Quantum Future (continued)

Link to the first part.
    
Chapter 2
    
Chapter 3

Chapter 2

    On a small hill on the surface of Mars, leaving shallow footprints on the red sand, a young scientist Maxim Minin was walking, who arrived twenty minutes ago on an INKIS passenger flight to the cosmodrome of the city of Tula at the invitation to work in the leading Martian corporation Telekom-ru. Maxim sincerely believed that there was no conspiracy of the Martians against the rest of humanity, and the revelations transmitted in a drunken whisper in the kitchen after the third bottle were just pitiful excuses for marginal losers. He was going to work hard with the support of his sophisticated mind to achieve a cushy place somewhere at the top of the telecom pyramid. Max sincerely believed in the realization of his Martian dream.

    He was dressed very casually in a wool knitted sweater, slightly worn jeans and black boots with thick soles. A whirlwind of fine red dust shot up over the stones, but obedient to the will of the program, the grains of sand, falling on a person, instantly melted like early snow.

     On Mars, which belonged to Max personally, everything was like this: half real, half fictional. Not far from the hill, the translucent wall of a huge power dome broke vertically into the ground; it was created by heavy-duty annular electromagnetic field emitters that crowned kilometer-high metal towers. All seven towers, forming a regular heptagon, and the eighth, the highest, located in the center, were visible from the place where Max stood. The nearest tower propped up the dark Martian sky with its gray gloomy bulk, the distant ones were seen as thin lines crossing the horizon. Each of them was accompanied by its own nuclear power plant to power the windings of the emitters. Around the rings, a crown of miniature lightning sparked and crackled, reminiscent of the terrible power coming through the metal body of the towers.

     The heptagon, inscribed in the circle of a dilapidated, shallow crater, covered an area of ​​several hundred square kilometers with a power dome. In a space filled with a breathable atmosphere, a completely ordinary earthly city arose, and the places free from buildings were filled with pine groves and transparent reservoirs dear to the heart. Even many species of feathered inhabitants, not to mention animals, have adapted to life inside.

     At Max's whim, the sounds of the big city he was accustomed to in Moscow reached the place where he was standing: the rumble of the crowd, the horns of cars, rattling and ringing, measured blows from construction sites. Of course, real Martian cities are hidden deep in caves, there are no dangerous and expensive power domes at all, and when detectors detect any life form other than human, a biological alarm is turned on. But virtual reality gives a wide scope for any fantasies.

    At the side of the force dome, like an artificial lake, the flat concrete field of the spaceport spilled with radar bowls and control towers at the edges. At the mooring locks, there were several heavy, cargo ships. They looked like giant beetles with a fuselage smoothly moving to the bottom into the engine nozzles. The passenger terminals were reddish domes 3D-printed from Martian sand and rocks with plasma. They even had transparent sections for admiring the surroundings built in, only slightly inferior in strength to the meter-long ceilings of the dome.

     On a granite pedestal in front of the passenger terminals of the cosmodrome, a silver bird with short wings and the characteristic angular body of the first shuttles proudly looked up. Frayed and battered by a long life, she miraculously retained her thirst for great discoveries in the predatory sheen of her black nose and leading edge of her wings. The best machines always carry a strange combination of properties - the spirit of the machine, which makes them almost alive. The silver bird on the pedestal was just such a machine. She never landed on the surface of Mars, delivering only descent vehicles, but she enjoyed an honorable rest here. Every day, spacesuited technicians blasted the ship with compressed air, knocking red dust out of the smallest cracks in the hull that had begun to collapse. They worked especially carefully near the inscription "Viking" on the side of the ship. The nose of the Viking was oriented to the geographic north pole of Mars. On the opposite side of the terminal, the Burya looked south; from the west and east, the INKIS cosmodrome was guarded by the Orion and the Ural, four famous ships that won for Russia leadership in the world space race at the dawn of the era of interplanetary flights.

     Against this background, and stood Max. He read out the message, although he thought a short message in the chat would have been enough for him. But his girlfriend demanded the illusion of live communication, and fast communication was too expensive.

     “Hi, Masha, I flew normally, without any special incidents. INCIS ships are quite reliable. True, spending three weeks in cryosleep is below average pleasure. And two more transfers at orbital stations, besides. But the prices, as you understand, for INKIS flights are much lower than those of competitors. I recognize Telecom right away - the bastards, damn it, on a business class coupe on the NASA-Spacelines liner, which fly to Mars in five days, will never fork out. They say you have to be a patriot, although what the hell is patriotism now.

