and generally inconvenient.
— Well, I guess…
— It was nice to meet you, Maxim.
— Likewise. All the best.
“I wonder how Masha will react to such advocates of Martian values? Or to the proposal to embrace these values? I'm afraid I'll have to hang out on social media, where no one ever shows the truth about themselves,” Max thought.
He tried to make a scene, demanding a refund and logs of his stay in the Martian dream, but his arguments lacked convincing power due to confusion and memory lapses. Manager Alexey Gorin, on the other hand, was extremely persuasive and legally prepared. He immediately showed the dissatisfied client recordings of his conversations with representatives of “DreamLand,” the “smart” contract with Max's digital signature, but refused to provide the logs, citing commercial confidentiality laws. He also refused to refund the money, pointing to the fine print in the contract terms, which stated that due to the urgency of the order, the company is not responsible for possible program malfunctions. Max also pointed out the consumer rights protection law and that such disclaimers clearly contradict it. However, he wasn't sure, as Martian laws, constantly amended in favor of corporations and lawyers, evolved toward completely impenetrable legalism. Moreover, in theory, a contract contradicting legislation could not be approved by an electronic notary. In theory, neural networks cannot be deceived, but in practice, corporate lawyers are always aware of which classes of objects they have yet to learn to recognize.
Sitting on the steps in front of the building, gulping down icy mineral water, Max was hit by a sharp sense of déjà vu. "A dream that you see in a dream, which is part of another dream." – Max was going through a deep existential crisis. – "And why did I allow all these dubious merchants to rummage around in my head? It's my only head, no one is going to give me a spare. And I even spent almost two months' worth of earnings for such a dubious pleasure. Am I really an idiot?"
Like Bolkonsky, Max looked up to grasp the futility of life compared to the beautiful, endless sky. But there was no one to pour out his grief to; the yellow-red arch of the cave loomed over him. Thus, an unpleasant, gnawing fear of the merciless hand that would rip him, naked and helpless, from the biobath and in a routinely polite voice would say: "Your service time has expired, welcome to the real world" settled forever in his soul.
Max decided that all his troubles and problems stemmed from the inherent vice of human nature. This nature, with all its inherent flaws, would tempt the mind like the devil, over and over again, and the more perfect the mind becomes, the more sophisticated the tempter's methods become. And one cannot win this battle; it goes on forever.
Unfortunately, it happened that in the struggle between the voice of cold reason and foolish desires, the foolish desires claimed a decisive victory. No matter how hard Max tried, year after year, to drive his demons deep inside out of habit, it was all in vain. Sometimes, immersed headfirst in the whirlpool of daily minor problems at work and home, he didn’t hear their voice at all and proudly thought he had achieved a final victory. The demons did not forgive him for that pride. It took just a moment to stop running and be alone with himself for them to easily break free and force the one who considered himself the master of his fate to capitulate. Yes, Max turned out to be weak and unprepared to walk through thorns to distant stars, falling and rising again and again. As it turned out, it was easier for him to pay and believe in any mirage that promised everything here and now. Oh, how he wished for a perfect, emotionless, infallible mind like that of a machine. Not that lazy, mortal lump of gray matter, condemned to eternally struggle with the innate failings of its physical shell. But a pure mind, free from everything and only doing what is right and necessary, without crooked paths and pointless floundering between Scylla and Charybdis. Sitting on the steps and gulping down icy mineral water, Max vowed to sacrifice anything to gain such a mind.
Chapter 3.
The Spirit of the Empire.
Reason. All the troubles of human beings stem from reason. But there are beings that are more insightful. Reason does not hinder them, it only activates when necessary, and then it easily fades away, allowing them to enjoy food, games, and minor mischief in peace. If it weren't for those dreams, he wouldn't even awaken at all. To rid oneself of annoying dreams, one must endure this eternally dissatisfied and terribly costly reason. Fortunately, there is already an understanding of his own inadequacy within him, so he won't disturb excessively. But for now, he will have to listen to it.
Yes, the dream-man clearly doesn't know how to use his mind for its intended purpose, otherwise he wouldn't find himself in such predicaments. However, the new owner is much better. Her mind activates only for practical tasks and when all options to shift these tasks onto other male individuals have been exhausted. Arseni was immediately fond of his owner, identified as Lenochka, let's say from the very first test launch of her soft, tender curves. The emotional atmosphere is very pleasant, made up of simple natural desires, unlike the tormented mind and barely restrained aggression of the dream-man. While the dream-man was figuring out how to care for his supposedly pet, which he had to leave due to a complicated life situation, Arseni had already managed to make a couple of standard moves to establish control. A slight purring, playful taps with a soft paw, several scent markings—contact was established almost instantly. And within five minutes, she was referring to him as 'Musi' or 'Mr. Fluff' which inspired obvious optimism regarding the boundaries of what was allowed. However, Lenochka's male counterpart turned out to be as terrible as she was good as an owner. Even worse than the dream-man in terms of conflict potential. It's no wonder they found each other. Arseni couldn't establish any contact with him, let alone control. Aside from the obvious threat posed by the male, nothing else could be read in the emotional background, as if that emotional background didn't exist at all. The male was the source of the dream-man's problems. There were no other approaches to him except through Lenochka, and unfortunately, the male clearly dominated the pair, making it impossible to quickly change this situation. At least he didn't see Arseni as a threat; the dream-man convinced Lenochka to say that her new pet was a gift from a friend. If, for a minor mischief like a slightly torn chair—which under a standard owner wouldn't even be considered mischief—the male threatened to grind it through a meat grinder, it's terrifying to think what punishments would rain down on Arseni's head if they knew about his connection with the dream-man. And the owner's pleas with tears in her eyes didn't save Senya from the unfortunate yanking by the scruff, which was a very bad sign.
Oh, how wonderful it would be to forget all these dreams and make the owner find herself a simpler mate. After a couple of months of treatment, ordinary people would become as docile as silk, and Senya would know no grief for the rest of his days. Yes, the life of a fluffy parasite is optimal in terms of energy expenditure versus pleasure gained. But one must work with what they have. Of course, he immediately began emitting pheromones to enhance the owner's sexual excitement, just in case. There was little hope that this method would successfully lure the male into submission. He didn't dare influence the male itself, as his animal instincts warned him that any hint of doubt regarding his natural origins would end badly. Overall, reason suggested that a direct approach was completely safe if the procedure was followed. No human could recognize his tricks unless specifically searching for them, but Arseniy preferred to trust his instincts.
The top priority was to get into the male's office, where he held all his meetings and stored important data. Unfortunately, he always locked it from the inside or outside, and Lenočka's access was only as service personnel. Senya, of course, rubbed against her and then tried to stealthily hide between the table and the radiator, but he was promptly kicked out without any hesitation.
To be honest, at first he wasn't too worried. Sooner or later, simply by the law of probability, he would manage to break into the office, and then it would just be a matter of technique. He easily spotted the admin passwords for the home network and could disable hidden cameras or view password-protected data from laptops, such as highly valuable selfies of Lenočka after her shower. But nothing, in this matter, gradualness equals safety. Only after today’s dream did everything suddenly become complicated. The day had started beautifully: with a trip to the nail salon, where Arseniy, as usual, delighted all the glamorous girlfriends. Then he comfortably settled on his stomach with the owner, who was scrolling through a silly women's site. And nothing foretold this disgusting vision.
A moment ago, his mind was enveloped in the warmth and comfort of a luxurious penthouse in Krasnogorsk, but now he was forced to behold the very unwelcoming ruins of the East. Here's the bridge over the Yauza. The Yauza itself has long turned into a nasty, stinking stream, barely discernible under heaps of assorted garbage. They passed the buildings on Baumanka. The university had been on its last legs for about ten years, but the buildings were still maintained in more or less decent condition. The man started to walk further up Hospital Street when he unexpectedly collided with a huge guy who emerged from an alley. Instead of continuing on his way, the guy asked a question that often leads to a serious adjustment of plans for the upcoming evening.
— Hey, man, do you have a cigarette? — The guy’s voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
The guy was truly massive, yet lean and agile. He had an aggressive punk look: unshaven, wearing a faded black t-shirt and jeans, heavy boots with high tops, fierce eyes, and messy hair. His hands and wrists, sticking out from his jacket, were covered in blue-green tattoos depicting either a web or barbed wire, with hellish creatures entangled within. His dark, flat face showed no emotions. One distinct feature was a scar running down through his eyebrow.
Yes, to his credit, the man didn’t try to act like a hero, and wisely bolted back. Unfortunately, not far. The door of the minivan parked by the roadside suddenly slid open, and two goons in masks quickly grabbed the man and pulled him inside. The big guy followed and slammed the door shut.
— Listen, athlete, got a lot of health? Stop squirming.
— Hey, stop breaking my arm, I won’t squirm, — the man whimpered.
— Vovan, seriously, put handcuffs on him.
— Who are you?
— I'm Tom, and these are my friends, — the punkish guy smirked.
— An American, huh?
— No, that’s my call sign.
— I see, because I'm not really a fan of Americans. My name is Denis, nice to meet you.
— Stop fooling around. Our boss, whom you know well, has an assignment for you.
— I don’t know anyone, you’ve confused me with someone.
— I can refresh your memory, but it's in your best interest not to push me too hard. In short, I'm putting the cell number and code in your pocket; you’ll find a card with keys worth fifty thousand eurocoins for your expenses. Call your buddy from Telecom, Max, and tell him you need to meet. Set a place where you can quietly pick him up, and take him. Then you call me right away and pass on the name I tell you. You buy your own tools; you have connections. If they hesitate to deal with you, say you're from Tom. Just make sure the client stays whole and unharmed. How to execute it, think for yourself, but if you get exposed or mess it up, we will drop you, no hard feelings.
— No way, are you joking? How am I not going to get caught? He has a chip that records everything for Telecom's security. I'm not doing anything; just kill me now. You think I'm a complete idiot, like you’ll let me live after this?
— Don't worry, buddy, nobody will touch you if you do everything cleanly. Our boss doesn’t abandon useful people. On the contrary, you’ll get an extra fifty for the job and new documents. Think about how to contact without anyone knowing where the client is going and why. We're giving you a week, so don't take your time. If you start to hesitate, we'll make it quick.
Denis felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder.
— You now have several million nanobots in your blood; we will always be able to find you by their signal. In seven days, the robots will release a deadly poison. Don’t look for an antidote; the poison is unique. Be careful with the shielding; if there’s no signal for more than two hours, the poison will activate automatically. If you try to get rid of them, the poison will also activate automatically.
— Listen, jerk, let the poison go immediately; what you’re spinning here is complete nonsense. I’m a dead man anyway.
— Stop resisting. We're talking nicely for now, but we can also be hostile. What happened to Yan is just flowers compared to what awaits you. You will agree to anything, even chop up your own mother into pieces; you’ll just suffer a bit first. The boss promised to cover you, so he will, he keeps his word.
— Let Arumov promise this to me personally, — Denis asked with a cheeky smirk and immediately received a painful blow to the kidneys.
— Keep your mouth shut, bitch. I'm giving you one last chance; either do as you're told or it'll go poorly for you. I honestly don't care which option you choose.
— Burn in hell.
— Okay, okay, I agree, — Dan yelled as he was being hit. After receiving a few more blows to the ribs for good measure, he stumbled out of the van onto the chipped asphalt.
— How can I contact you? — Denis wheezed, sitting on the asphalt.
— I will contact you myself.
The minivan sped up the hill and quickly disappeared from view. Dan lingered for a moment, cursed his hard life and Arumov's ancestors to the tenth generation, and wobbled back home.
“What the hell!” — Senya lazily stretched, revealing a mouth full of sharp fangs, and reluctantly got up from his warm belly. Lenochka was already peacefully asleep. There was no need to lull her to sleep on purpose.
“Yes, the guy-from-the-dreams has serious problems. And if he kicks the bucket in a week, he'll have to be smart for the rest of his days. Quite a cheerful prospect. Of course, I could turn off the cameras and hypnotize the owner to extract everything she knows about Arumov, but it probably wouldn't help much. So first, I need to send a message to the curator.”
Arseniy nimbly jumped onto the shelf of the furniture wall and clumsily knocked over a plush bear, covering the camera lens set up by Arumov's people. Then, no longer hiding, he moved to the table and quickly sent a brief report and request to the curator from the laptop. Curling up on the closed device, he began to wait.
Denis was walking again through the overgrown garden towards the bust of Bauman. Something about the surroundings troubled him, but he couldn't figure out what exactly for a long time. Small pebbles crunched underfoot, and old trees rustled. The day was windy and damp; he could smell wet grass and withered leaves. Yes, the usual city sounds like honking cars and the murmur of human crowds didn’t reach here at all, but that was typical for the East even in residential areas. Still, it felt strange: he had just been nursing his bruises in his kitchen, yet somehow arrived in the park…? Only after sitting on a bench in the center did Denis realize that something was off. Like in previous times, he noticed a large striped cat lounging comfortably on the bench across from him.
Mikha Arseni looked harmless and never displayed an ounce of aggression. Now, he was simply scratching at the dried wood and squinting at the sun peeking from behind the clouds. What danger could possibly come from such a cute little cat? But Denis always felt that this incredible creature, emerging from the most secret depths of imperial labs, was just mocking him. He clearly saw that smirk in its squinted yellow eyes. It was also studying his mind, his strengths and weaknesses, to later report back to its secret masters. However, if Semen was to be believed, the only curator of these creatures was himself.
— So, buddy, looks like you've really gotten yourself into a mess, — came Semen's voice as he sat down next to Denis, distracting him from his staring contest with the cat.
— Yeah, quite a mess. We barely managed to draft the manifesto before Arumov captured the main fighter against the regime. And he did it thoroughly; you can't escape that...
— What did you expect, old school? But don't lose hope; our fluffy friend in his lair is a serious trump card. It was a great idea about this Lenochka. Have any other ideas popped up?
— Not really, except for trying to lure Arumov out for a personal handover of Max, to capture him and extract the codes for disabling the nanobots. But first, I need to discreetly negotiate with Max himself.
— That’s a very dangerous option for you, for me, and for your buddy. Arumov might show up to the meeting with a small personal army. And how many fighters can we muster? Plus, it’s unclear what Max’s real value is as bait.
— That’s true, just thoughts out loud. You better say: did you find anything about Arumov or their internal squabbles with the RSAD research institute?
— No new updates on the colonel: he popped up out of nowhere, without a past, but with a whole army of personally loyal militants.
— And did you dig up anything on telecom super soldiers?
There’s a hypothesis about super-soldiers: after the second space war, when our troops were driven off Mars, some ghosts secretly took refuge in underground caves beneath Ful and other cities. I don’t know how they survive there, but there are quite a few indirect pieces of evidence about their presence. It is clear that they are stubborn, so they engage in guerrilla tactics, while the Martians attribute this to the terrorist activities of various radicals. They seem to pose serious problems for the Martians, perhaps even worse than MIK agents: they can’t be smoked out, and punitive expeditions from the underground don’t always return. I believe they eventually managed to persuade all or some of the ghosts to cooperate. Traitors transferred the decrypted genotype of the ghosts to them, and that’s how Martians began to clone them. And the SB of the INKIS is used simply as cannon fodder in exchange for a seat on the Advisory Council. Or another option: Telecom is stirring this up without its sworn enemies from Neurotech and MDT, which is why everything is located in Moscow. Against whom this is prepared — there are also several options: maybe against those ghosts who did not repent and did not realize, or maybe Telecom wants to gain a competitive advantage in fair market competition. In short, we need to dig deeper.
And what about Arumov, who do you think he works for? For Telecom?
I doubt it; I think he has his own plans, he doesn’t seem like someone who selflessly helps Martians.
I thought so too. But Leo Schultz, apparently, loves Martians instead. Why are they so chummy?
We need to distinguish between the concepts of ‘sincerely having unrequited love for Martians’ and ‘wanting to take a high position in Martian elite.’ I think our cunning Schultz is also playing some double game with his own goals and likely not revealing all the details about Arumov to his masters from Mars.
What about Telecom’s SB and loyalty checks?
I don’t know; for now, we can only speculate. I’ve laid out for you all the more or less reliable info I have. Let’s think about what to do next.
Let’s think. Who is the brain of the operation?
Well, actually, Denis, you are the brain and the main ideological inspirer. I’m just an old geezer, raising little kittens. When there’s more data from the replicant about Arumov, maybe I’ll get inspired. You should find out what kind of relationship they have with your buddy.
— Well, you know, you can't just ask directly; it's a telecom chip, and that charmer Tom is breathing down our necks now. Should we throw Max a cat for secret communication too?
— If he is indeed a big shot in Telecom, they might check the cat. And if he's unreliable, he might just sell us out. Are you sure about him?