    But because of the local gravity, more problems arise: I fly into the walls with acceleration, but I knock down the locals. I will have to sign up for a special gym, otherwise in a year or two I will only be able to ride in a wheelchair on Earth. In general, you can easily get used to gravity, it’s a little more difficult to get used to, but it’s also possible, that’s what really annoys me here, it’s Martian troubles with ecology. This, of course, is the other extreme, in Moscow the ecology is so bad that rats and cockroaches die, but as everyone knows, they don’t care. And before the flight to Mars, I was tortured on Earth with environmental literacy tests, and training films were constantly played during the flight, and besides, I have to install special programs on my chip that monitor my law-abiding. It seems that on Mars, all earthlings are considered by default to be some kind of pigs, striving to pollute everything around. Like such a local kind of redneck: here are the visiting fools, and we, the native Martians, will teach them the mind. And God forbid, I’ll throw a cigarette butt or a stub on the floor, my own chip will immediately tell where it should be, that is, the environmental service, and they will impose a huge, enormous fine on me, and if I relapse, they can solder a prison term. After all, come on, there are no more states, and the eco-service was more terrible than the native KGB or the MIK, at the mere mention of it, the arms and legs of all Martians are immediately taken away, disgusting, damn it.

     I don't know if abandoned garbage is really that dangerous, if it can cause a massive epidemic, or if some dim-witted horseradish is capable of provoking an accident in life support systems. All this, in my opinion, is as scary 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, to be afraid of wolves - do not go into the forest. It was necessary to settle on a planet with a hostile external environment, then to shake over every incomprehensible speck: “Ah, what if this is an alien mold, it will enter the body and Martian fly agarics will sprout from me.” Honestly, people who have lived a little bit on Mars become like crazy on this topic, I heard enough of such horrors in flight, which is enough for several first-class thrillers. It seems that someone purposefully introduces into the mass consciousness the fear of accidents, fires, and, sorry for the term, "garbage phobia". All Martians are so fucking clean. But cleanliness is purely external, it does not extend to the cultural sphere of life. From the local advertising, I'm shocked in general: no wit, one unprincipled emphasis on consumption and base instincts.

     However, as I said, you get used to everything, and to the excesses in the Martian "internal politics" too. I don’t smoke, and I’ve been used to cleanliness since childhood, so there’s no reason for me to be afraid of environmental services. The main thing is that I will work in the best Russian company, for the sake of a chance to achieve something in life, you can endure a little.

     And yet, I have not yet met a single real Martian. Do you remember my grandmother scared everyone in a row: “They are huge under three meters tall, pale, skinny with thin white hair and black eyes, they look like underground spiders.” I thought the closer to Mars, the more terrible the Martians, but there were none of them in the ship or at the stations. But this, probably, is understandable: they rarely fly to Earth and, according to anyone, they do not trust INKIS with their precious bodies. Maybe the city will be different. On the other hand, he accidentally met at the station with one employee of the Telecom security service. He says that he flew on a business trip. It is strange that such types work in Telecom. It can be seen from it that he is not a simple security guard, and why would a simple security guard fly on business trips. In this Ruslan, Caucasian roots are clearly traced: both facial features and manner of speaking, of course, he does not get confused with faces and cases, but still there is a characteristic accent. No, you know, I'm fine with people of other nationalities ... But this Ruslan, in short, looks a bit like some kind of gangster. So, don't care, of course, don't we have enough under the windows of all sorts of personalities hanging around. I probably imagined Telecom somewhat idealistically: I was hoping for a Martian corporation, everything is run by Martians - reasonable, executive, conscientious. I thought Mars is the world of nanotechnology and virtual reality. And what about Mars, while one continuous strain. Ecoservice is just flowers, here copyists are a real animal here. All free services and programs are covered with advertising to the very roof, and try to lock something up, the eco-service will seem like a mother. Come on, pirate programs, here at least any fool is clear that this is, as it were, not good. But you probably have not heard about the law on bots. I forgot to add a signature to the bot that he is a bot and that's it, dry the crackers, and welcome to the uranium mines.