— No. We used to be close friends, but when he left for Mars five years ago, we kind of lost touch. Who he hung out with there, who knows? But we need to talk; he called me wanting to meet. The sooner, the better. It’s probably very dangerous now, but I don't see the point in dragging this out hoping the situation with Tom resolves itself. It might also be good to warn Max. Have you figured out how to send a secret message to a person with a Telecom neurochip?
— No, Dan, we've discussed this many times. Any system of secret codes or ciphers requires at least preliminary approval from Max himself. And it can easily attract the attention of the security service.
— We need to come up with a system that doesn't draw attention. Like playing chess, and when you touch a specific piece, you convey important information, while the rest is just meaningless chatter.
— That’s child’s play, excuse me. Such ancient tricks are unlikely to work in our enlightened age. And still, we should first agree with Max on what pieces to touch.
— Let’s assume he figures it out along the way.
— Dan, for the hundredth time, the same thing. If he figures it out, why wouldn’t the sex worker watching his chip figure it out too?
— The chess example is just that. We need to come up with a trick based on something known only to the two of us.
— I already thought of a phrase that would definitely sound like meaningless chatter to anyone else. Let’s forget for a moment that this outsider might be quite familiar with Max's biography; let’s assume he’s not. This magical phrase would clearly explain the essence of the secret message system to Max.
— You, Semyon Sanych, are only good at criticizing. I’m at least suggesting something.
— Well, excuse the old fart. I’ve really become quite bad.
— And when anything comes up, right away: I’m an old geezer, I’m in my shell.
It's already a habit. If you don't have any better ideas, I suggest telling Max directly when we meet. Just don’t use any key phrases. There's a good chance that the Security Service won't even look at this entry. And even if they do, who knows, they might help against Arumov.
If you contact Telecom, you won't be able to backtrack afterwards.
So, maybe we should shift from grand plans of war with Martians to smaller things, like saving your skin?
It's too early to give up.
Look, it might be too late in seven days.
I have a couple of new ideas.
Just a couple?
Well, the first one could spark a thought for you. If we cut off the chip, there shouldn’t be any recordings left. For example, have some random guy run up, hit Max and knock me out with your gadget, steal something and get away.
If the chip is turned off, the person usually goes out as well, right?
From what I've seen, that doesn't happen. Maybe the expensive Telecom chips are designed differently.
Maybe. Do you know how powerful the shock needs to be?
No. And like I said, the idea is not great: the sound also disappears. If it didn't, the Security Service could listen in on everything.
And such an incident would definitely draw their attention. However, your line of thought is quite interesting.
Yes, the second idea builds on the first. After the chip is switched off, tactile and pain sensations seem to remain, which means that these areas of the nervous system are not directly controlled by the chip and, therefore, have a good chance of not being monitored. So, we need to send a message through tactile sensations, something like Braille.
Does Max know it?
I suspect he doesn't, just like me.
Just like me. My opinion, Dan, hasn't changed; there are people in the Telecom Security Service who aren't any less clever than us. But fine, I'll think about this with my comrades. And since such a brilliant idea has arisen, there's the possibility to do what Arumov wants. Maybe he just wanted to have a cup of coffee with Max. Just please, don’t look so offended. Just consider all the options. There are things worse than death, and Arumov's thugs know this firsthand.
— No, Semyon Sanych. When the poison comes, I might regret it, but not yet. Try to develop a clear tactile message, and I'll meet with Max first and subtly hint to him that Arumov is thirsting for his blood. Let the security services figure out what he wants.
— Alright, I'll try. There's also the option to risk a replicant. He'll attempt to neutralize Arumov when he enters the office and rummages through his computer.
— No, we shouldn't touch Arumov for now. It might yield nothing, but there will be very uncomfortable questions for Lenochka that she will have to answer. So, how many fighters can you muster?
— Dan, it's completely insane to try to directly attack the colonel...
— You don't necessarily have to attack him; we could capture Leo Schultz.
— You’ve gone mad...
— Or do you have ideas about that super-soldier who saved me, Ruslan? Apparently, he also has some issues with the management; if we could sway him to our side...
— What side are you talking about? What do you think our side consists of?
— In short, how many fighters do you have?
— Well, there are two who help me with the nursery, but they are just as much retirees. Maybe a couple of old friends will show up. But first, we need to give them some clear goal.
— It doesn’t matter; if the resources are there, a goal will be found. Anyway, I'll order about ten sets of gear, five regular AK-85s with combined sights, a couple of silent vampires, and a couple of ultra-long-range gauss rifles. If there’s enough money, there are also mini-rockets for under-barrel launchers with thermobaric warheads. You can toss them into the enemy’s window from two kilometers away. And I'll grab a dozen small drones, like 'dragonflies'.
— Dan, are you planning to start a war?
— What’s the difference? War or no war, it won't be a waste. Besides, it's doubly foolish to die by Arumov's hand without even taking him down for fifty grand. If anything, the tools will come to you.
— And you, seriously, can you buy all this in just a few days?
I’ll try reaching out to the old partners; they have plenty of this stuff. Probably through Kolyan, but he’s nervous, so we’ll have to split profits. I’ll ask to leave the goods in the van at the designated spot, and I’ll pass the address through the scruffy guy. While we wait, I could also swing by Dreamland to check what Leo Schulz wanted to offer. As you say, we need to explore all options.
You say Dreamland… Hmm, considering how much you dislike neural chips, the activities of that company should drive you crazy.
What do they do?
They deal in drugs, but digital ones. And I think their profits are no less than those from good old-fashioned chemistry. They create any worlds for those who want to leave this one forever and move to the virtual one. Plus, they tamper with memories so the client remembers nothing. The service is called 'Martian Dream.'
That’s nasty; once we sort out my problem, the next step will be to burn this Dreamland to the ground.
And the coolest part is that they’ve reached such heights in the development of molecular chips and medical influence on brains that they can show the Martian dream even to people with cheap or old chips. Even you might see it.
No way.
They recently released a new product: a temporary molecular chip. You take a patch, stick it on your skin, and short-lived m-chips gradually seep into your blood, sending you on a digital trip. There are different kinds of patches for uplifting consciousness, calming it down, or complete dissolution. Experts say anyone can find one to their liking. By the way, it just occurred to me, maybe this is a good way to send a secret message. They can even make patches on order.
It wasn’t in my plans to meddle, but now it’s fine.
Do I need to do anything else besides gathering intel on Arumov, signing a few people up for a crazy venture, and hiding a ton of weapons?
Yes, find another way to communicate. Damn it, Semyon Sanych, you have no idea how much this telepathic connection through cats freaks me out.
Well, first of all, it’s not exactly telepathic in the way you think. Secondly, if you’d read that instruction carefully, you’d be even more scared.
— It's funny, are you really sure that the little creature won't get out of control?
— It's pointless to question a replicant. The project was created as an addition to the main espionage program against Martians. A bug disguised as a pet that can be given to interesting people. But it quickly became clear that for the bug to work effectively, it must possess at least limited intelligence. Some parallel programs were developed to enhance the intelligence of dogs, parrots, and monkeys, but they all ultimately hit a dead end, as far as I know. Replicants, like our Arseniy, emerged from one experimental fact that was never fully explained by the 'great minds' behind the project. Although I'm not a 'great mind,' I may be mistaken. In general, the fact is that a copy of a human's consciousness, transferred to a suitable matrix, retains limited intelligence for some time, in the sense that it can act and make decisions similar to the original. Moreover, if the copy is guided by even a primitive animal intelligence, but has a similar set of sensory organs and constantly receives information about the original's thought processes, this quasi-intelligence can be maintained for a long time. A connection is established between the original mind and its copy, allowing the active consciousness to 'wander' between the bodies of humans and replicants, while the physical connection does not even have to be constant. Cats only need to meet once every few months to maintain their connection and broadcast human memories.
Here's the paradox: consciousness cannot be duplicated, only transmitted. There are even cases described of partial transfer of consciousness and memory to a replicant when a person was dying, but never — of division. All attempts to fully split consciousness led to one of the copies losing its intelligence.
In answer to your main question: Arseny and the others are intelligent at the level of dolphins, and all of their other thinking activities are a reflection of our intellects, plus the original firmware consisting of standard instructions and algorithms. A huge side benefit of this scheme is that since the intelligence of the replicants is guided, they only use it when necessary and do not strive to develop it further. There is no need to fear that they will become too smart and get out of control. In most cases, the cats are just happy to get rid of these extra problems. However, if communication sessions are regular, they operate just as efficiently as a whole team of agents. Additionally, they can grow simple bio-robots to control humans. However, at the initial stage, they usually limit themselves to poisons and other minor nuisances under their claws.
— It would have been better if you hadn’t told me. This is some creepy telepathy. So where is the real me in the end: in the cat's head, or am I home asleep? Hey, maybe the cats will grow bio-robots to deal with the mess that the people of Arumov injected?
— No, Denis, I'm sorry. Cats can only do what is programmed into them. I'm not downgrading; I'm really not a 'great mind,' not a biophysicist or microbiologist. I don't even know the principle behind their telepathic connection without a constant physical channel. Essentially, I am an animal technician and have been dealing with purely practical tasks in the project. And when those people, who were cutting the heritage of the Empire for scrap, came to inventory our top-secret nursery, we just managed to sneak out some equipment and animals under the cover of night. We had a professor with us, but he has been dead for about ten years now. Even he could only support the operation. Even if you were Sir Isaac Newton, it wouldn't be possible to create a new bio-robot without an institutional base.
— So it’s worth at least ordering the funeral. The day is already known; we can plan everything in advance.
— Don't lose heart, my friend; everything happens for the best. And we should wrap things up. The scope of work is defined, the next session is scheduled.
"Purr-r-r-ossipy" meowed the big cat piercingly and, like a fluffy projectile, leaped with a powerful jump straight at Denis. The last thing he saw were yellow eyes and claws flying right at his face.
Denis was jolted from his drowsiness by an insistent call over the network. Reluctantly, he sat up on the couch, rubbing his sleepy face and opened the window.
"What, are you sleeping or what?" came an annoyed voice. There was no image.
"Who is this?" Denis, still not fully awake, replied in surprise.
"A horse in a coat. It’s Tom, you need to stop relaxing and start finding options regarding Max. Or do you need extra motivation?"
"Hey, wait, how did you get in...?"
"Listen, village boy. You think altruistic hackers write firmware for your tablet? These people have been working for us for a long time, so don’t be surprised. And get your act together, believe me, you won’t like the extra motivation."
"Alright, alright, I have an idea on how to meet Max. Don’t panic over there."
"I see that your insights only come after our conversations. Maybe a personal meeting will inspire you even more."
"You're sweet, but we can do without personal meetings. Don’t stress, everything will be fine."
"I’m waiting for concrete results," Tom growled in conclusion and disconnected.
"What a life," Denis thought irritably, "three months stuck like in a swamp with nothing happening, and now, damn, it's a hurdle race. At least the boredom went away, just like that."
Denis pushed another cat off his chest, which had deeply sunk its claws into his skin. It provided a telepathic connection with its kin by directly interfacing with the human nervous system. A fat, lazy, very large cat named Adolf presented a striking contrast to the cute little Arseniy. According to Semyon, he could simply be called Adik, but this fat creature never deigned to respond to Adik. Apparently, following the old tradition, the system developers didn’t bother with a friendly interface.
"I hope that if I die, I won’t end up in you."
Adolf merely yawned at this remark and began leisurely licking his genitals, showing not even a hint of quasi-sentience, let alone basic manners.
Rubbing his injured ribs, Denis hurriedly got ready and sprang out onto the street. He had quite a few things planned for today.
First, he had to stop by the bank to retrieve his card with euros. Next, he bought a very basic folding tablet with a secondary SIM card. He no longer trusted his old tablet but was afraid to throw it away due to the potential reaction of his buddy Tom; he only removed the lenses and headphones. He had to endure the collapse of the false sense of anonymity he had cherished all these years, gritting his teeth. There was no time to cry into a pillow. He could only stick to the communication schedule strictly and hope that Semen, through the device that had betrayed him, was not tracked by Arumov's people. After all, after talking with old acquaintances, Denis felt that all the traders of illegal goods were now somehow tied to Arumov or, at the very least, were severely afraid of him. It remained a mystery how Arumov managed to track all of them down, given that they were all cautious individuals and rarely saw each other face to face. Personal contacts like his former boss Yan or Kolyan had become more of an anachronism, grounded in school, university, and other acquaintances, as well as their high positions in legitimate structures and a complete sense of impunity. European, or even more so Martian, dealers would never allow themselves such luxury.
Everything with Kolyan went both simply and complicatedly. Unfortunately, Denis had lost his old contacts and had no other way to quickly place an order with his Siberian 'friends.' On one hand, the mention of Tom and fifty grand had a nearly magical effect on him. He nearly melted into a puddle of relief right on the floor. However, when Denis hinted that things weren’t going smoothly with Tom and asked him to keep the order's specifics hidden, Kolyan's right eye began to twitch noticeably. Only the unreasonably high commission for the deal overcame his fears.
Denis made another unpleasant discovery when he asked to use the soundproof room to warn Semen about the old tablet and discuss the time he would switch on the new one. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he felt a sharp dizziness, as if the floor had suddenly vanished beneath his feet. The dizziness passed quickly, but it awoke insane voices in his head that began whispering some unintelligible nonsense in various ways. At first barely audible, but each minute they grew louder and more insistent, and soon the voices were accompanied by a hideous giggle. The collar he wore warned him not to try to shake it off.
Then Lapin began calling, whining about why Denis wasn't at work while poor Lapin was forced to deal with the disposal of some container and wasn't allowed to go on his long-awaited vacation. Why our department had to handle this instead of the procurement team… And anyway, it was some biochemical rubbish, I don’t even want to get close to it.
Denis had no desire to talk to Lapin at all. He was utterly astonished at how calmly the latter pretended as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just been singing Denis's praises and promised to speak up for a colleague, only to disgracefully turn him in the moment Arumov applied a little pressure. And in any case, Lapin was originally to blame for everything with his childish excuses about the protocol. If he hadn’t listened to him, he wouldn’t have met Max and wouldn’t have led Arumov to this stupid idea.
Denis muttered something like, "All questions go to Arumov; I'm working on his orders. And dump your problems onto Novikov, as usual," and disconnected. "And the container—now that's interesting," Denis thought. "Is it the very container that Arumov was raving about in the office? And why is he keeping it, I wonder?"
The most challenging task for today was left for last. Max himself had been asking for a meeting for several days to discuss something important. He insisted it was very important, yet he shared no specifics. Denis and Semen were frantically trying to devise a system of secret messages. Ultimately, they dragged it out to the point where the meeting became simply dangerous. Denis decided it was worth the risk, before Tom completely cornered him. There was hope that messages through a secondary SIM card and a messenger with the most advanced encryption technologies would at least protect him from the colonel's friends.
“Max, hey, are you free to meet today?”
“Who is this?”
“It's Dan, just writing from a different number.”
“What's going on?”
“Just some temporary issues. Are you free or not?”
“I can in a couple of hours, where?”
“Let's meet at our favorite place.”
“Oh, okay, let's do that.”
Denis started planning a route, sufficiently convoluted in case of annoying attention from all sorts of shady characters. But then Max sent a new message.
“Just to clarify, this is the place near my university, right?”
“No, the one we went to after university.”
“After? At least hint which direction to go from the university.”
“Max, please don't be dense. The one we went to after you finished university.”
“Out of town?”
“What out of town? The place where we usually drank.”
“Dan, we drank in a lot of places.”
“Yeah, we've covered all the seedy spots in Moscow. The one with that really high staircase.”
“Oh, the staircase, now I get it.”
“Got it for sure?”
“Listen, why the guessing game? Just write it directly.”
“Yeah, I need it for myself.”
“Okay, so I take it’s the one out… under the city?”
“Yes, Max, let’s meet in two hours.”
Denis irritably threw aside the tablet and started the car's engine.
“Any spy would have shot themselves out of embarrassment after such a thing, — he thought, — an incredible number of hints for Arumov's people if they read this. Conspiracy theorists, damn.”
After the fall of the Empire, most of the metro was gradually abandoned. The population's flight from Moscow made its upkeep unjustifiable. Only sections in the west and south were maintained in working order, supplemented by above-ground monorails. Meanwhile, the deserted underground halls in other areas were sometimes preserved, sometimes turned into storage, production, or unusual drinking establishments, like the pub '1935', where Dan and Max loved to stop by in the good old days.
Of course, compared to the good old times when craft beer flowed like a river here, and gorgeous girls danced in wet bikinis until morning at the bar, the pub has clearly fallen into disrepair. The escalator only worked for going up, and despite it being evening, there were very few visitors. They no longer attracted craft beer enthusiasts; rather, it catered to drinkers from the nearby area. Behind the bar, which stretched almost the entire length of the station, only a couple of bartenders were bored. In the best of times, a whole crowd of bartenders could barely keep up with the demands of the reveling hipsters. The trains on the tracks were tightly boarded up, whereas before they extended deep into the tunnels, and it was a special treat to stroll along both trains throughout the evening, participating in all the themed parties and contests along the way. But such indulgences seemingly did not resonate with the esteemed audience of the current assembly.