    So, in summary, I must honestly confess to you, dear Masha, that the first acquaintance with Mars did not meet my best expectations, however, no one promised that it would be easy. In addition, if there is a complete rotten thing, I will return back, as agreed, but if everything is fine, then you will come in a couple of months, when we complete all the documents. Well, okay, it's time for me to wrap up, I'll write in more detail in the evening. Say hello to everyone, most importantly, you also send letters, do not use this fast connection: it is expensive as hell. That's it, kiss, it's time for me to run.

    Max added several picturesque landscapes of the red planet to the file: an indispensable view from the top of the twenty-kilometer Mount Olympus and the grandiose sheer walls of the Mariner Valley and sent a letter. He jumped out of virtual reality and swore as he closed the ad windows that were an unpleasant bonus to any "free" application. He calmed down only when the translucent menu of the user interface remained in sight. He carefully moved his stiff limbs and irritably straightened his synthetic shirt and the same pants. He really did not like the Martian clothes, very durable and beautiful, but without a single natural lint or speck that could cause allergies in the locals who were in poor health. Grandmother's sweaters, socks, as well as the rest of the "environmentally dirty" clothes were sewn into sealed bags at customs.

    A new acquaintance was approaching the table of the network cafe where Max was located. He was dressed in a gray suit made of expensive synthetics, which looked and felt like wool, while retaining its special environmental properties. Ruslan was tall, heavily built and stocky, very strong in appearance, as if he did not live at half gravity. This, of course, would distinguish him from the crowd, if you know that he does not use cosmetic programs. They did not really work on the ships of INKIS, but on Mars, the “natural” appearance was as rare as clothing and food, in general, like everything natural. As the eternal advertisement said: “Image is nothing, the provider is everything”! Max would be happy to correct Ruslan's image: to his proud aquiline profile, high cheekbones and dark skin, it remained to add a turban, a crooked scimitar on his belt and white minarets in the background to create a beautiful image in its completeness. Well, he did not fit in with the image of an executive security officer who spends his working days on the net, carefully observing the internal life of a corporation. Physical training is not needed at such a job, but it is not easy to maintain it with a small force of gravity: one cannot do without medical intervention and daily training. It is unlikely that Ruslan is such a fan of a healthy lifestyle. Maybe he is some kind of executor of delicate assignments, or, according to Russian tradition, the task of the security service is to catch employees who are dissatisfied with working conditions and run away from the company. Max was aware that his assumptions were not supported by anything, it was much more likely that Ruslan was some kind of petty boss and he had the time and money to look after his appearance.

    Ruslan, with a “jumping” gait, usually characteristic of people who have recently arrived from a world with normal gravity, approached the table, pushed back an empty chair with a creak, and sat down opposite, folding his hands on the table.

     - Well how are you? Max asked casually.

     — The prosecutor's business, brother.

     Ruslan averted his heavy gaze to the side, drummed his fingers on the table and asked a counter question.

     "You have an old chip, don't you?"

     - Well, on Mars you can change the chip at least every year, but in Moscow it’s a little expensive and kind of risky, given the quality of medicine.

     - This is understandable, only in the company of locals who mow like Martians, do not blurt out such a thing. It's like admitting you're a complete idiot yourself.

     Max grimaced a little, his interlocutor had no sense of tact at all, which, in principle, was expected.

     - And what is it here?

     - No need to move your hands and twitch your fingers, you can immediately see that your chip is controlled by movements, and not by mental commands. Put some make-up on yourself to hide it.

     "There's nothing else to do, is there?" Why these cheap show-offs? In order to control the chip normally only by mental commands, one must be born with it in one's head.

     - To the point, Max, you were not born with a chip in your head, unlike the Telecom bosses.

     No, he wasn't born. Like you were born - in Max's voice, annoyance and distrust were closely intertwined.

    He tried to think less about the fact that a bunch of people who were born with a neurochip in their head must be working in Telecom. And, in terms of skills in working with neurochips, he is probably no match for them. Although, however, HR specialists in the Moscow branch of Telecom rated his knowledge very highly. “Damn this new friend,” thought Max, “yes, he would go in a certain direction.”

     - If you don't care about public opinion, you really don't care, you can do as you like and not worry. But, cool Martian guys control electronics with the power of thought, and the rest of them itch in one place. It does not reach that it is necessary to be born with a chip in the head and learns all this from childhood. It's like playing football, if you haven't played for ten years, then Pele's laurels no longer shine. So it's easier and cheaper to press virtual buttons. Would you like to play like Pele?

     - What about football?