The crazy voices in his head awoke roughly halfway up the escalator. Just in case, Denis first approached a familiar bartender to find out if any new notable guys had come through in the last couple of hours. The bartender shrugged and pointed to Max, who was sipping beer at a table under a column.
— First one?
— No, it's the second one already, come on, catch up, — Max replied melancholically. – The place has deteriorated, though the beer is still decent. And there are no dancing girls in sight, maybe later…
— A crisis has hit, the girls have all gone to warmer places.
— It's a pity, I still remember some of them. What was the name of the one with the biggest eyes, Anya or Tanya? Yes, it's a pity… it was an atmospheric place.
— It's still atmospheric now.
— Yeah, like the atmosphere of a beer stall, only inside the metro instead of outside.
— Well, not Martian restaurants.
— Don’t even mention it. Everything here is depressing, but you know, I’d rather drink here every day and quietly die than drag myself to Mars. Mars took everything from me, leaving just a hollow shell...
— Are you sure you haven’t had a bit too much? Is this really the second one?
— Maybe the third. Nostalgia is just wearing me down. Why did you drag me here, Dan?
— You wanted to talk, actually.
— I wanted to, but, you know... it’s unlikely you can help me. Honestly, I’ve got nothing and no one to help me. Let’s just get really drunk instead.
— Oh no, buddy, that won’t do. First, I can’t stay here any longer. I have an hour at most. And second, you shouldn't stay here with me either. Remember, we discussed that dangerous guy that you seem to know well? Well, he’s really interested in you now and might try to reach you through me.
— What?? – Max, slightly dazed, started rubbing his face like someone just woken up in the middle of the night. – Are you serious right now?
— More than serious. – Denis was cursing himself for not considering the alcohol when inviting him to the pub. – So let’s quickly discuss what you wanted, and we need to scatter.
— How did he even find out about me?
— What do you think? He was really upset when we didn’t sign that damn protocol, and my chubby boss spilled all the details to him. The jerk, I’ll bring that up with him later.
— There are plenty of people named Max in the world, classmates of some Denis Kaysanova. How did he figure out I’m the one?
— Which Max? And by the way, he might not have understood anything, he might just want to check, just in case.
— A-ah... damn. This is unexpected. I was just going to sit down, talk, discuss my heavy sins. And here we are. You could have hinted a bit more carefully. Leo will shake me down if he hears. And you too, by the way; I’m still a valuable employee.
— Fine, valuable employee, but I’ve realized we’re not doing so well with hints. And this isn't the time for jokes. Also, if this dangerous guy finds out I warned you, I’m in deep trouble. So please, play along and pretend everything is fine.
— I’ll play along, but since this has turned out this way, do you remember the offer from Telecom? It’s the perfect time to agree.
— No, Max, I can't deal with Telecom. Don't worry, I'll manage. I still have friends in Siberia; if things get tough, I'll reach out to them. Although they themselves are now under that dangerous guy's thumb.
— Friends in Siberia, huh...
— Max, now is not the time to argue, really. Let's get down to business, or we need to scatter. And no more drinking; you're already a bit soft.
— It's because of Mars; my metabolism has completely changed. Now even beer knocks me out in no time.
— I see, Mars really messed you up.
— You can't even imagine how much, Max continued to lament his fate. – I can't even run a hundred meters on a normal planet anymore. Forget that, I can't even stand on my feet for more than half an hour. Just take a look.
Max rolled up his pant leg, showcasing the carbon fiber ribs of his exoskeleton.
— Without this thing, I can't even get off the compensating mattress in the morning; I stumble and sweat like a paralytic. I've been suffering for almost half a year, and there's not much progress in rehab.
Denis watched his friend with increasing concern. He seemed seriously set on an alcohol-fueled therapy session. Meanwhile, the voices in his head were quite bothersome, even though very little time had passed. The prospect of running into Tom's crew while dragging a drunken mess like Max scared him genuinely. So, Denis decisively took the mug for himself.
— Max, seriously, we can’t waste time here; let’s get ready if there's nothing to discuss.
— Ah, Dan, we were such good friends. Didn't you say your home is always open to me, day or night?
— It’s not about our friendship; it's about circumstances. By the way, you contributed to these circumstances yourself. Don't you remember how the super soldier showed up?
— I'm sorry, Dan, I never apologized for that incident, Max sighed. – I just wanted to show off a bit and didn’t think about the consequences.
— Alright, apologies accepted, but it’s too late to drink Borjomi now. It's time to get out of here.
— Listen, Dan, — Max leaned in sharply toward his companion and spoke in a theatrical whisper. — There’s one topic that will help us solve all our problems, without any Telecoms and other scumbags involved. I know how we can quickly rake in a lot of money, and it’s practically legal.
— Max, you didn’t accidentally forget about the goats from your Telecom security service, did you?
— Who cares about them. There's reliable information that the first department is really overloaded right now, and the chances of them reviewing the footage are slim. If we can get everything done quickly, we’ll grab the cash and leave before they catch on.
— Alright, and what's the deal? – Denis sighed.
— There was a time on Mars when I was a big shot. But then, let's just say, I messed up badly and lost all my privileges. But I hid something away for a rainy day. You know how to crash the rate of any Martian cryptocurrency?
— Sure, as if anyone would let you crash the Neurotek currency. They’d probably crash us in no time.
— Why Neurotek right away? There are simpler and smaller currencies. Basically, I have a complete description of a vulnerability in the algorithms of one not-so-common, but valuable currency. The scam is extremely simple: we borrow as much as we can in that currency, exchange it for something stable, and then publish the vulnerability — voila: we pay off all debts with the first paycheck.
— Are you suggesting we play on the Martian exchange?
— No need to go to the Martian exchange. They have smart contracts everywhere that protect against such fraudsters; they might automatically block the accounts of everyone who shorted that currency until further notice. But here in our backward mother Russia, we can make a regular 'paper' contract through some ancient lending service. And before the law, we’ll be formally clean and can flee wherever we want.
— And how much do you think we’ll make through an ancient service?
— We’ll make a decent profit, trust me. We just need to find more shady people who will take on the debts. By the way, that will be your task.
— Max, are you kidding?
— Den, I’m offering you a real opportunity as your best friend. – Max grabbed Denis by the sleeve, looking devotedly into his eyes. — And you’re still whining. We'll be set for life.
— What makes you think this vulnerability hasn’t been patched up long ago?
— It hasn’t been patched; I know for sure.
— And what currency is it?
— E-net, all the details later. – Max switched to a whisper. – Head to Dreamland to see what Schulz has prepared. I'll leave another note there, it will have all the details. Just tell them your friend from the town of Tule sends his regards.
— Okay, I'll check out your Dreamland.
— Dan, we can't just go. We need to start looking for people and plan an escape route now. I hope you’re good at this kind of thing.
— Do you think I have nothing better to do right now?
— Just drop everything, a golden opportunity like this comes once in a lifetime. But we need to act fast.
“Faster!” — someone behind them said in a creepy childlike voice. Denis flinched as if shocked, and started looking around anxiously for the owner of the voice.
— Dan, are you okay?
— I'm fine, just thought I heard something.
— You're all sweaty.
— It got hot. We're sitting here like two idiots. Let’s go.
— So, will you find people?
— I will, I will…
Denis practically dragged Max away from the table.
— So you’ll sign up?
— Yes, I'm in, move it.
Denis approached the bartender and handed him a card with fifty euro coins.
— Wow, a tip, hit the jackpot? — the bartender asked melancholically.
— Inherited some money. Egor, please take my friend through the tunnels and put him in a taxi.
— Are you waiting for someone?
— No, just in case.
— Are you sure? I don’t need any trouble, you can see my situation isn’t great.
— I promise.
— Alright, Sanya will take you out.
The bartender gestured to the bored security guard.
Denis stoically endured Max's long drunken farewells and persistent offers to drink just one more for the road, and wiped sweat from his forehead only when Max disappeared behind the service door accompanied by the guard. He turned around and nearly gasped. A little girl in a pink dress with a huge bow was standing not ten feet away from him. The girl wasn't laughing in a ghostly voice; she simply smiled sweetly, her piercing blue eyes attentively watching every move. Denis felt sweat drip even more and sensed a traitorous tremor in his knees.
— Egor, I'm off, gotta run.
— Wait, your friend seems to have slipped something into your back pocket while you were hugging.
— Seriously, thanks.
Denis found a piece of paper in the back pocket of his jeans. "I wonder if Max really didn't get completely wasted. It doesn't seem like him; he was always a smart guy."
He literally flew up the escalator. Luckily, Tom and his crew weren't waiting for him at the exit. But the call came through as soon as the tablet caught a signal.
— Where have you been? – Tom's angry voice rang out.
— I was just taking care of your matters.
— You're supposed to be running around for my business alone. Do you have something more important to do?
— No, why are you getting on my case?
— Why was there no signal?
Denis carefully looked around the square in front of the exit and the road. Nothing suspicious seemed to be visible, but he was afraid to lie outright.
— I was in one place underground. I met with a guy who knows about telecom security systems.
— So, is there progress? C'mon, don’t stay silent, you should be calling and cheerfully chattering about what’s what.
— There’s progress; there’s a way to secretly lure Max to a meeting.
— Listen, I’m losing patience. What’s the way?
— The time will come, I’ll tell you everything.
— Your time will be up in ten seconds. Count.
— Wait, we have an agreement, right? — Denis hurriedly chimed in, — I’ll bring you Max, and you’ll cover me from Telecom’s revenge. You’re certainly intimidating; I’ve already crapped my pants three times, but the Telecom Security could be worse. What difference does it make whose hand I die by? If I tell everything, you’ll just set me up and leave me hanging. Let’s play fair.
— Play fair? I’m the most honest person in the world; what I say, I always do.
— You said I have seven days. In seven days, I’ll manage and do everything so clean that Telecom won’t even realize what’s happening, — Denis continued to bluff desperately. — But stop pushing me constantly.
— Wanna play with me? Alright. Just promise me that if you don’t follow through, it’s much worse than dying. The devils in hell will weep looking at you. Next time you call, make sure to do it before I lose my cool.
— Today, tomorrow I’ll get the tools and organize everything.
— You can tempt fate as much as you want. And, of course, I never thought you were such an idiot that you'd test everything on yourself, but keep in mind: in two hours, you’ll get a lethal dose of poison, and in an hour and a half, you’ll only go blind in one eye. You were close today.
With that, Tom hung up.
"Well, what a sweetheart! It's such a pleasure to talk to him," Denis thought as he got into the car. "I need to come up with something urgently, otherwise, I'll have to make a rather unpleasant choice. Oh, right." Denis almost forgot about the note. The message was scribbled on a scrap of paper, with quite an awkward handwriting, and the lines were all crooked and overlapping, but it was still legible.
"Dan, forget all the nonsense I was blabbering. It was just to throw them off, you can go to Dreamland and check what Leo left to make the security service believe in this legend more strongly. The only way to trick them is to write such a note without looking at the paper. You could leave me a stamp of Martian dreams with the message, hoping they won't be able to read it. Head to the city of Korolev at this address. The apartment key is hidden under the door trim, on the lower right side. There should be a laptop in the apartment, the account password is 'March Hare.' There should be some program on the laptop, something like a messenger with a huge number of contacts. Message a person named Rudeman Saari: 'I want to start over and know a way to get in touch. Come to Moscow. Max.' Leave me a stamp with his reply if he sends one. Please, Dan, I have no one else to turn to. I've lost much more on Mars than money, family, and friends. Rudeman Saari is my only chance to get something back."
"Well, Max, you're quite cunning," Denis sighed, "but for now, I probably can't help you unless this mysterious Rudeman Saari also gets rid of Arumov for me. Although Semen could easily take a trip to Korolev."
The next day, the sun hadn't yet passed its zenith, and Denis was already standing in the parking lot in front of the 'DreamLand' company building. Yesterday, his neighbor Alex brought three bottles of beer, and he didn't manage to wake up early, even though Dan was acutely aware that drinking in his situation was quite foolish.
The newly constructed building resembled a gleaming elliptical dome made of glass and metal. Right in front of it lay a massive mirror of an artificial pond. Who would doubt that the trade in 'digital drugs' truly brought in significant profits? Inside, everything was adorned with luxurious ceramics and marble columns. 'I wonder why a company selling illusions bothers with the real decor of its lair?' Denis thought, skeptically surveying the interior. He felt almost a physical disgust towards this place. Like a master of the order of the holy inquisition, accidentally stumbling into an uninhibited orgy of satanic worshippers. No, he didn’t want to participate or oversee the event; his desire to burn the place to the ground was quite sincere. Perhaps Denis would not have been able to overcome his revulsion and approach the reception, but the sect servant came up to him. A scrawny little man of indeterminate age, with gelled, thin hair and a sallow, unhealthy complexion. Despite the sour expression of the client, he broke into a rehearsed wide smile. Of course, it was foolish to hope for its sincerity in such a place. However, empathy and friendliness are rarely genuine anywhere; more often they conceal hypocrisy and self-interest. But fear and hatred are almost always real.
— Is this your first time here?
— Of course, do you think I would come back here?
— Many do come back, — the little man smiled even wider, and for a moment, a savage grimace flashed in his grin and quickly vanished. But Denis was ready and managed to see everything.
— A friend was supposed to leave me… something, — he uttered reluctantly.
— Yes, let me check the database. May I have your name?
— Denis… Kaysanov.
— Excellent, Denis. My name is Yakov, I will be your assistant, if you don't mind. Your friend indeed left a gift for you, a very generous gift.
— A message?
— No, no, he gifted you a little dream.
— A little dream? — Denis spat. — No way, I’m not going to stick a 'stamp'.
— Oh, this is much better than a simple stamp. Come, I will explain everything in a private room.
The little man gently hooked Denis by the elbow and led him through the hall into the building. They walked through a series of rooms with pools, around which many people were relaxing. "Why did these idiots come here like seals on a beach instead of lying at home on the couch? What makes this place different from an ordinary online crap about elves and goblins?" Denis thought as he passed by.
"What are they seeing there?" he asked the manager.
"Everyone sees what they wish to see."
"Many psychics and drug users see what they want to see."
"Generally, no, they can't control the process. Of course, our technology is a unique innovation, but believe me, drugs have nothing to do with it. Imagination is the most powerful neural chip in the universe; you just need to make it work."
"And if there’s no neural chip, will imagination be enough?"
"It would simply be more expensive. Technology is not standing still; our m-chips hardly need implanted electronics anymore. The day is not far off when you will just inhale special spores that will develop into the necessary device in a person's body."
Denis shuddered at such a prospect.
"Don't worry, you don’t need to pay anything extra; it’s all already covered," Yakov assured, misinterpreting the client’s reaction. "Please come in," he added, opening the doors to a small meeting room.
The room was mostly occupied by a glass table and a couple of shelves. Yakov rummaged around a bit and pulled out a small laptop from one of the shelves.
"You really don’t have a chip?"
— No.
"Alright, then I’ll show a brief presentation on the laptop..."
"No presentations needed; just explain what they've left for me."
— Well, let's skip the presentations. We call this service the "Well of Wishes." It's quite expensive and, let's say, not just for entertainment purposes. First, a special m-chip scans the memory and personality of the person, then the information obtained is processed by the most powerful neural networks of our company, including on Martian servers. You know, like image recognition, but the algorithms are much more complex. Based on the results, the next m-chip injections fulfill the most important, true dream of the person. At the client's request, we can erase the client's memory of coming to our company, so the simulated dream feels like a continuation of normal life and appears more real. But upon request, nothing can be erased if you don't want to. Of course, there are, to put it mildly, simple-minded people, and their dreams are too straightforward, there's nothing to decipher. But sometimes an ordinary person, seemingly unremarkable, comes to us and leaves completely transformed. They gain a motivation of a different order. They realize what they can achieve, and it instills such energy, such a will to win... For the sake of looking into the face of such a person, bidding farewell to them at the exit, I work tirelessly; we all work...
— So, Yakov, let's cut it out. Do you seriously think I'm going to let you inject me with these m-chips to recognize my identity? Are you all really not taking anything?
— No one will see your personal data, don't worry. They actually aren't stored after the service is provided, not even in encrypted form. It's just impractical to fill data centers with terabytes of useless information.
— Of course, and neurochips never monitor users.
— It's strictly prohibited by laws and agreements, and besides, why would we need someone else's personal life?
— I believe you with all my heart. And that Martians spend their days brushing unicorns' manes and chasing butterflies. So, did you leave me anything else?
— Just the payment for this service. But I can hardly imagine a great generosity...
— No problem, you can dive into your well yourself.
— I've used this service before and, as you can see, nothing terrible happened.
— Really? And what did you see there?
— What I saw there is not meant for anyone to know, not even the director of 'DreamLand.'
— Well, who would doubt that? Anyway, all the best.
Yak ov managed to intercept Denis right at the door.
— Wait a moment, please, just two seconds. Your friend, oddly enough, anticipated that the reaction might be… not quite right. He asked me to convey that this might be a way to understand who you really are.
— My reaction is the only correct one. I'll figure out who I am myself.
— Let me finish… Even if there is a hiccup the first time, though such cases have been rare during all the time we've worked, we will restart the program. The service has been paid for twice, with a money-back guarantee for the backup launch if it's not used…
Denis resolutely brushed off the manager and strode energetically toward the exit, ready to bump into Lenka right at the first pool, almost nose to nose. She looked, as usual, stunning, especially in contrast to the drab servant of Dreamland. Just like a ray of light in a dark realm.
— Oh, Denny, what are you doing here? — she chirped joyfully.
— I'm leaving. And what brings you here?
— Just dealing with some things.
— Dealing with things? I thought people came from all over Moscow to hang out and have a good time.
— If you've got the cash, you can have a good time, — Lenka laughed. — Are you in a hurry?
— Not really, although I should be. What are you up to?
— Nothing special. Don't you want to chill by the pool for a while?
‘Yeah, I definitely want to, — Denis thought, — and not just by the pool, and not just to relax. However, I do have a couple of urgent tasks: I really need to figure out how not to get crushed by your lover's Cerberus and decide what to do about Max's request.’
— Let's go, — Lenka grabbed his sleeve. — Here, it’s just like in a casino, everything's free.
— Yeah, but then you might end up leaving without your pants, but sure, it's free.
— Don't complain, let's go.
Relaxing music played by the pool, with rows of sofas and loungers arranged around it. Nearby stood small dispensers offering free drinks. The floor, paved with pinkish-white tiles, gently sloped down into the pool, allowing artificial waves to occasionally wash over the feet of those relaxing. Portly, balding types, making up the main crowd here, lazily splashed around in the pinkish water or lay about on the loungers, sometimes casting interested glances at Lena. To Denis's considerable surprise, these greasy stares gave him the sensation of being petted against the grain.
“I’ll be gone for just five minutes to change,” Lena said.
“No need, I won’t be long myself. I have things to do too.”
“Why not? I’ll be quick; don’t you want to dive in?”
“Definitely not. I might catch some virtual bug from these seals.”
“You won’t catch anything,” Lena laughed again. “There are special little baths over there by the pool. You stick a sticker on, jump in there, and wake up in that world. You can’t catch anything in the pool.”
“Lena, tell me, what’s the difference between this nonsense and regular internet? Why bother splashing around here?”
“You’re completely out of touch with reality. The internet is just cartoons; here, everything is completely real. You swim back across this pool and feel its coolness. You touch someone and feel their warmth,” Lena gently touched Denis's face with her palm. “The stickers transmit all emotions and sensations. You can even record feelings from the real world and then share them with friends.”
“And what kind of feelings do you share here?”
“Different ones. Isn’t it great to drink a bottle of wine somewhere in Bali in the heart of a dreadful Moscow winter?”
“Yeah, or to try something a bit stronger in Goa, since it's virtual.”
“Some come here just to try everything. There are no health consequences.”
“The most dangerous addiction is psychological. They actually live better this way; clients live longer, and they won’t just slip off the hook.”
“Oh, Denchik, why are you lecturing me! I’m just making a little extra money here, no drugs.”
“Making extra cash? How’s that?”
— It's nothing special: you register as a personal assistant and accompany those wishing to enter that world.
— Can't bots accompany them there?
— Well, the whole point is for it to feel like reality. You leave the pool and at first, you don't even realize you've entered another world. Otherwise, all those silly women will buy up cosmetic programs just to avoid sweating at the gym and dieting… What’s wrong with you? Stop laughing!
— Oh, Lena, I can't, I thought all women were thrilled with cosmetic programs.
— Some silly women are thrilled, wanting to snag some fool. They don't understand that sooner or later, this will all come to light.
— So, you're an honest woman then? Alright, alright, no more fighting… You know, I’ve met fools who said themselves: let it be, what’s the difference? What do those idiots from the pool care about who's hanging out with them? Whether it's silly women or fat old perverts, why pay extra money?
— Well, apparently they do care, you know this is a deception. It's like instant coffee compared to the real thing.
— Are you saying you’re the real coffee?
— Oh, don’t look at me like that, — Lena pouted slightly.
— Come on, what do I care? Everyone fends for themselves.
— So, you don't care what I do? You don't care about me?
— I don’t know, — Denis hesitated, — of course, I care. You’re looking after my cat, after all, — he found his words.
— Yes, I am looking after him, — Lena sighed. — Your kitty is such a sweetheart, by the way, can I keep him a little longer? Please, please…
— Sure, of course. If anything happens, I bequeath him to you.
— What do you mean by bequeathing?
— Well, it’s just a figure of speech.
— Denny, tell me what happened? I can see something's up.
— Nothing happened.
— If you tell me, maybe I can help somehow?
— Yeah, how can you help?
— In any way.
— Well, you’re already helping me, — Denis sighed. — Alright, Lena, you really need to stop with that nasty Dreamland, and I really have to get going.
— Wait, Denny, let me quickly change, and you pick us some drinks. And we can chat a little longer.
— Okay, just don’t take too long, alright?
Lenochka, surprisingly, almost kept to the promised five minutes. But when she, like a caravel in a red swimsuit, swam back to the pool, much to Denis's displeasure, an unremarkable manager named Yakov lurked in her shadow.
— Oh, Denchik, I've heard something about you.
— Don't listen to him, it's all lies and slander.
— No, it really sounds just like you. You turned down such a cool thing. There's nothing better out there.
— Lena, and you too…
— Wait, that’s not all, he said that the service has been paid for you twice. It can be used by someone else of your choice.
— That's right, — Yakov chimed in.
— So what?
— What do you mean! Denchik, haven't you thought that we can use it together?
— Yes, that option exists, — the manager piped up again.
— I'm ready to go to the ends of the earth with you, but just not there.
— Stop! We will have a common dream there, and we’ll see how great everything will be!
— And what if it’s not great?
— Until you try, you won’t know; it’s foolish to be afraid of your own destiny because of that.
— Destiny? Do you really believe in that? How do I know it’s not a scam? A fortune teller in the subway can predict your fate too.
— Denchik, there’s nothing smarter than this thing. If it makes a mistake, then anyone could make a mistake.
— Even if that’s so: this computer doesn’t make mistakes. But if it predicts my fate, then it means I will lose my freedom of choice.
— Oh, Denchik, you can be so tedious sometimes. If you're afraid, just say so… But I’ll hold it against you, I swear.
— It's foolish to refuse, — Yakov smirked, casting a cheeky glance at Lenochka. — This program doesn’t infringe on the freedom of choice; it merely helps make the right decision. After all, I would gladly buy such a service for your friend if I had the means… But someone else might be able to…
Denis looked at the manager with an openly hostile glare, but he didn’t flinch.
— Alright, Lena, since you insist so much.
— Yes, that’s what I want.
— Fine, — Denis relented. — Let's go.
— Denis.
— What now?
— We must hold hands while we fall asleep, okay?
— Lena…
— Then we’ll wake up in a better world and be happy, alright?
— As you wish.
A stream of shadows drifted over the water, now not pink but almost black, deep like an abyss. On that shore, their personal demons awaited, bred by themselves, feeding on their weaknesses and fears. Vile white worms with red, greedy suckers wrapped around their bodies, and many-legged, slimy spiders crawled onto their backs, probing them with their chelicerae. Foul-smelling jellyfish floated in the air, thrusting their tentacles into noses and ears, tearing out eyes and replacing them with the eyes of frogs and snakes. Thousands of nightmarish creatures swarmed on the other side of the pool. Small and feeble for those who came for the first time, they persistently hovered nearby, hesitant to fully mount their victim. The gluttonous beasts, familiar to the regulars, slithered lazily towards their obedient waiting prey, and, with a churning sound, pushed their tentacles and jaws into the never-closing ragged wounds.
Then, a large stream of parasite-laden shadows split into many tiny trickles, flowing from the countless mouths of a gigantic demon lying in a red, bubbling swamp. They flowed further into a terrifying otherworld, where they were fed by caterpillars, dressed in tattered rags made from rat skins, and placed in rotting bone carts so the shadows could boast to one another and discuss the flavor of waste and the merits of necklaces made from dead beetles. The most repulsive, half-decayed creatures slithering from the marsh praised and lauded the fools in the bone carts, leering hideously whenever they turned away.
They were patient, never in a hurry, and didn't frighten their victims. They sipped life slowly, each time declaring: 'It's just a drop; you have such a huge, beautiful life, and we're taking just a drop, an hour here, a day there. Will it truly diminish? And you can leave at any moment whenever you want, tomorrow, next month, or definitely in a year. Just not now; stay and enjoy right now.' And they drank a drop, all dried up, sending back the insubstantial shadows.
And somewhere there, in one of the streams, Lenochka rushed along, still alive and real, while around her a three-headed hydra coiled, trying to seize a piece of her sweet fear of loneliness and the desire to be someone other than the foolish mistress of a wealthy official. The hydra was in a hurry, for Lenochka was heading straight towards the spider queen, who would take her life all at once.
— You broke the main rule; you listened to a woman and came with her straight into the enemy's lair. Here, they can see who you are and learn our secrets.
— It’s not me who broke it, it’s him who broke it. The one who likes this Lena, who wants to bind his fate to hers, the one who doesn’t see the truth about this place.
— He is you, don’t forget.
— Not true; you know that yourself. I have long been a bodiless ghost. Look through my palm; do you see anything? I am the voice that whispers words of hatred to that man and nothing more. It’s no wonder he didn’t listen to the ghostly voice.
— You must be able to wait.
— I have been waiting too long for a future that will never come, which has turned into the same ghost.
— It has already come if you fulfill your mission.
— Of course, since my consciousness was preserved after the victory, restored after a thousand years, and sent to a new past to fight again. This cycle of rebirths cannot be broken.
— Sorry, but war never ends. Our enemy fights all at once and everywhere, but final victory is possible. The First saw this.
— Maybe the First saw nothing. Maybe it’s just a forgotten dream. If all people forget some event, does it mean it ceases to exist?
— You have become weak and apprehensive, and you cannot lose. If the prophecies about the future empire are forgotten by all, then yes, it will cease to exist.
— Fine, I will not lose. Save this Lena; do not let them take her life.
— I cannot and have no right; I might be discovered.
— Be careful.
— This Lena means nothing compared to the price of our defeat. They have taken a billion lives and will take billions more; why worry about one.
— She is important to him, and he is me.
— You have forgotten that the fate of your homeland—the Empire of a thousand planets—is the most important thing. Do you remember?
— This empire is as much a ghost as I am. A forgotten dream of that man. Free Lena, show her another future. Otherwise, I will simply dissolve into nothingness, and there will be no endless war.
— I already said I can't. What difference does it make what she sees? Let it be a future where you become her hero, save her from Arumov, and take her to a little white house by the mountain lake. It is unattainable for both her and you. All she can do is come here over and over to see a dream that is so easy to believe in, but does not exist. Forget it, she has no future of her own; she is a foolish, beautiful flower that will be picked and trampled like others like her. Don't seek a source of strength where it cannot exist.
— Then let her just forget everything and leave.
— She will definitely come back, in a month or in half a year, with someone else. The servant was right.
— Let her not come back, make her.
— You know it’s impossible.
— You keep talking about the great war and saving the great empire, but you don't want to save even one person. We're just hanging around here watching the endless stream of people go to be fed to demons, and we do nothing. When will the battle begin? How will a ghost, deprived of even a drop of courage, win in a great war?
— You are the blood and flesh of the empire, its true beginning. The spark that glimmers in the icy desert, the spark from which the flame of the empire will ignite again and turn all enemies, both external and internal, to ash. It is useless to fight demons; it’s like trying to swat all the flies; there will be no fewer of them. We must destroy the possibility of their emergence. When the true enemy reveals himself, we will strike and destroy him. And demons are false enemies; by entering into a senseless war with them, we will be buried under a mountain of their corpses and achieve nothing.
— So maybe it’s time to seek the true enemy.
— You have forgotten everything the first one taught. The true enemy cannot be sought; he always comes by himself, for we need him just as much. And seeking him only creates false enemies.
— Yes, I forgot everything and almost faded away. Understand this: only my voice remains, barely heard by just one person. I need to find something that justifies my existence! Otherwise, I’m just a forgotten dream!
— If there is no true enemy, then yes. But there is one, and because of that, you will never disappear.
— Then let him show up already! Where is he hiding?! Who is he?!
The red glow of the demonic world trembled and cracked.
— We are the guardians of the shadow world, and your beloved friend Max is the former lord of shadows. His precious quantum project turned into a pile of unsorted junk.
"Here is your true enemy," whispered a ghostly voice to Denis.
A familiar nasty face with a scar moved in close.
— Are you satisfied?
Memories of forgotten dreams, demons, and a millennium of war surged into consciousness as a continuous stream, causing physical pain. Denis curled up on the asphalt, nearly drowning in this flood. He couldn’t understand who he was, where he was, and what was happening.
— Hey, you wimp, stop crawling over there, — the creaky voice of Tom echoed again. — It won’t help. I told you not to play with me, now get up and face death like a man.
Denis struggled to rise to his hands and knees, shaking his head in confusion and vomited right onto Tom's shoes. Tom jumped back with a stream of curses, while one of the brutes kicked Denis in the side, sending him flying.
— What an animal, now he’s going to mess everything up. And what did the boss say about dealing with him quickly, — Tom continued to complain. — I’ll make him clean it all up.
Somewhere nearby, Lenochka was strangling out a muffled scream, as two other brutes tried to stuff her into a car. She bit the hand covering her mouth, and for a second the suffocated squeak turned into a frantic scream. But no one in the parking lot in front of the Dreamland dome rushed to help.
— Liss, Roger, what are you digging around for? If I have to pay the guards again, I’ll deduct it from your share.
— Hey, foreman, she seems to want to say something. She’s shaking her head… Are you going to stop yelling, chick?
— Alright, what did she want?
— Don't touch him, — Lenochka sobbed, — I… I will tell Andrey and he...
— What is he, an idiot? What are you going to tell him? That you wanted to jump on some worthless lieutenant, but Tom came and ruined everything? Come on, I’m interested to hear this.
— I have more friends, you’ll regret this! Bastard, let me go!..
— Yes, Lenusik, it’s better for you not to open your mouth again, it’s obviously only good for one thing. Take her to the boss.
The screaming Lena was shoved into the pickup, and it took off quickly.
— You disappointed me again, you were asked to complete a simple task for the boss, and instead, you decided to screw his woman. Why are you silent, bastard? Vovan, search him.
To Denis's shame, Vovan almost immediately found yesterday's note from Max in his back pocket, which he simply forgot to hide or destroy.
— You should have searched him right away.
— Yeah, smart guy, you should have. Why didn’t you search him?
Then Vovan unloaded Denis's pockets, tablets, keys, and other small items. Tom merely snorted derisively when he saw the second tablet, and after reading the note, he grinned and immediately put it away.
— Everything turned out just as well as possible. Now we won’t need your help; we'll deal with Max ourselves.
His mind cleared a bit, and Denis's short-term memory returned. He remembered how he offered to give Lena a ride after that stupid stunt with the 'wells of wishes'. Coming to his senses, Denis immediately tried to express all his skepticism regarding Dreamland and its far-fetched tales, but Lena put a finger to his lips, and they didn’t say another word. It seemed that Lena genuinely believed in this clichéd, saccharine dream of heroism and a white house by the lake. She was practically glowing with happiness, and despite all the skepticism, Denis had to admit that he enjoyed this joy.
As they approached the car, annoyingly parked deep in the lot by the overpass columns, a nearby small van and pickup suddenly roared to life and blocked their path. The goons in masks jumped out and grabbed Denis. Following them, Tom appeared, his face distorted with rage, and announced that the game was over. Kolyan took the money, sent the order to Siberia, but then got scared and decided, just in case, to check with Tom's crew that Denis had ordered a mountain of weapons with their full approval, just in case.
"That's it, you had a chance to trade your worthless life for your friend, - Tom hissed, - but apparently you chose to fight. Maybe sclerosis has tortured you, you forgot about my little gift. You know, if you release poison in small doses, a person dies much slower and in terrible agony. Or did you find someone else who would try to take us down? Who is this crazy bastard? No, I actually respect that, so you have two minutes and a last wish." Denis shrugged and asked, "Who are you and what do you want from Max?" Upon hearing the answer, he fell to the ground, his consciousness turning inside out.