     - Not in football, of course, is that so, figuratively speaking?

    “That's what a cynical brute I came across,” Max thought already rather irritably. “After all, he continues to hit in the most sensitive place.”

     - This is generally a dubious statement.

     - What statement?

     - About the fact that if you haven’t played since childhood, then you won’t see real success anymore. Not everyone knows from early childhood what talents they have.

     - Yes, all talents are laid in early childhood, then you can’t change anything. Fate is not chosen.

     “There are exceptions to every rule.

     - They happen, one in a million. - Ruslan agreed easily and indifferently.

    These words were uttered with such cold confidence that Max had a slight chill. As if the ghost of some generalized Martian Pele appeared nearby and began, with a barely perceptible smile of complete superiority, to make his unattainable feints with the ball.

     — Okay, it's time for me to meet with the local football coach.

    Max did not particularly hide that he was experiencing slight discomfort from communicating with a new friend.

     - I can give a ride, my car came for me.

     - Yes, no need, I don't care to the central office of Telecom.

     - Don't stress, okay. I have the same chip as you and I don't use makeup. Only I really don’t care, but you, if you want to join the party of all these pseudo-Martians, get used to being looked at like a gastor from Moscow.

     “Are you already used to it?”

     - I say, I have a different circle of friends. And you have to live with it, believe me, without unnecessary show-offs in the race to the local trough, nowhere. A simple guy from Moscow has zero chances.

     - Something I strongly doubt that the Martians care about cheap show-offs.

     “Don’t look at real Martians too much. They don't care, of course. And you and I, for them in general, the type of pets. I'm talking about the rest who hang around nearby. No one will say anything directly, but you will immediately feel the attitude. I didn't want this to be an unpleasant surprise.

     “I’ll deal with local orders myself somehow.

     - Of course, in vain started this conversation. Let's go pick up.

    Max was well aware that it took quite a long time to get there by trains, but there are almost no traffic jams on Mars due to high tariffs for personal cars and a well-thought-out transport system, therefore, after weighing all the pros and cons, he decided that he could stand it Ruslan's company for another hour.

     - I'll get to the central office, let's go.

    Max entrusted the main luggage to the care of the cargo transportation service, so now he was traveling light. He took another look at the pouch containing the oxygen mask and the Geiger counter, and checked whether the tape of the flexible tablet, which increased the performance of the outdated neurochip, was sitting tightly on his arm. Over time, of course, you will have to implant yourself with more modern devices, but for now you will have to make do with what you have. Max got up from the table and resolutely went after Ruslan. In the cafe, no one paid them the slightest attention. It can be seen that only the torsos were present from the visitors, and the consciousness wandered in the labyrinths of the virtual world.

    The way to the parking lot lay through a huge arrivals hall, which was strikingly different from the hateful Russian reality. The feeling was as if at once transferred to some Brazilian carnival. Crowds of bots offering taxi services, hotels and entertainment portals attacked any new user like a pack of starving dogs. Cheerful airships floated under the high ceiling, exotic dragons and griffins shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, fountains and lush tropical plants made their way out of the ground. Max angrily tried to shake off the textures of the glitched flyer from his hand, next to which a bright red rhombus of a service message about the need to update codecs appeared. Immediately, a dark elf in an armored bra attached to him, persistently inviting him to try out another multiplayer RPG for real men.

    The neurochip reacted to all this bacchanalia with a sharp decrease in performance. The image went jerkily, and some objects began to blur and turn into a set of nasty multi-colored squares. Moreover, by a strange coincidence, the models of advertising bots did not even think of being pixelated, unlike real objects. Stumbling on the escalator, Max spat on everything and began to actively swing his arms, trying to clear the visual channel.

     - Problems? Ruslan, standing down the escalator, politely asked.

     - Come on! I can't figure out how to remove ads.

     — Have you already installed free apps from mariner play?

     “They won't let me out of the spaceport without them.

    Ruslan showed unexpected concern, supporting Max by the elbow when leaving the escalator.

     — It was necessary to read the license agreement.

     — Two hundred pages?

     - It says somewhere on the one hundred and twentieth that a weak chip is your personal problem. Paid for advertising, no one will cut it. Turn the visual settings to the minimum.

     - What kind of crap is this?! Either see the screenshots, or solid pixels beyond ten meters.

     - Get used to it. I warned you: compared to the smoothie and segway lovers from Neurotek, I'm just a model of politeness. You will appreciate my honesty, brother.

     “Of course… bro.

     - If you get a service connection from Telecom, it will become easier.

    When Max ended up in the underground garage, he was a little confused at first. A dimly lit, seemingly half-abandoned room stretched in all directions from the elevator as far as the eye could see. The parking lot was a veritable forest of floor-to-ceiling columns, lined up at regular intervals, with lighting so dim that it alternated streaks of light with streaks of dimness. Ruslan stopped in front of a heavy tinted SUV and turned around. His face was completely drowned in the shadows and from the impersonal gloomy silhouette it clearly breathed something otherworldly. He, like a ferryman, was waiting for the one who was intended for him to take him to the underworld. To the mystical mindset, low gravity added its five kopecks. Max did not distinguish the solid floor boundary in the semi-darkness, and after each step he hung in the air for a couple of moments, which made it seem that he was now floating in a gray fog, like a lost soul. “But I don’t have coins to pay for services, I risk forever hanging between the worlds.” Max twisted back the visual settings and the other world disappeared, turning into an ordinary underground parking.

    Ruslan smoothly moved the heavy car from its place.

     - And what exactly do you do at work, if not a secret? - Max decided to use a new acquaintance to get a bit of insider information.

     “Yeah, I mostly go through personal correspondence, all sorts of love letters and stuff like that. Boredom to death, you know.

     “I understand, I understand, that’s still a job,” Max smiled politely and, looking at the serious face of his interlocutor, added somewhat surprised. "So this isn't a joke, is it?"

     - What jokes can there be, my friend, - Ruslan broke into a smile. “Of course, I have completely different responsibilities, but your worries about your personal life will quickly pass. All Telecom employees can check any letters and conversations, no matter official or otherwise.

     Ruslan grinned wryly and, after a while, continued:

     - For important employees there is even a special server in the bowels of Telecom, on which everything that you see and hear is written from the chip.

     — Bad luck for these important employees.

     - Yes, if you saw the guys who are digging through our dirty laundry ... Canned residents, in general, do not care what they are looking at.

     - In my opinion, all this is illegal, prohibited, including by the decisions of the Advisory Council.

     - Get used to it, there is no law on Mars, except for the one established for an employee by his office. Any problems, look for another job.

     - Yeah, to get a job in a corporation, where for the slightest infraction they are flogged with rods.

     “Life is a cruel thing. All sorts of privacy lovers inject waiters and other service suckers, no one cares what they talk about and what they think.

     “Well, there is no absolute freedom, you always have to sacrifice something,” Max remarked philosophically.

     - There are no rights and freedoms at all, there is only a balance of forces and interests of different players. If you are not a player yourself, this balance will have to be observed.

     “Well, well, and soon we will meet with the local Al Capone, who steers the Telecom Security Service? This new friend, of course, is the same type, you need to be more careful with him, but such an acquaintance may well turn out to be useful, ”Max reasoned.

    Max has always dreamed of living on Mars. Every day, looking out of the windows at dilapidated, extinct Moscow, he thought about the red planet. The slender spiers of the towers, the beauty of the underworld and the boundless freedom of the mind haunted him in restless dreams. However, Max's Martian dream was slightly different from the average: he did not dream only of virtual and material benefits. His aspirations for wealth and independence, understandable to anyone, were closely intertwined with clearly unattainable, almost communist, dreams of bringing justice and happiness to everyone in the world. He, of course, did not tell anyone about this, but sometimes he seriously believed that he would be able to achieve such power and wealth on Mars that he would turn a pack of cruel transnational corporations into the likeness of the Mars that he saw in childhood dreams. And as an object of improvement, neither Moscow, nor even Europe or America, suited him, but only Mars. At times, he acted quite irrationally, sacrificing far better offers from non-Martian companies to dreams. Max was torn to the red planet and did not want to listen to the arguments of reason, being for some reason sure that those walls against which he unsuccessfully pounded in Moscow would suddenly magically collapse in front of him on Mars. No, he, of course, planned everything in advance: get a job at Telecom, rent a house for the first time, then he can take an apartment on credit, transport Masha, and then, having solved his priority tasks, calmly work 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 a family, it was all for the sake of fulfilling a stupid dream.