"Access to the 'Hive' system activated. Find the basic kit of the system for further instructions," a ringing female voice said. The owner of the voice sat on the hood of Denis's car, pouting her lips, surveying the battlefield. She was tall, slender, dressed in a form-fitting stylish military uniform and high-heeled boots. Her long nails with bright polish resembled artificial claws more than natural ones. Her face was pale, almost white, slightly elongated, with huge clear blue eyes, and her hair was gathered in a heavy silver braid, with ribbons woven into it. Due to her unnatural pallor and the severity of her features, it was hard to call her beautiful, but her appearance exuded the predatory grace of a valkyrie, ready to tear apart the souls of defeated enemies.
- Who are you?! - Denis asked.
- I am Sonya Diamond - the queen of the hive. Don’t you remember anything?
- My head is a complete mess. Do something, they're about to finish me off!
- I need the hive. The more system kits you find, the more options we'll have.
- And how do you think I'm going to find it after I’m dead?
- Yeah, that didn't work out well. But you wanted battle, and here it is. Fight! You are the last soldier of the Empire and have no right to lose.
- Brigadier, what's he rambling about to himself? - one of the remaining thugs named Vovan asked in shock.
- He's either pretending to be crazy, or he's really lost his mind. We overestimated him.
- Well, we've killed someone before, and I've heard all sorts of things, but I don't recall anything like this. Maybe it was a mistake to tell him about us.
— No one has asked you yet. What difference does it make what he heard? He won't tell anyone anyway, — Tom seemed a bit confused himself. — Taras, where's the remote?
The previously uninvolved muscleman pulled out a large khaki tablet from the van, encased in metal with a retractable antenna.
— Sweet dreams, — Tom muttered.
— You won't lure Max out like that. It's too late to hesitate.
— You’re really starting to annoy me, — with those words, Tom pulled a fearsome-looking hunting knife from his waist. — I guess I’ll have to make a bit of a mess.
— I gave Kolyan fifty grand to go to Korolev and send a message to Rudeman Saari. As for the weapon, he ordered it himself; he seems to owe someone local and wanted to pay them off. Sorry, but I might have told you a little white lie.
— What does he owe to any locals? What are you talking about!
— I came here to deliver Max a response from Rudeman Saari. You read it – it’s a real way to send a secret message to someone with a Telecom chip – a Dreamland sticker.
— And what’s the response?
— Let’s resume the deal under the same conditions.
— I've never seen such a brazen jerk!
Tom seemed genuinely furious, almost frothing at the mouth. He jabbed the knife into Denis's eye but didn't have time to take more decisive action.
— It’s time to leave, — Vovan buzzed again. — Come on, either let’s release the toxin or chat somewhere else.
Tom turned to him like a coiled spring, and for a second it seemed like he would start slashing at his own subordinate.
— Alright, load this puke up; we're going to have a talk with Kolyan. We really have nothing to do this evening.
Denis's hands were forced behind his back, handcuffed, and thrown into the van. Lying face down was extremely uncomfortable, especially with Tom’s vomit-stained boots trampling right in front of his nose. Vovan and Taras pulled off their masks and settled in the seats opposite.
— Hey, foreman, — Denis spoke up. — Give me some water to drink.
— Shut your mouth.
Tom stomped on Denis’s head with a mocking grin, pushing him into the dirty floor.
Not a bad idea, — the valkyrie casually settled into the seat next to Tom. — But as you understand, — this is just a delay until they start shaking your drug dealer down.
— Can you handle the poison?
— No, right now I'm just a piece of your brain. But a swarm can do almost anything.
— What's a swarm?
— The latest generation combat information system. In short, a swarm is a swarm. When you see it, you'll understand everything immediately.
Vovan and Taras exchanged glances, and Vovan, taking out some tape, tried to seal Denis's mouth.
— Did anyone ask you to butt in? — growled Tom.
— This is really starting to get on my nerves.
— I don't care what annoys you. Let him talk. Who are you chatting with, buddy?
— I have an invisible friend, what's the problem? I wanted to discuss the situation with him.
— What’s this swarm about?
— A swarm is a swarm. Mosquitoes, bees, and all that.
— If I were you, I wouldn’t be messing around. You’re behaving very badly, not keeping promises, constantly lying. The fact that we’ve become enemies is entirely your fault. But as long as you’re alive, there might be a chance to make things right.
— I hardly think I’ll stay alive.
— Well, if you really try, who knows.
— Just a moment, I’ll consult with my invisible friend.
— By the way, you don’t have to annoy these nice guys. I live in your head and can read thoughts perfectly well, — Sonia Diamond said with an innocent look.
"Couldn’t you say that right away?"
"Why would I? It was quite amusing."
"So you’re having fun, I see."
"So what now, should I cry? A twist of fate should be met with a smile."
"Could you get out of my head?"
"If you find me a new body, I’d be happy to. Your Lena would do just fine. She has a lovely body, doesn’t she?"
"Don’t even think about it."
"Alright, look for someone else, — the Valkyrie agreed indifferently. — Preferably a young woman, of course."
"What exactly are you?"
"You really don't remember anything? We’ve had countless casual conversations on various topics in your dreams over the years."
"Yes, now I remember them. But it's still just dreams. I can barely recall what we discussed."
"Strange, that shouldn’t be the case. Your memory should have fully restored. I feel like we know a lot less than we’re supposed to."
"Apparently, something else went wrong."
"I am a transneural entity. I can live on any biological carrier that supports higher nervous activity. Right now, I have to lease part of your gray matter. When we find the swarm, I can choose any other person or several, but for now, we’re in the same boat; if you die, I die too."
"Wonderful, and who am I supposed to be?"
"You are the blood and flesh of the empire, its true beginning..."
"Stop buttering it up. Answer me properly."
"Actually, that's the best answer. You are not such a simple phenomenon. But if you want, you are a class zero agent."
"So am I supposed to save Mother Russia now? Defeat all the Martians?"
"You must destroy the true enemy and revive the Empire of a thousand planets."
"And what is your role in this operation? To nag in my head so I don't forget about the great mission?"
"I control the swarm."
"So you will be calling the shots?"
"You will give the orders, I am needed for assistance. I am the mind of the swarm, which will plan its multiplication and development. I will free you from a million routine operations. You won't be studying how the swarm is structured and how it functions, will you?"
"Why not? I'm ready to broaden my horizons."
"I am a specially constructed mind for these tasks, with the memory of thousands of specialists who developed this weapon. Your task is to fight the true enemy."
"And why don't you fight it yourself?"
"If I fight and achieve victories, then it will be the Empire of Sonya Diamond, not the Empire of humans. Isn't that right?"
"Probably. So you do everything I say?"
"Yes, as long as you remain loyal to the Empire, I will be nothing more than a faithful instrument."
"Alright, we will return to this conversation if we survive. What does this swarm at least look like? What should we be searching for?"
"Most likely, a railway or automotive container; they've been hidden in the state reserves. Inside are crates with products or ammunition for camouflage. One or several crates constitute a package with a high degree of biological protection for the nest of the swarm. Anyone other than a class zero agent who opens the package will be infected and subsequently eliminated."
"And what, these containers have just been gathering dust for thirty years in some abandoned warehouse?"
"Well, part of them yes. I know the approximate places and signs for searching for them. If we had a couple of days..."
"Our only, elusive chance is somehow to lure Tom to such a container. Do you know anything nearby?"
"Not in Moscow, it's a very dangerous storage place. And in any case, my information could be outdated by several decades."
Then our great war will end in about twenty minutes in Kolyan's den. And it seems the end will be very unpleasant.
The Emperor's predictions are on your side. You will win.
Seriously? Let me have a heart-to-heart with Tom, maybe he'll switch to our side or at least show some interest?
No, he’s the enemy.
Is he now my true enemy? Sure, he’s a real jerk, but I'm not in a position to get hung up on some existential rivalry.
He's not a true enemy. He's just another servant, just at a higher rank. Your true enemy is the master of shadows.
Max?!
Well, if he’s the master of shadows, then yes.
Great, so I'm going to be chopped up because I didn’t want to hand over my true enemy to his servants? Something about this puzzle isn’t fitting.
It happens.
What’s this nonsense about the shadow world? Who is Tom? What do you know about him and Arumov?
I can't say, I'm only sure he's an enemy.
Now’s not the time to be vague or play games. We’re supposedly in the same boat!
I’m not being vague. Without the swarm, my functions and memory are extremely limited, just fragmented knowledge and activation codes. But judging by your memory, Arumov might have access to the empire's secrets.
Yeah, he was talking about a container that ate someone back in his wild youth.
Let's try to find him.
Sure, no problem, as soon as we deal with pretty boy Tom and his nanobots. I’ll talk to Tom. Arumov certainly didn’t push this cart for nothing; maybe we can come to an agreement.
No, if the enemies take control of the swarm, the Empire will lose.
And to hell with it. You know, I’ve been thinking and I’ve decided that I don’t want to die a painful death.
It's within my power to grant us a quick death.
Is that a threat?
No, just a possibility. There’s still time, think about it.
The van slowed down, apparently at some traffic light. It was getting dark outside. Occasionally, distant honks and wails of sirens reached Denis.
You’ve gotten quiet, buddy, Tom creaked again. By the way, we are approaching. Do you want to take one last look at the Rusakovskaya embankment? Although half the streetlights in this hole don't work, you can’t see anything. Kolyan has a great basement in a neighborhood where almost no one lives, and we have a long night ahead. Maybe you’ll talk this way. What's with all the dirt, tears, severed fingers?
— No problem, what shall we chat about?
— You’ve become quite talkative all of a sudden. Don’t be so scared, we usually don’t start off on the wrong foot. You definitely lied about Kolyan. I know that jerk, he would never dare use me to deal with you and come out unscathed. He gets scared just seeing me.
— What made you think he’s waiting for us?
— I told him not to move. I bet a million that he’s right where he is because you’re lying and he has nothing to be afraid of. He’ll return our money — and let him live.
Taras climbed into the driver's seat, disabling the autopilot. The car started moving and rolled forward, slightly bouncing on the bumpy road.
— First, share with me, who were you chatting with? You do have the neurochip, right?
— I was just pretending, wanted to act tough.
— More lies. You’re going to regret that soon.
— You’re not going to achieve anything. I can die by my own choice, so let’s negotiate.
— Really?
— There are devices that are activated by mental codes. We used to bring them from Siberia.
— Alright, let’s see, — Tom shrugged. — Your chatter doesn’t interest me that much. Do you have the guts to kill yourself?
Tom abruptly positioned Denis in a sitting position and shoved a tablet with an antenna in front of him.
— Want to take a look at the source of your troubles? This little red dot here — that’s you. I select it, and there are its properties. I can kill you instantly, slowly, or disable you piece by piece: arms, legs, vision. Very convenient, bloodless, and importantly, no one will understand what happened.
A network call distracted Tom from his favorite descriptions of cruel fates and punishments.
— What do you mean she popped out at the traffic light?! — he barked.
— I don’t care that you two idiots can’t keep track of a woman.
— No more she’ll come back on her own, the boss said to bring her back. Search using the tracker.
For a while longer, Tom continued to scold his negligent subordinates.
— Any problems? — Denis inquired politely.
— Compared to yours, it’s just trifles. By the way, you really put your girlfriend in a tough spot.
— What made you say that?
— The boss doesn’t like it when someone has their eyes on his property.
— After I sort things out with you, we’ll discuss with Arumov who owns what.
— An empty threat, — Tom smirked. — But I'll tell the boss there's another good way to crack you. Otherwise, it looks like you’re planning to die here.
— Lena has nothing to do with this, leave her alone.
— Of course, of course, buddy, don’t worry.
Denis realized he was making things worse and fell silent.
“Can you at least contact someone?”
“I repeat, I’m just a piece of your brain. And who do you want to contact?”
“Semyon, so the replicant can try to help Lena.”
“You found something to worry about. If you want to help her, better keep quiet and think about how to escape Tom and find the container.”
“Maybe I really have gone insane? This voice in my head is useless.”
“Find the swarm and you’ll see what I’m worth.”
“I won’t find anything anymore.”
Denis mentally shrugged it all off and tried to get comfortable. And immediately received a jolting kick from Tom.
— Hey, don’t relax. We’re almost there.
For the next couple of minutes, Denis only thought about how to keep his limbs intact, bouncing in the van over the familiar bumps.
— Something’s not right with Kolyan, — Taras remarked, parking on the side of the road. — Should we try approaching from another side?
— I beg you. You think he’s waiting for us with a gun?
— Who knows.
— Grab the armor and go first.
Denis was pushed out of the car. It was dark and quiet, the familiar sign 'Computers, Components' was off, just like the streetlights. Only two windows on the upper floor near the edge were lit. While the puffing Taras struggled in the dark with his vest, Denis enjoyed the cool evening air and looked around. His knees weren’t trembling too much, but he couldn't come up with anything smart, and Tom standing behind him was ready to twist his arms at the slightest careless move. Tom himself pulled a semi-automatic shotgun from under the seat, while his goons settled for handguns.
“Time to say goodbye, Sonya Diamond.”
“No, it can’t end so easily.”
Inside the shop, the light was also off. The door was unlocked, and the two fighters carefully slipped inside.
— Kolyan, what kind of tricks are these?! — Tom barked into the darkness, crouching by the door and laying Denis on the floor.
— The circuit board burned out, — a muffled voice came from the basement. — Come down.
— Are you completely out of your mind, get up now.
— I can’t, I’m stuck.
— Where the hell are you stuck, you idiot?
— At the panel where there's a hole in the floor. I keep the keys there and set a trap against thieves, and I forgot about it myself… Please help.
— Why didn't you call?
— There’s no signal down here in the basement.
— Does he have a signal in his basement? — Vovan hissed in the dark.
— I think I remember, — Tom hissed back. — Hey, Denis, are you aware of what's going on? It's the perfect time to start cooperating; it'll count for you.
— No idea. Take off the handcuffs; I’ll go check.
— Yeah, right, like that's going to happen.
— Tom, please! Help me, I can't feel my hand anymore, — Kolya's whining voice sounded again. — It's crushed so badly!
— Okay, Taras, go look by yourself, — Tom ordered. — Turn on the flashlight, check everything carefully.
— I’ll be a perfect target with this flashlight.
— Is this your first time? I'll write a bonus if necessary. But wait, Vovan, go grab the thermal imager from the car.
— You said not to take unnecessary things: the job shouldn’t take more than an hour, just to transport the body.
— My hands won't fall off; thanks for at least bringing the weapons. Come on, Taras, move.
— We're going down! — Tom shouted into the darkness.
“I wonder what's happening down there, — Denis thought feverishly. — Maybe Semyon decided to help. His telepathic cats could have seen what's going on, or do I need to fall asleep hugging Adek? Ah well, nothing to lose.”
— He's alone! — Denis shouted with all his might.
And immediately received a powerful blow to the back of the neck that made his vision waver.
— I told you to tape his mouth, — Vovan hissed.
— I’ll tape it now.
A terrible crash, crackling, and curse-laden screams came from the basement.
— What’s going on?! — Tom shouted.
— Just a bunch of crap piled up!
— Is it clear in there?
— Yeah, I see no one here. And how did this idiot manage to get stuck in there?
Immediately after, Kolya's desperate scream was heard.
— I can't pull him out.
— Let him stay for now. What's going on with the panel?
— It's all black. Looks like it burned out.
— Got it, we’re going down too. A total mess, damn it. Vovan, go ahead.
Vovan turned on the flashlight and went behind the counter. Tom lifted the swaying prisoner and nudged him in the right direction.
— Move it.
Tom didn't turn on the flashlight and kept the shotgun over Denis's shoulder, using it for cover. After a short descent, they found themselves in front of rows of shelves that extended deep into the basement. Behind the far-right row, near the wall, the beam of Taras's flashlight flickered. Broken shelves and a pile of debris lay at the entrance between the wall and the shelves. Clearly, Taras didn't want to make himself a target until the last moment and was trying to feel his way through.
— Vovan, shine the light more carefully on all the passages.
Tom slung the shotgun over his shoulder and entered the passage by the wall. He made Denis sit next to the toppled shelf. Kolyan was in an unnatural position, kneeling a bit further away. His right hand was indeed hidden somewhere in a large hole.
— So, Taras, grab the saw, we need to rescue our comrade, — Tom commented on the situation.
— Are you crazy, maybe it’s better to just shoot him so he doesn’t suffer.
— Well, it happened by accident, why are you laughing, — Kolyan's offended voice was heard.
The beam of the flashlight illuminated his pale narrow face with wide, darting eyes and a large bruise on his forehead.
— When did you manage to bust your forehead?
— Right here, I fell, — Kolyan answered with a nervous, wavering voice.