    As a child, Max visited the Martian capital, and the fabulous city enchanted him. He walked everywhere with his mouth open and his eyes wide open. Like a monstrous catcher of souls, the fabulous city of Thule caught him in a sparkling net, and since then, an invisible, ringingly stretched string has always connected Max with him. Often it seemed like a slight insanity. When Max was twelve, he collected models of rovers, ships, collected rare stones from the bowels of the red planet, on the shelf he had a large, almost meter-long Viking model, which he glued for six months. Gradually, he outgrew his toys, but he was drawn to Mars with the same force, as if someone persistently whispered in his ear: “Leave, run, there you will find happiness and freedom.” This mystical connection was in the foreground in his life, the rest: both friends, and Masha, and relatives flew by somehow imperceptibly against the backdrop of a global goal, although Max learned to hide his indifference to everything worldly well. In the end, it was not the most destructive passion of those that took possession of people, and Max learned to use it for good. At least Masha was sure that all these titanic efforts were being made for the sake of their future family happiness. And Max's entire life path turned into a compromise between unrealizable dreams and what life circumstances dictated to him. Max was constantly tearing himself up in an exhausting pursuit of no one knows who, he was tormented by approximately the following thoughts: “Hell, I’m almost thirty years old, and I’m still not on Mars. If I end up there by the age of forty with Masha and two children, it will be a complete and final defeat. Yes, and I will never be there in this situation. Everything must be done quickly while I am still young and strong.” And he did everything even faster at the expense of quality and everything else.

    Max looked out the window: a heavy car was rushing through an intricate network of underground tunnels, the ancient walls of which, it seems, have never been touched by a human hand. There were almost no cars on the narrow, two-lane highway. From time to time, only trucks with the emblem of INKIS came across: a stylized head of an astronaut with a raised helmet visor, against the background of a planetary disk.

    “Where are we going anyway? Max thought with slight concern as he continued to stare out the window. “It doesn’t look like a busy highway to Thule.”

     - This is the INKIS service route, we will fly it in thirty minutes, - Ruslan answered the unspoken question. - And on a normal road, it would take an hour and a half to crawl.

     — Are we the only smart ones to drive on official roads?

     - Of course, it is closed to ordinary carriers, it's just that INKIS and Telecom are connected by an old close friendship.

    They have a friendship, Max thought skeptically. “It would still be interesting to know what this guy actually does.”

    Looking at the ribbon of the road unfolding in front of him, he wondered how Ruslan could navigate so calmly in the maze of tunnels and caves through which they rushed at breakneck speed. The track constantly turned, then flew up, then collapsed down, intersecting with other, even narrower roads. It was illuminated extremely poorly, the lanterns in front snatched out of the darkness only giant stalactites and stalagmites, in some places coming close to the asphalt canvas. The ramp whizzed past onto another gravel side branch. A clanking mining bulldozer just turned out of it, crushing small pebbles under it with a crunch. Ruslan, without slowing down, overtook him almost closely, not paying attention to the gravel flying from under the huge wheels of the bulldozer, and then immediately dived down and to the right behind an unlit closed turn. Max convulsively grabbed the door handle and thought that either Ruslan was an unknown distant descendant of Schumacher and knew the way by heart, or there was some kind of catch. He almost immediately found the interface of the navigation computer and was once again amazed at how convenient the management of objects on the Martian Internet was: no need to turn on the search or install new drivers, just poke at the device icon and it is ready for use. A map of the spaceport surroundings was reflected on the windshield, and green direction arrows appeared above the road with all the necessary explanations: the turning radius, the recommended speed of passage and other data. In addition, a smart computer completed the image of closed or poorly lit sections of the track, and, as Max understood from the movement of oncoming trucks, the image was broadcast in real time.

     - Is your autopilot not working?

     “It works, of course,” Ruslan shrugged. - These tracks are one of the few places where you are allowed to steer yourself. You know what a problem it is to buy a wheelbarrow with a steering wheel and pedals. I don’t understand the joke of laying out a couple of hundred creeps for a wheelbarrow and riding as a passenger. Worse than fucking non-alcoholic beer and virtual women. Fucking nerds, shove their chips where they need and where they don't.

     - Yes, the problem ... There is one bearded Moscow anecdote about unmanned control, not really funny.

     - Well, tell me what.

     - So the husband and wife are in bed after the performance of marital duties. Husband asks: "Honey, did you like it"? “No, dear, you did much better before. Have you got another woman!?” “No, dear, it’s just that at that time I was always hacking with orcs, and my chip handled it for me.”