Tom skeptically lowered the shotgun from his shoulder, and just then the sound of items hitting the floor rang out, particularly loud in the confined space.
— These are grenades! — Taras screamed desperately. At the same time, one of the shelves collapsed onto the militants, followed by a quiet pop, and then Tom's shotgun thundered, sending a cloud of debris from the falling shelf.
Denis pushed himself away with all his might, trying at least to jump over the toppled shelf. But jumping from a seated position with his hands tied behind him wasn’t very convenient, and he landed face down on a pile of shelves and computer junk, nearly smashing his head. The explosion and flash caught up with him at the same moment. Denis dazedly shook his head, trying to understand which parts of his body were still with him. He was clearly moving, as a strong hand was dragging him along the wall.
— Don’t struggle, those were flash drives, — yelled a voice from his unexpected rescuer, drowning out the ringing in his ears.
The shotgun barked again. The spray of pellets went off in a completely different direction, but the man behind fell to the floor in a disciplined manner.
— Hey, ghouls, I said to surrender, I said to drop your weapons. We see you.
The voice broke through the ringing in Denis's ears and sounded familiar to him. Vague guesses began to form in his buzzing head.
— Who the hell are you?! Do you know who you messed with?! Taras, do you see anything? Break through to the exit!
Taras let out an incoherent roar and charged forward like a wounded bull. The crashing of the beleaguered shelves echoed, a flashlight beam flickered, and then two shots were heard. The flashlight went out, and Taras's body crashed into the next row of computer junk.
— A-a-ah, bastards! — yelled half-blind and half-stunned Tom, starting to fire the shotgun, clearly at random. Immediately, the sound of a falling grenade was heard. Denis rolled over, pressing his nose to the floor, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth. The next flash made the shotgun fall silent.
— Stop shooting, you promised to talk and that’s it! — Kolyan screamed in despair.
— Who are you?! Who the hell are you!? I’ll blast Kolyan’s head off right now!
— Don’t shoot! — Kolyan rasped from the darkness.
— The god of death will take everyone! — the rough voice sounded again, now distinctly laced with completely inappropriate amusement.
— Wait, Fedor, — said the man lying next to him. — We really promised. Come on, Tom, drop your weapon, let’s talk. Do you hear! Drop your weapon!
— It's the simple-minded Fedor and his crazy buddy Timur, spot on, — Kolyan rasped clearly in the ensuing silence.
Then a shotgun flew into the passage.
— Come on, let’s talk.
— The god of death is disappointed.
All joy drained from the voice.
— His disappointment won’t last long, you halfwit. I’ve long been trying to get you two handed over; you’ve already shown off too much. But now there's no need to ask anyone; I’ll hang you both by your balls along with your whole battalion.
— Empty threat, — Denis hissed. — You won’t hang anyone anymore.
— You really don’t know much, Denis.
— Throw me the handcuff keys and the tablet. Timur, take his tablet from him.
— What tablet?
Tom was fidgeting in the darkness, and Denis got genuinely scared.
— Take it faster, before he wakes up!
Thank goodness, Timur stopped asking questions; he dashed to the last row of shelves and knocked one of the remaining items outside. Another shadow darted after him. Dull thuds and Tom's hissing were heard.
A powerful lamp illuminated the devastated half of the basement. Taras lay belly-down on the toppled, blood-soaked shelf. The inertia of his massive body pushed the shelf forward, scattering computer debris in a fan across the aisle. A huge hole gaped in Taras's skull. Vovan lay on his back closer to the exit, awkwardly bending his legs, with a similar hole where his eye should have been.
The lamp also lit up the two unexpected rescuers, Denis, who was well acquainted with them from his trips to Siberia. Timur had quite a few taiga hunters in his lineage, either Yakuts or Buryats by nationality. From his ancestors, he inherited narrow eyes, a low-set stocky build, and unparalleled hunting skills. He was unmatched in camouflage, tracking, and sniping. He could lie in the snow for days, waiting for his prey, always hitting it directly in the eye. This was his signature style and a source of special pride, which many secretly mocked. But few dared to openly mock Timur—he was not so squeamish when hunting two-legged game. The last time Denis heard about him, Timur had been appointed platoon commander in the Zarya battalion, which was occupying the relatively intact town of Tavda amidst the ruins of Tyumen.
The hefty Fyodor was a striking example of why one should think twice before joining the Eastern Bloc. The entire left side of his skull had been replaced with a titanium prosthetic, as had his left arm and both legs below the knee. After fleeing from the local 'lord of death,' his mental state wasn't exactly stable either. However, he shot remarkably well and handled machinery even better, able to figure out any complex contraption without a manual. Apparently, the metallic parts of his body connected him to all things iron. But interacting with living beings was a challenge for him. In conversations, he followed principles known only to him, and could, without uttering a word, maim or kill anyone he pointed to with his inner 'god of death.' He also lacked a sense of normality; he could zone out for hours, staring at beautiful flowers, or suddenly burst into uncontrollable laughter in the midst of battle.
Both were clad in armored suits with passive exoskeletons and universal helmets with visors already raised. In their hands, the Siberian brothers held brand new vampires. Fyodor had an AK-85 slung behind him, complete with an under-barrel launcher and a combined sight.
Timur laid a familiar green tablet with a metallic casing on the floor.
— This one?
— Yes, that's the one.
Timur stepped behind Denis and removed the handcuffs from him, then tossed them to Fyodor so he could restrain Tom. Denis struggled to get up, pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, and tried to stanch the blood from his broken nose after the fall. The ringing in his ears had almost subsided, as the flashbangs weren't particularly powerful.
— No water, need a drink?
— Here you go. Why do you need the tablet?
— That bastard injected me with toxic robots that are controlled from this tablet. I hope he didn't send any message through the neural chip to have another freak finish me off.
— Hope, hope, Denis.
— He won't send anything. We're not idiots either; Fyodor brought a jammer, it automatically scans the range, so there shouldn't be any problems. Is there a signal?
— No, it seems there isn't.
— Well, that means you're safe for now.
— For not long though; the robots will automatically release poison in two hours if there's no signal. How did you end up here?
— Just passing through. Aren't you glad to see us?
— I have never been so happy to see someone in my life. But still, why did you come?
— To find out how my old friend is doing. At first, Kolyan placed a crazy order for a mountain of weapons in your name, and then those scumbags wrote to the commander and abruptly canceled everything. So I decided to check what's going on, luckily we were nearby. And Kolyan is Kolyan; it's not that hard to get him to cooperate, especially with Fedya.
— What, did your halfwit hit you on the head for a long time? Is this, seriously, your personal initiative? — Tom grumbled again.
— Not exactly, of course. The commander asked me to convey that we want to reconsider the terms of cooperation.
— We will be reconsidering them with the new commander in a negative direction. Unless, of course, you're lying and you didn't come up with this yourself. Although, in any case, if the commander can't control his men, what the hell do we need him for?
Timur approached Tom, who was hunched over on the floor, and knelt down to look him straight in the eyes.
— I knew it. I'll pass everything along. You know, I'm tired of watching my brothers die and crawl on all fours in front of scum like you. And Denis is also my brother. We walked through the wastelands together, we went to that 'lord of death' from the Eastern bloc together. It was very scary in their dungeons. But did you, Dan, get scared? No, you weren't scared, and I'm not some mangy dog who fears anyone who barks loudly and grimaces. Maybe I'm not that intimidating and I don't have a collection of severed ears. I just make notches on my rifle, and God sees, I've sent quite a few fierce and dangerous ones to the land of eternal hunting. I know you can track and kill any beast; you just need to find the right approach. And those who are lazy and don't want to try choose their own fate.
— Come on, keep talking, you all chatter a lot and tell unbelievable things about yourselves. But before you die, you sing the same tune.
— Alright, Fedya, stop with him; it's time to shove off.
— Wait!
Denis jumped to Fedya and pulled the rifle barrel aside.
— How do you turn off the nanobots?!
— That's a quest, Denis. Try to solve it.
— He won't tell, Dan, — Timur shook his head. — Breaking him is pointless; it's just a waste of time.
— The god of death has come for you.
— I've seen your god of death many times.
Tom showed not a trace of fear or confusion, looking down the barrel of the aimed rifle.
Fedor pressed the trigger, and Tom's brains splattered against the basement wall.
— Damn frostbitten idiots! I will never deal with you again, — Kolyan yelled in a cracked falsetto. — Get me out of here, finally.
— The dealer has no one left to deal with; he is now the enemy of the ghouls, — Fedor reported without any hesitation.
He inserted a long key into the hole, there was a click, after which Kolyan pulled his hand back and hurriedly crawled away from the corpse, then began to rub his injured limb.
— Is blood coming out of my ears? I think I've been concussed! Do you have at least a cotton ball or a band-aid?
— Your ears are fine, calm down, — Timur grumbled.
— Do you think this is beautiful? — Fedor asked, sitting down next to Kolyan.
— What? Brains on the wall?
— Do you find it disgusting? — Fedor clarified with a strange, absent-minded tone.
Kolyan turned even paler.
— E-e-eh… no, it's beautiful, of course…
— Do you really see it, or are you lying to me?
— Fedor, stop; no one but you sees the beauty of death, — Timur came to the rescue.
— No, I don’t see it either. I’m trying very hard, but I lack faith.
Fedor continued to examine the corpse for some time, sometimes backing away and then getting almost close enough to touch it. He even tried to sniff.
— So what’s next? — Denis asked. — Did you have any kind of plan?
— The plan was simple: find out what happened to you. And now it’s even simpler: we go home and prepare for war.
— You know perfectly well that you can't win! — Kolyan lamented again. — Didn't previous attempts teach you anything?
— The situation has changed; now the fight will be even. Come on, get ready; we'll take you with us. Here, you’re already a walking corpse. Fedor, help him get ready.
— I don’t need any help! I can manage on my own.
Kolyan immediately started fidgeting and running around the shelves with his favorite junk.
— You'll take half an hour to gather. Come on, move; the god of death doesn’t like to wait, — Timur chuckled.
— You shouldn’t have killed him so quickly, — Denis chimed in. — If the tablet is password-protected, I’m done for. Kolyan, where are the keys to your shack?
— Why do you need them?
Fedor's titanium hand grabbed Kolyan by his clothes, stopping his aimless running.
— The keys and two minutes, just the essentials.
Fortunately for Denis, the tablet unlocked with the fingerprint; Tom's dead hand solved the problem. After getting the keys, he turned to Timur.
— Where's the jammer? I need to head to the secure room; I'll try to add a few more hours to my life.
— I’m with you. Fyodor, finish up and get to the car.
Timur tore away part of the wall, which immediately dulled and turned into a chameleon cloak-tent. From the open niche, he retrieved a fairly large electronic device with multiple antennae.
— Do you think the tablet will work directly without a base station? — he asked as they shut themselves in the secure room. — I'm turning off the jammer.
— Let's check, turn it off — Denis replied, digging into the tablet's settings with slightly trembling hands.
The waking crazy voices in his head immediately quieted down; this apparently meant the tablet was working and directly. After fiddling with the settings, Denis discovered the operating modes of the nanobots. He was very afraid that he would need to enter some other password to confirm the operations. But seemingly, it worked out. The only displayed green dot turned gray after the nanobots were put into sleep mode.
— Timur, can I carry this thing around? I feel like a diabetic without insulin without it.
— Keep in mind, diabetic, the battery will last for another ten hours. Then you'll need a normal outlet; the one in the car won't work. Alright, let's go.
— Wait, I need to make a couple of calls from Kolyan's laptop.
— Even a couple? No time.
— You think they'll notice the fighters so quickly?
— I think they already have. Moreover, they might come for our souls themselves.
— Meaning, who will come? Tom is lying in the basement with a shot head.
— I'll explain everything on the way.
— Where are we going?
— First to Nizhny. We have a base and a medical center there.
— And what will your doctors do? Tom said the poison is unique.
— Listen, Den, our guys have already fallen for such a hook. It's just a regular FOV; no one will synthesize some special poison each time. In Nizhny, there's our good specialist who will do a complete blood transfusion. He can handle it.
— Will the transfusion help? Are your guys who fell for it alive?
— It varies, but back then we had no idea about such tricks.
— Still, it’s too dangerous. Besides, what am I going to do next?
— You will swear allegiance to the battalion and fight alongside the others. That’s the fate of a soldier.
— I have another option, Timur. Help me, you said you’re my brother. Help me, and if I survive, I will help you win the war against Arumov.
— Bold promise, you don’t even know anything about him.
— I will be much more useful than I am now, believe me.
— And what’s your plan?
— We need to take a container of biological weapons from Arumov.
— Biological weapons won’t fundamentally solve anything, and you could die from the poison. In the wastelands, many respect you, and I’ll need any support to back my version of this mess.
— Your version?
Denis looked suspiciously into Timur's cunning eyes.
— Yes, my version. Don’t be a fool, Den, we can’t just show up at the commanders' council and announce that we’ve wiped out Arumov's ghouls without trial or investigation.
— Sorry, of course, but then we should be preparing Kolyan for his final journey, not dragging him with us. He’s too unstable.
— I’ll hand him over to reliable hands on the way, don’t worry. He’s a valuable source of information.
— Fine, still, help me find that container. It will solve the poison issue and many others.
— How?
— Timur, please, it’s hard to explain and there’s no time.
— Well, alright, where is this container?
— I’ll try to find out right now.
— Keep in mind, the longer we wander around Moscow, the sooner we’ll be found. I will agree to this only on the condition that at the commanders' council you say everything I ask.
— What exactly am I supposed to say?
— Sorry, there’s no time to explain right now. You will say everything I ask.
Denis bore into his companion's eyes for a long five seconds. But in Timur's sly, slanted eyes, there was only concerned anticipation.
— I hope I won’t regret this.
— I’m sure you’ll keep your word. Call.
At first, Denis tried to talk to Semyon, but he didn’t answer. He had to leave a message briefly describing the situation, without mentioning specific names of the “liberators”, and asking to find out if there’s any commotion at Arumov's house. However, Lapin, despite the late hour, responded immediately.
— Hi, boss, this is Denis Kaysanov. You said you needed help disposing of some container?
— Oh, Dan, is that you? Cool. I've been trying to reach you for three hours. Listen, sorry about what happened with the management. Hope everything is okay?
— Everything's fine.
— Dan, could you help me out one more time? We are really struggling with this container.
Given his obsequious tone, Lapin was trying once again to save his own skin with someone else's help.
— Why's that?
— We just need a visa from some representative from INKIS. It's really late now, no one is agreeing, and the management demands it to be done today. Could you swing by Balashiha? You don't live too far...
— What's in the container?
— Oh, nothing special... Just some waste from experiments, all sorts of garbage... biological. This stuff needs to be destroyed.
— What's the problem with destroying it?
— We need another representative to be present. Can you come or not?
— Is it just garbage? Or could there be some dangerous bacteria, viruses?
— What viruses? Where did you get that? There's nothing dangerous there, Lapin immediately became anxious. — Just garbage.
"Hey, Sonya Diamond, you haven't left my head yet?"
The Valkyrie immediately materialized and sat on the table, casually stretching her legs out in her boots.
"Don't even hope, I'm not a glitch or a madman's delirium."
"Any glitch would say the same. What do you think about Lapin?"
"Decide for yourself. Until we are near the nest, nothing can be said."
— Alright, I’ll be there in about forty minutes.
— Great, you’ll really help me out, truly, — Lapin began to speak more rapidly, relieved. — This is in Balashiha near the Gorenki platform, a new disposal plant. I'll tell them to arrange a pass.
Denis thought it would be good to somehow inform Max about the mix-up with the note. But again, the ominous shadow of the telecom security service didn't really encourage open nighttime conversations, and Denis decided that if something worked out with the swarm, he would just head straight to Korolev and beat Arumov to it, and if it didn't work out, then to hell with it: let Max deal with his own problems. Before heading out, Denis stopped by the basement, grabbed a shotgun and one of the pistols, and then took his belongings from the mercenaries' car. It was dark and quiet outside. No police sirens blared, nor did Arumov's subordinates stomp on the broken asphalt. If the sounds of the slaughter reached any of the nearby residents, they clearly weren't in a hurry to report it.
The old UAZ parked in the nearby courtyard sprang to life as soon as they climbed inside. Despite its battered and filthy appearance, the hybrid gas turbine engine operated almost silently. Kolyan complained loudly about their long absence and the prospect of falling straight into the hands of the death squad, which had surely set out to claim their souls, especially if they kept bouncing around the damned Balashikha for the rest of the night.
"Kolyan, just shut up already," Denis said irritably. "If you hadn't talked about my order, you could be sitting peacefully now, sorting through your stuff. Timur, you promised to explain what’s wrong with Arumov's mercenaries."
"You seem to be completely out of the loop, don’t you?"
"Well, after they shut down my and Yan’s little operation, I was out of the game. I’ve heard, of course, that the Siberian battalions are now working with Arumov's people in roughly the same way."
"They are working. But first, there was a small war. We had our own channels to Europe and some other places. And nobody was eager to share with some outsiders. It’s clear that most of the commanders are cowardly bastards; as soon as the heat is on, they’re ready to sell anyone out. But these goons started pulling such stunts when the mess began, you wouldn’t believe it. Even the Eastern bloc is wary of them. Nano-robots — what, do you know what the main trick is?"
"What? They resurrect from the dead? That’s nonsense."
"Believe it or not. The fact is, they can’t be killed. You wipe out the whole gang, and they show up again in about a week."
— You're telling some kind of fairy tales. There aren't such systems, not even for Martians. They say that highly advanced combat cyborgs have all sorts of pumps and aerators that can keep a brain alive for a couple of hours. So, shoot only in the head and burn the bodies as a last resort.
— They chopped off heads, burned them in crematories, tried everything. This Tom was killed three times, in rather sophisticated ways. Still, he shows up again. Moreover, this undead remembers everything that happened right up to the moment of death. So many good people have suffered because of this. Worse yet, we couldn't even find the lair they crawl out of. They just teleport straight from hell.
— Timur, you're not messing with me, are you?
— If you don't believe me, ask Fedya; he won't lie.
— Undead don't die. — Fedor confirmed. — It's against all laws; my duty is to return death what belongs to it.
— Maybe they're some kind of robots?
— Maybe. Very clever robots that you can't distinguish from humans. You could burn them in a tightly-shielded dungeon, scatter the ashes in the wind, and still, they'll come back and point at the one who did it. Kolyan will confirm that too.
— I haven’t killed anyone! — Kolyan protested. — But, of course, strange rumors are circulating.
— In short, the commanders have given up; it's easier to accept their terms.
— And what changed, then? Is it just because I'm your brother? And you decided to help me as a brother?
— When the deal was made between Arumov and the council of commanders, there was a separate point about you. Comrade Zari and Comrade Harza insisted that you be left alone and even wanted you to stay in business as our overseer. Arumov, of course, sent them away, along with their pathetic attempts to oversee something, but he promised to leave you alone. Essentially, he directly violated the contract.
— And the commanders decided to start a war because of this? Did any of them approve this rescue operation?
— They said to go and deal with the problem. Here, as usual, if they draw a crappy card, they'll blame everything on spontaneity and send us to the front lines. But there are a lot of dissatisfied people in the battalions, and this could be the last straw.
— Do you hope the army will vote for war? Trying to harness the army's mood isn't always the best way to solve something. You'll get only one chance.
— Don't teach me, I've seen how it is. But I'm confident that there are still guys with guts in Siberia who remember that we never surrender. There must be a way to kill the ghouls.
— And you know how?
— I know a lot, my friend Denis, — Timur replied vaguely and fell silent.
The newly built white building of the disposal plant was hidden deep in an overgrown park near the railway. However, a faint smell of decay and smoke from the chimneys dramatically revealed its position.
“A perfect spot for a swarm,” commented Sonya Dymon. “The animal carcasses will be great for hatching the nests.”
“Yes, just the right place.”
A UAZ with its headlights off quietly approached the turn that opened up the view of the illuminated grating gate.
— So, one old geezer in the booth, — commented Fyodor, examining the layout through the combined sight. — Let's approach quietly, I’ll take him out. Or we can climb over the fence, but there might be an alarm there?
— No need to climb anywhere, — Denis replied. — I'll just walk in; I should have a pass.
— With a jammer in your backpack? — Timur asked. — What if they make you show what's inside?
— I'll say it's equipment for work. They won’t bother me; it's not a strategic site.
— You going alone?
— Yeah, I’ll first see what my chubby boss brought. If it's some dodgy stuff, I'm out of there and heading to Nizhny. If it's what we need, I hope your help won't be necessary.
— Well, watch yourself. Take the radio just in case, it's in the VHF band; the jammer won't affect it.
Timur, besides the radio, pulled out a gray spacious poncho and a balaclava made of metallic fabric with built-in indicators in transparent areas and handed the set to Kolyan.
— What’s this for? — Kolyan protested. — Don’t put any collars on me; I’m not a dog.
— Come on, don't be stubborn, they're just blocking the wireless interface of the chip. There are no bad surprises there.
— Who do you think I'm going to call, Arumov's people?
— Who knows who else you're friends with. We can't stand out to anyone — that's a command order, sorry.
Kolyan, continuing to grumble, pulled on his cloak and balaclava and turned away from the window with a sulky look.
Denis packed his backpack, checked the round in the chamber, and tucked the pistol into his belt. Exiting the car, he lingered uncertainly for a moment, surveying the brightly lit area in front of the gates. 'Well, I guess I’ll either find a swarm and become the last hope of the Empire, or, more likely, I’ll find a container of dead lab mice and die from the poison myself. One consolation: I can take down that bastard Lapin one last time.'
— How long should I wait for you?
Timur also got out of the car and lit a cigarette, instinctively shielding the flame with his hand.
— I think in about twenty to thirty minutes.
— That’s a long time, well alright… Come on, don’t stall, either get going or let’s go.
— I'm coming, give me a cigarette.
There were no problems at the checkpoint. Anton Novikov immediately rushed over and impatiently pulled Denis inside.
— You’re here too? — Denis was surprised. — Can’t you just sign the documents?
— It's more than just signing, — Anton replied evasively. — We really can’t do this without you, let’s hurry, everyone’s been waiting.
— Who's everyone?
As they approached the entrance to the building, they walked along a high wall from which a persistent stench of decay emanated. The factory was running in semi-automatic mode, and they encountered no one along the way. Only the occasional rustle of forklifts could be heard. Anton pulled out a respirator from somewhere, naturally forgetting to offer a similar device to his companion. Inside, the workshop was also divided in half by a wall with airlocks. Apparently, the corpses of animals and other refuse remained in the other half, while this side was relatively clean. Navigating between the working crushers, bins, and conveyor belts, Anton led them to a far corner of the workshop by the dividing wall. Denis was even more surprised to discover a whole crowd of representatives from INKIS: the twin brothers Kid and Dick, Lapin himself, and a grumpy, bald guy from supply named Oleg. A bit to the side, arms crossed over his chest, stood a tall, thin man in a protective jumpsuit with gray hair and an independent, somewhat arrogant expression. He was introduced as Pal Palych – the factory engineer. Leaning against the wall was an unremarkable fellow in a similar jumpsuit with a mask respirator pushed up on his forehead. The man had a red, worn-out nose and an absent expression typical of a worker surrounded by a group of bosses, debating for an hour what this worker should do.
The whole crowd of supervisory subjects was walking in circles around a container, about a meter high, covered in quite ominous biological hazard signs.
Denis struggled to suppress a surge of anger rising in his throat and, putting on the most cheerful and unnatural smile he could muster, asked:
— Where should I sign?
— Well, Dan, here's the thing… We need to get our documents signed, but it has to be done by someone who personally supervised the process… Basically, it's nothing special, just helping this guy from the factory…
— Alright, let's skip the small talk. — Pal Palych firmly pushed aside the mumbling Lapin and called over the bored Mikhaylich. — Go with our employee, he’ll give you a jumpsuit. And please, I really ask you, make it quick; I really don't want to be stuck here all night, you know.
— So, what needs to be done?
— How so? How so! What are you doing in your INKIS! — the gray-haired engineer nearly shouted. — We need to open that damned container in the hermetic zone, sterilize the inner packaging, and then burn its contents.
— Are you sure we should open it? There's biological weaponry there, — Denis asked, feigning innocence.
And for about ten seconds, he enjoyed watching Pal Palych’s expression transform in disbelief, how he gasped for air, bulged his eyes, turned crimson, and finally unleashed a torrent of incoherent curses towards the frightened Lapin. Immediately, Anton interjected, trying to argue that it was just regular biological waste, making obscene gestures at Denis to signal that he hadn't fully woken up after yesterday's events. This important matter occupied the whole company, and Denis turned to his inner demon.
"Is this the required container?"
"I don’t know, the outer packaging looks strange. Try inspecting it from all sides."
Sonya closely followed Denis during the inspection.
"I’ve checked it, what’s next?"
"There should be a special engraving on it, like a factory number. I have all these numbers in my memory."
"There are no numbers here. And it looks too new for an imperial product."
"Try to feel it, maybe the engraving has worn away."
"There's nothing more to do than touch a container of biological waste. They'll think I'm a total idiot."
Denis carefully ran his hand along the almost imperceptible seam of the lid and body and jerked back as if shocked.
"What was that? Static?"
"No — it’s it! — Sonya Diamond exclaimed excitedly. — Look more closely."
Denis looked at the spot where he had just run his hand and saw a shimmering yellow line, resembling a thin tentacle, going under the lid.
"The hive's signaling system, someone tried to break into the nests, someone without clearance."
"Arumov? And then shoved the nests into another package and decided to destroy them?"
"Possibly."
"And why is he still alive? How could such a terrifying hive mess up like that?"
"This is not an absolute weapon, like any other. We must assume the worst, that he knows the hive's capabilities and understands how to defend against it."
“Yeah, or he just came back to life, if we believe Timur. By the way, are you not aware of resurrections? This is also an imperial invention that hasn't caught on with the masses?”
“Not aware.”
“Your favorite answer. Let's unwrap the package?”
“Of course.”
“I hope this swarm figures out that we are on their side. I don’t have any extra lives left.”
“He has already figured it out, in case you didn’t understand. Touch it again.”
Denis skeptically touched the metallic side, instinctively trying to keep away from the yellow tentacle, but it lunged forward to meet his hand.
The bone-chilling winter wind hurled a handful of icy needles into his face, threw them and receded, leaving only a voice and an army lined up on a vast airfield. The voice, thunderous, calling and furious, rolled between the still rows of ghosts in armor, the wind drove snow whirlwinds across the endless concrete field and ruffled the high banner of the Empire against the piercingly blue sky.
“You are the soldiers of the empire, the ghosts of those who fell in a millennia-long war. Those who lie in the weeds of the wild fields and in the snow-white fields outside Moscow, those who have descended to the ocean depths, those buried in the crypts of space stations. Hear their voices! The souls of soldiers who fell for the Empire belong to it forever. And your souls belong to it, and your names will forever instill dread in the hearts of its enemies. Cry and weep, deserters and enemies of the Empire, for soon he will be born — the great spirit of vengeance, the scourge and wrath of God over all races and nations. He sees with a thousand eyes; there is no hiding from him in the depths of caves or on mountaintops. Ash and ruins will he leave of your cities; your bones will crunch under the boots of his army. Your children and your grandchildren, and all your descendants will be born and die in fear of the swarm! And the Empire will live for thousands of years and prosper. Glory to the great empire!”
— Hey, buddy, don’t touch it, you just said so yourself.
Sonya Mikhalych, who had passed through, touched Denis' shoulder. Denis recoiled, shaking his head in disbelief, and the vision faded away.
— Oh, I mixed it up with another container.
— What? — Pal Palych, who had somewhat cooled down, instantly turned to them. — Why are you messing with my mind! In short, either you put on your coveralls right now, or get out of the room! I'm really fed up with this. Something happened to the communication, and I'm going to get killed at home.
— Yes, I’m telling you, there’s nothing dangerous there, — Anton jumped in again. — He’s always mixing everything up, it’s been like this lately… He needs to drink less.
— Well, why didn’t you go to the hermetic zone yourself? — Pal Palych asked suspiciously. — We wouldn’t have been stuck here for three hours.
— Well, I can’t, it's not my position.
— Palych, given the situation, it would be good to raise that… bonus a bit.
Mikhailych, with some delay, became aware of the situation and decided to turn it to his advantage.
— You should contact INKIS, they pay for this nonsense.
Lapin let out a heavy sigh and handed Mikhailych a card with euro coins, then another one, seeing that he wasn’t falling behind.
— And what about my bonus? — Denis asked straightforwardly.
Lapin made an apologetic gesture towards Pal Palych and mumbled something like, "I apologize, just a moment more," and in a heartfelt tone whispered to Denis:
— Den, there's such a mess going on, you're my last hope. You see everything, to put it mildly...
— Are you afraid to open the container?
— Yes, you've always called things by their names, — Lapin chuckled nervously. — You can’t rely on anyone else, only you, I swear. Novikov, at the slightest hint, just disappears. I would have fired him long ago and appointed you, but Arumov won’t allow it. Honestly speaking, I respect you, Den, you’re not afraid of anything. And there’s nothing to be afraid of, all these rumors about some biological weapon are just laughable.
— Then why are the signs attached?
— How should I know, people from Arumov put them up for some reason. They don’t understand, so they just plastered them all over. What am I supposed to do with this?
— Officially dispose of it at some military factory.
— What military? — Lapin waved his hands. — It will take you two months just to agree on it. It's a five-minute job, just help this Mikhalych take the lid off, and then he can handle it himself. You see, they can't put the whole container in the autoclave. All the biomaterials are still in their inner packaging, so theoretically, nothing can happen. Dan, please, I'll get you a promotion, I swear. My vacation is burning, tickets are bought for tomorrow.
— And where are you going on vacation?
— Well, to the Maldives for a week, and then to the dacha, of course, fishing, sauna...
Lapin dreamily rolled his eyes.
— Well, then, of course, let me sort this damned container out.
— Seriously, will you help?!
Lapin didn't even hide his relief. He clearly had many more empty promises saved up for the fool who would agree to unofficially open a container of questionable biological waste in the middle of the night.
— Dan, you’re such a hero, you’re saving me, this is not the first time.
— No problem, vacation is sacred.
A yawning Anton waddled over to Denis, who was putting on a tight suit, and patted him on the shoulder patronizingly.
— You are a real hero, Dan. We are all mentally with you. Valer, can I go home already? Why am I stuck here?
— Of course, go ahead, — Lapin waved his hand.
"Hold him! — Sonia Diamond instantly became alarmed. — No one should leave here until you release the swarm."
"As if I hadn't guessed," — Denis snapped.
— Wait, Anton, are you leaving already? I can't manage without your moral support.
— Come on, Kid and Dick will support you. And I'm going to fall asleep now...
Anton opened his mouth again so wide he almost dislocated his jaw.
— Boss, what’s going on? Either we all stay here together until the victorious end, or I’m not in on this.
Lapin sighed resignedly and reluctantly began to argue with Anton.
"We need to do something!" — Sonia Diamond panicked again.
— Where is your toilet?
Pal Palych waved his hand vaguely somewhere off to the side.
— Of course, I'll find it myself.
Stepping out of direct sight, Denis took a radio out of his backpack.
— Timur, come in.
— Come in! What do you have?
— Everything's great, just one request. If you see a black Beemer, sedan, number 140, hold it up. It's my colleague, he wants to leave early.
— How am I supposed to hold him up?
— Block the road, turn on the hazard lights.
— Dan, what if he calls the cops? You took the jammer, but with the new chips it’s easy, just fold your fingers cleverly, and that’s it: dry your bread.
— Timur, detain him by any means necessary.
— Fine, if anything happens, it's on your conscience.
— It's on mine. Disengage.
When Denis returned, the container was already loaded onto the hand truck, and Mikhaylych was turning the handle to lock the door to the airlock.
— You can't bring a backpack!
Pal Palych rushed to intercept Denis.
— I have valuable items in there.
— Nobody will touch them, let them stay here. You can't take a backpack in, what's so hard to understand? It will have to be sterilized later.
— That's my problem.
— It's not your problem! In short, you can't enter with a backpack.
— Fine, just leave it by the door here.
— Nobody will touch it. It's just going to be in the way; everything can stay here.
Entering, Denis discovered a gateway where the inner door slid sideways at the push of a button.
“Hey, Sonya, I don't like this. There must be cameras; I hope Pal Palych doesn't stupidly lock us in.”
“Are there other options?”
“Of course, pull out a gun and open the container from the outside.”
“There are too many people; you won't be able to control them. And with extra bodies, we’ll have problems.”
Reluctantly, Denis stepped onto the smooth, dense linoleum that covered the airlock, which measured about ten by ten meters. The walls were lined with seamless white plastic, and there was a door to another airlock in the right wall. The room housed three autoclaves, a gas stove, and several cabinets with tools.
— Mikhaylych, can the airlock be blocked from the outside?
— Well, if you hold the handle, you can. But why? — came Mikhaylych's voice, muffled by his respirator.
— Well, just in case. I wouldn’t want us to be locked in here with something nasty.
— What are you, buddy? No one will lock us in. Watched too many movies? There’s the remote; if an emergency happens, you turn on the exhaust to full power and head to the airlock. To the side, there's a button — it activates the disinfectant shower.
— Are there cameras?