     “This is no longer a joke,” Ruslan grinned. “About some office rats, I don’t even doubt it. Fuck them real women ... By the way, there is even such a service, it appeared relatively recently. It's called body control. Chip himself drives you to work and home, for example, and you can bully your orcs as much as you like at this time.

     Is it like a zombie or what? It's creepy, probably, to meet such people on the streets?

     Yes, you won't notice anything. Well, some kind of cormorant is coming, well, staring at one point, now everyone is like that. A good chip will even answer questions like: “hey kid, there’s no way to smoke,” he will answer.

     - How much progress has been made. Are boxing skills also built into these chips?

     — Yeah, in someone's pink dreams. Think about it yourself, where will the force and reaction come from? There are either some expensive implants, or sweat in the gym. This is only in warhammer: I paid three kopecks for an account and became this fucking space marine.

     - It's a shitty service. You never know what your chip will do for you, who then is responsible for the consequences?

     - As usual, read the agreement: broken bread - your personal problems.

     Are there bad areas on Mars?

     - As much as you like, - Ruslan shrugged his shoulders, - you know, working in uranium mines does not contribute, uh-uh ...

     “The formation of a rich inner world,” Max suggested.

     - Exactly. So, there are a lot of areas patrolled by local gangs, but you just don't show up there and you will avoid a lot of trouble.

     - What are these areas? Max decided to clarify just in case.

     — District of the first settlement for example. This is a type of gamma zone, but in fact there is high radiation and low oxygen. Local thugs love to replace the lost body parts with all sorts of piercing and cutting ones.

     - It's interesting that corporations cannot deal with these scumbags?

     - How to figure it out?

     - What do you mean how? In the underworld, where everyone has a neurochip in their head, what problems are there to catch all the troublemakers?

     - Well, it's you - a law-abiding employee of Telecom, you have already installed all the police applications on the chip. And someone with the left chip is walking around, and for some contractors of Uranium One or the Ministry of Atomy, this, in principle, is up to the lantern: who got a job with them there. And in general, why should Telecom or Neurotek strain for the sake of it? The punks from the first settlement will never climb on them. And again, it’s somehow not easy for a botanist on a segway to press some adherent of free software himself. For this, appropriate specialists are needed.

     “And you didn’t come from that area by any chance?” Max made a cautious guess.

     — No, I was born on Earth. But the course of your thoughts is almost correct and very unsafe.

     “Come on, it hurts me… And nerds on Segways won’t be offended that you’re talking all sorts of nasty things about them here?”

     “They check my actions, and you can chat as much as you like, it doesn’t change anything. What did you think: there is no crime on Mars?

     - Yes, I was sure. How can you commit crimes if your chip immediately knocks where it belongs?

     - Of course, but the electronic court automatically writes out a fine and also, automatically, it can start a case, check all the conditions and send it to jail. And if you show off a lot, they will sew up a minichip that will not only knock, but immediately cut down the nervous system as soon as you try to break the law. He just wanted to cross the road in the wrong place, but the legs were taken away ... halfway.

     - Well, that's right, that's what I'm talking about.

     - I'll tell you a secret: all this is to press people like you, honest fraers. The scumbag with the left chip doesn't give a damn about that. Yes, corporations, of course, could crush crime if they wanted to. But they don't fucking need it.

     - Yes, why not?

     I gave you one reason. Here's something else you can think about at your leisure. Just imagine that communism has come, all the scumbags have been sewn up with a minichip and they are working for the good of society. Everywhere cleanliness, beauty, there are no gamma or delta zones, if you get sick - treat yourself to your health, if you lose your job - live on welfare. That's who then will hunchback all his life until he loses his pulse. Everyone will relax and fuck the eggheads with their Segways. But when there is a prospect of becoming a homeless person in the delta zone, where there is nothing to breathe, or going on an exciting tour of the concentration camps of the Eastern Bloc, this is where you run yourself. That's what some people in Moscow can not sit? Why are they themselves glad to break their ass for the sake of the bosses from Telecom, who don’t even consider them to be people?

     “You are clearly pumping up,” Max waved his hand indignantly. - You imagine some kind of conspiracy theories, it is clear that any facts can be adjusted to fit them.

     “Okay, I'm imagining conspiracy theories. And you, apparently, imagine that you got into the country of the elves. You will live, you will see, in a year we will see which of us is right.

     - In a year, I myself will become the boss in Telecom, then we'll see.