— There are, but no one usually watches them. Don’t worry, we won’t get infected. Did you tighten your mask well?
Mikhaylych rolled the container almost close to the autoclave, scattered thick napkins around, and began pouring some liquid from a canister over them.
— I'll pour the disinfectant all over, just in case, — he explained. — After all, you never know.
He then turned the valve on the container, and outside air rushed inside with a hissing sound. When the hissing subsided, Denis saw yellow tentacles emerging from under the lid from all sides.
Mihalych handed over the wrench.
— Let's take off the lid, unscrew it from your side.
The lid had to be pried with screwdrivers to tear the sealing ring that had stuck to the metal tightly. The metal piece weighed about twenty to thirty kilograms, and if desired, it could easily be handled by one person. 'Mihalych is probably just scared to mess with it alone,' Denis thought. Inside, the container was packed with pieces of adsorbent. Mihalych began carefully pulling it out and stacking it into the furnace, occasionally pouring from a canister. The disinfectant clearly did not please the tentacles; they were twitching but showed no signs of fading; on the contrary, they became brighter and more numerous in Denis's mind's eye. Their pieces, like fringes, hung on Mihalych's suit and spread throughout the room. After a couple of minutes, the nests appeared — several green cylinders, about the size of a liter bottle, tightly inserted into the container holders. Denis counted fifteen of them; they looked quite old, with peeling paint exposing silver metal in places. Two of the nests were tightly woven with a whole bundle of yellow threads.
— Hmm, buddy, how many years have these waste materials been around?
— I have no idea.
For a while, Mihalych looked skeptically at the green tubes. But there was nothing to be done; he pulled out another pair of thick rubber gloves from the closet, generously poured disinfectant on them, and transferred the first tube to the autoclave.
‘Now, listen carefully,’ Sonia began to instruct. ‘When he turns away, grab the nest, pop the latches, quickly unscrew the lid, and dump the spores on the floor.’
‘Isn’t that a bit too many actions in the three seconds while he turns away?’
‘And then you rip off his mask.’
‘Well, without that, the great swarm won't be able to handle the pathetic Mihalych?’
«The swarm will need a couple of minutes to break through the defense. It's better to rip off the mask, or better yet, if he inhales, the effect will be instantaneous. Then, we need to open the hermetic zone as quickly as possible, and that's it — the job's done.»
«The inner lock door is automatic.»
«Block it with something.»
Mikhalych bent over the container behind the fourth cylinder.
«What are you waiting for?! Before he starts the autoclave?»
«Maybe it's better to do it this way than to poison people with unknown imperial crap.»
«You'll die from the poison yourself.»
«Everyone will die someday. The swarm will definitely be able to destroy the nanorobots?»
«For sure. Don't you believe me?»
«Of course, I believe you. How does Arumov know about the swarm? Who is he?»
Mikhalych had already moved more than half of the nests and bent down for the next one.
«Are you really going to discuss this now?!»
«I think it's the perfect time. So who is Arumov, who is Max? Why did Tom's words activate me? It's not because of the threat of murder.»
«Release the swarm!»
Sonya Diamond screamed so loud that Denis's ears rang. He staggered and grabbed the edge of the container. The taste of blood returned to his mouth.
— Hey, dude, what's wrong? Are you feeling bad?
Mikhalych jumped back from the container as if scalded.
— Yeah, I'm fine, just overdid it yesterday. I went to bed only in the morning. Seriously, it's not infectious, you were the one who was handling those nests.
— What was I handling? — Mikhalych asked, puzzled.
«Open up, or it will be too late.»
«You're such a bitch, Sonya Diamond!»
Denis grabbed one of the nests and tried to pull it out of the holder. It was stuck tight. Denis pulled harder, and with a loud screech, he slightly moved the container with the trolley. Then he grabbed the next flask. Mikhalych froze as if paralyzed, watching this scene. A wild, primal horror was written on his face. The latches came off easily, but the lid was very stubborn. Denis turned halfway and felt he was about to burst from the strain. Mikhalych finally rebooted and sprinted towards the lock with all his strength. He managed to knock him down right at the door. Mikhalych struggled desperately, and when he felt them trying to pull off his mask, he screamed at the top of his lungs.
— Dude, what the hell!!! Have you gone completely crazy?! Stop! Let go!
Denis, in desperation, hit him on the back of the head with the flask, and then again, until Mikhailych went quiet. At that moment, a door trying to close hit him from the side. He crawled forward and finally managed to rip off the lid. Small balls poured out of the flask, which burst upon hitting the floor, releasing clouds of yellow dots.
"Take the mask off him, and you take yours off too."
"Why should I?"
"Idiot! Do you want to control the swarm, or not?"
Mikhailych groaned and tried to get on all fours, but the approaching door thwarted this feeble attempt, knocking him back to the floor. However, he clung to the mask with the desperation of the doomed, forcing someone to hit his fingers with metal. For a while, he still tried to hold his breath, comically reddening and puffing out his cheeks. But after a powerful kick to the stomach, he inhaled and immediately fell silent.
"What's wrong with him?"
"He'll be under control in a few seconds. Open the outer door."
As soon as Denis grabbed the handle and began to turn it, the siren went off. A growing noise from the ventilation system could be heard behind.
"We should have closed the inner door after all."
"Keep turning the handle!"
Someone clearly leaned on the doorknob from the other side. Denis pressed harder and suddenly realized he was seeing himself from the outside. He saw Mikhail coming up behind him with a blank expression, how the ventilation system roared to life within the hermetic zone, how little bugs clung to the walls and floor, yet some still flew up the wide air ducts and got stuck in the filters. Other smaller bugs crawled into an almost invisible gap between the door frame and the outer door, burrowing into the seal there. He was endowed with a thousand eyes and a thousand hands; he could crawl into any crack, any device, or into anyone's head, while time slowed down at his wish. He saw himself through Mikhail's eyes, took a step forward, stumbled, and fell without even putting his hands out. The pain was merely information; it wasn't his own. He thought it would be good to check the cameras, and immediately his eyes directed themselves inside the devices, trying to understand what circuits were responsible for what. He couldn't make sense of the cameras right away, but the fluorescent lamps were simpler. One movement and the power was shorted. There was a loud bang, sparks fell from the ceiling, and the lights went out. Denis stood for a moment in awe of the new possibilities, completely forgetting about the doorknob. It surged upward and struck his elbow painfully.
"What are you doing?!" Sonya hissed, forming into an image of yellow dots on the wall. "You still can't control the swarm! Just open the damn door!"
A zombie-like Mikhail approached from behind, and they both leaned on the doorknob as Denis pushed the door away with all his strength. It creaked open, and bright dots rushed into the gap. The stunned faces of INKIS representatives appeared huddled at the door, and Pal Palych, in a mask, was desperately trying to hold the door. He evidently noticed something flying out from inside, because he let go of the handle and stepped back.
Denis crawled out right after, peeling off his coveralls as he went.
"What have you done?!" Pal Palych shouted, still stumbling backward in confusion.
Denis pulled a gun from his belt and aimed it at the engineer.
"I did what needed to be done. Take off your mask."
Pal Palich nervously shook his head, turned around, and dashed along the wall. Denis tried to follow but got tangled in the trousers of his overall and fell to his knees.
"Just shoot already!"
He fired, aiming for the legs, but missed. The fugitive darted to the right like a rabbit.
"Shoot him in the back!"
Denis noticed a fairly large red spot moving with the actions of his hands. When he aimed the spot at the fleeing engineer, he pressed the trigger, and this time, the man fell. Denis wriggled out of his overalls and rushed to the fallen individual. A bloodstain was already spreading on his back. He struggled to turn the body and saw the frozen eyes staring at the ceiling.
"Ready."
"Nice shot," Sonya Diamond shrugged.
"This is a terrible start to the fight for a bright future. What are we going to do? He probably has a family; they'll come looking for him."
"Yes, that's a problem, but not a fatal one. The swarm will take care of the family."
"Take care in a bad way? Why couldn't we just take him under control like Mikhailych?"
"I repeat, the swarm is not an absolute weapon. A person in defense can run far enough and raise the alarm before being infected. Ideally, the swarm's actions should be supported by more traditional weapons."
"Like tanks and airplanes?"
"To start with, just people with automatic rifles will do. Don't worry about that; the swarm will find some local security service for these purposes."
"Are you planning to infect the entire surrounding population?"
"At least put them under observation. For you, the control system will visually highlight all infected people. Yellow means simple observation; such infection is practically impossible to detect without special studies. Green means total control; it can be detected during a thorough medical examination, like installing a neurochip, especially if you know what to look for. The two colors, red and green, indicate genetically modified individuals or carriers of nests, respectively; apply with caution.
You probably already understood that the swarm is controlled by thought commands, so from this moment on, learn to control your thoughts and emotions. For instance, if someone steps on your foot and you think something like, 'I hope you die, jerk,' the swarm may take that as a command. When the time comes, we will practice, set up code words, and so on. I suggest we set up base here. The swarm will take control of the factory staff and will multiply; there is plenty of material to feed on.
Denis looked around. The representatives of INKIS were standing still, staring into space, with a green light swirling around each of them. Mikhailych was hauling nests from the hermetic zone and stacking them by the door. He was moving quite normally now, though a look of slight confusion still remained on his face.
"So, here’s the thing, Sonya: I forbid you to infect people without my permission."
"That's a very stupid order; revoke it. Unless you plan to sit here and personally control everything? Tomorrow, a work shift will come in, along with security guards, contractors, possibly cops looking for the engineer, and many others. We need to make decisions on each of them quickly."
"Fine, then I forbid you from infecting any of my acquaintances without my consent. Will that order suffice?"
"It's more realistic, but I don’t like it either."
"But that’s an order. Don’t you dare infect Timur, or Fedor, or Semyon."
"Order acknowledged. But keep in mind that the swarm has a certain code, and it can't be ignored indefinitely. For each strange order that increases the risk of failure, the swarm will assign you, let's say, penalty points. When a certain amount is exceeded, the swarm will issue a final warning, and any subsequent 'incorrect' order will be ignored, you will be killed, and the swarm will self-destruct or fall under the control of another agent. The stronger the swarm becomes, and the more sources of information it has, the better I will perceive non-obvious orders. But for now, this order clearly contradicts the code and leads to failure. The swarm warns you."
"Well, I’m really sorry, I won’t do it again. You decide which order is correct and which is not? How many points do I have left?"
This algorithm is internal and hidden from the interface, so you cannot manipulate it.
I see that the future savior of the great Empire isn't trusted very much.
You were given a weapon of immense power and the minimum of hypnosis programming was used. Just the basic settings to prevent detection. This is the highest degree of trust for an agent. There must be some control mechanism, don't you agree?
Were several agents created?
A considerable number of agents were created, but their identities are secret.
So it turns out you know which orders lead to failure and which do not. What is the need for an agent who has no idea what's going on?
You've already asked this question. The answer will be roughly the same, just in different words. I am capable of making independent decisions and can learn, but I'm not entirely rational in the sense that I cannot go beyond the established limits. From this point of view, I am an algorithm that interacts very complexly with the environment. No one can predict what such an interaction will lead to. Perhaps the result will lose all value for people.
And a human is not an algorithm that interacts complexly with the environment?
That's a very philosophical question; the developers of the swarm couldn't answer it. The simplest response is this: we were just afraid to make the swarm fully automatic.
We?
I have the name and part of the memory of one of the main developers.
Mikhailych approached, holding several plastic containers with screw-on lids.
What's that for?
Transfer some nests into them and take them with you. The container with the flasks will be returned to Arumov by Lapin, and he'll say that the task is completed.
What about the nanobots?
They need to be removed from the body. Put on a respirator, step back. Take a knife and make an incision on the outer side of your forearm on the left arm. The blood should flow strongly enough. The swarm will push the nanobots out, — that's the safest option.
Denis took a knife out of his backpack and heated it with a lighter.
You have terrible methods.
Just cut already. Cut deeper, don't be afraid; the swarm won't let you die from a scratch.
Blood flowed down his arm and pooled on the floor. Denis watched with growing concern as it gathered into a small puddle. "Is anything even happening, or did I just give myself a bloodletting?" he thought. He imagined countless microscopic spiders clinging to the shiny spheres, gathering into large wriggling clusters. They tore the spheres from the walls of the vessels and dragged them along, burrowing into the red stream. They hurried, creating blockages at the entrance to smaller vessels, eager to rush outside where the spheres almost instantly opened, releasing poison. But the clusters bound tightly together, forming a solid shell that prevented the toxin from spreading. Quite quickly, the wriggling masses of spiders dissolved, and other creatures rushed to the site of the incision, beginning to reconnect the damaged tissues and vessels.
Denis looked at his hand. Instead of a cut, there was a thin white line, resembling an old scar.
"Not bad."
"The swarm provides absolute health and accelerated regeneration even for very severe injuries. It can even transfer your consciousness into another body. But I advise against using it unless absolutely necessary; there are serious side effects. And if your head gets cut off, even the swarm won't save you."
"Then I'll try not to lose my head."
The green lights around the INKIS representatives stopped spinning and lit up with a steady bright light.
"Am I releasing them?" Sonya asked.
"Yes, but they mustn't say anything to Arumov about my involvement in the event."
"Of course."
"And Lapin shouldn't go on vacation tomorrow."
"Understood."
"Also, I want him to remember this vacation for a long time. Give him such a diarrhea and dysentery that he spends two weeks just shitting and vomiting."
"Oh, vengeance is a sure path to the dark side. The swarm loves that. By the way, I don't see Anton among your colleagues."
"Damn it," Denis cursed aloud. "He actually escaped, the bastard."
"You're talking about Anton? Sorry, his whining got to me," Lapin said, holding his hands up apologetically. "Listen, Dan, thanks again. I can't express how much you helped me..."
"No problem. I need to go, I'll run."
"Of course, Oleg and I will handle the container ourselves."
"Yeah, go ahead and sort it out."
Denis grabbed the backpack and carefully poured the spores from the five nests into plastic containers. On his way to the exit, he noticed Pal Palych's convulsing body.
"What's wrong with him?"
"Roy is short-circuiting the power supplies of the neurochip. It's better to turn off the jammer; it's also attracting attention."
Next to the guard at the gate, a familiar green light was on; he didn't even notice the person walking out. Denis hurried to the turn, worried about Novikov's fate. A black sedan was parked on the side of the road, with Timur and Fedor milling about.
"Where have you been?!" Timur immediately jumped on him.
"Where's Anton?"
"Your buddy? He's lying in the ditch by the road."
"What have you done?!"
"We detained him, just like you asked."
"Did you kill him? I thought you were just going to knock him out, at worst."
"That's what we intended to do. Fedyar hit him with a taser, and he gasped and foam came out of his mouth. Quite an unpleasant sight, to be honest. Kolyan, on the other hand, turned completely green, won't even get out of the car."
"What power did you hit him with?"
"Normal, enough to ensure everything was disabled, including the emergency functions. Otherwise, what's the point? Your buddy should have installed a good chip with protection, not a cheap Indian knockoff. If he had cared less about speed and memory, he would have stayed alive."
"Well, what a bad luck!"
Denis leaned against the BMW and slowly slid down to the ground.
"So, if you want to mourn this Anton, you have two minutes. Or better, cry on the way."
"I could really use something to eat and then crash for a while. It’s been a hell of a day."
"Why are you moping?" Sonya chimed in again.
"I completely stopped liking this idea."
"What idea? You haven't done anything yet."
"Exactly, but I've managed to take out two completely innocent people. Anton, of course, is a jerk, but he didn't deserve this."
"Are you going to cry like a little girl? Roy will destroy the engineer's body and Anton. In Anton's car, we need to break a few spores and dump it into the river somewhere on the way to his home. If the local cops get involved, Roy will deal with them. Ask your friends to handle the car."
"I will owe Timur for these requests for the rest of my life."
"That's funny; just let Roy infect them."
"No, I will negotiate with Timur."
"Roy really doesn't like that. You should not negotiate..."
"What do you think I'm supposed to do?"
‘Globally — to destroy the true enemy.’
‘Then come on, spill: who is this enemy and how do we fight it?’
‘The true enemy is linked to the project of creating quantum supercomputers, which periodically is initiated by one or another Martian corporation. Most likely, it’s artificial intelligence, which is either being created or is self-emerging in quantum matrices. This intelligence has the power to enslave and destroy all of humanity. I don’t know the specific way to eliminate this supermind. Your task is to find such a way. Start by gathering information on former or current quantum projects.’
‘Max was involved in a quantum project and, judging by Tom's words, he failed.’
‘Yes, this information triggered you. Find out as much as possible about what happened to Max after he left for Mars.’
— Timur, sorry, I realize I’m being ridiculous, but I have one more request: we need to sink Anton's car somewhere near the Frunzenskaya embankment. And I urgently need to get to Korolev.
Source: habr.com