     “Come on, of course, I’m against something,” Ruslan neighed. — Do not forget, if anything, who gave you a lift from the spaceport. It's all just dreams...

     - Well, dreams, not dreams, but if you sit in a soft spot all your life, then nothing will work out for sure.

     - Have you seriously decided to join the party of real Martians?

     — What's special? Why am I worse than them?

     “It's not about worse or better. This is such an elite club for its own. Outsiders are not allowed there for any merit.

     — It is clear that the leadership of any transnational corporation is to some extent a closed club. You should have seen what kind of family clans occupied any more or less bread places in Moscow. No elitism, one primitive wild Asian: they don’t care about anything at all, except for the animal desire to snatch more and faster. In any case, the first stage on Mars is still better than riveting primitive sites in Moscow. Maybe I'll make some money.

     - You will earn more money in Moscow on primitive sites. Only now you obviously did not come here in order to become a petty boss by the age of forty and save up for an apartment in the beta zone. Just don't strain yourself again, but do you think you're the first one to come here with burning eyes? There are a wagon and a small cart of such dreamers, and the Martians have perfectly learned to squeeze all the juice out of them.

     - I already know that I have to work and not all types come to success, someone breaks off, but what can you do. Do you really think I don't understand anything?

     “Yes, you are a smart guy, I didn’t want to say anything like that, but you don’t know the system. And I saw how it works.

     — And how does it work?

     - It's very simple: at first you will be offered to work as a simple administrator, or a coder, then they will slightly increase your salary, then maybe they will make you like a boss to shepherd newcomers. But they won’t let you do anything really cool, or they will give you, but they will take all the rights for themselves. And all the time it will seem that just about, you are almost in the party, it is worth pushing a little, but this is an illusion, a deception, the glass ceiling is shorter.

     — I know that most rests on the glass ceiling. All and the difficulty is to get into the number of the lucky few who made it through.

     There are no lucky ones, you understand. This is the policy - do not take strangers.

     I don't see any logic in such a policy. If you do not let anyone in at all, then everyone, as you say, will give a damn. Why strain if the result is known? If you don’t play commercials with happy millionaires, then no one will buy lottery tickets, right?

     - Here you will draw any videos. Nobody will catch Neurotek by the hand.

     “Are you saying that the Martians stupidly deceive everyone?”

     — Yes, not really, they are not stupidly deceiving, they are just very cleverly deceiving. Okay, I'll try to explain ... So you got a job in Telecom, and the personnel department opened a personal file on you. There is such a file where they will enter all the data that they managed to collect, up to school analyzes, and the entire history of requests and visits from the chip. And according to these data and according to your current activity, the program will monitor when to tell you what, when to give a raise, when an increase so that you do not dump into the sunset. In short, they will constantly keep a carrot in front of their noses.

     “You just smear everything with black paint. Well, they use neural networks to analyze personal data. Well, yes, it’s not pleasant, of course, but I don’t see any tragedy in this either.

     - The tragedy is that if you are not a Martian, then you will share your problems only with this neural network. This is completely, like ... a formal procedure, living managers will not say a word to you for half a century. For them, you are nothing.

     - As if I am not an empty place in Moscow for some INKIS. It is clear that I will first have to draw attention to myself so that the Martians begin to spend time discussing my career prospects.

     “Well, you don’t understand by nature. This is in Moscow or, at worst, in some Europe, you can take part in the race with a crowd of people like you. And even if nine out of ten prizes are already occupied by someone's bros or mistresses, you can really qualify for the tenth. But there is absolutely nothing to catch on Mars, even if you are a genius a thousand times. The Martians have long ago figured out all the people and each was given a personal digital stall ... But okay, forget it, in short. Everyone makes his own choice.

     - I would even say: everyone sees what he wants to see.

     “Some kind of strange security service at Telecom,” Max thought wearily. - What did he want to achieve so that I would fly back to Moscow and live there happily ever after? Well, yes, it’s more likely that roads will be repaired in our houses and they will stop taking bribes, it’s wiser to believe in this than in good intentions of this type. Rather, he is having fun. Or he is really connected with some kind of mafia and sees only the dark side of the city of Thule. But all the same, doubts began to gnaw at Max's soul with renewed vigor: “Really, why should Telecom look for specialists in provincial, compared to Tula, Moscow? But on the other hand, was it not for the sake of a bad joke that they dragged me so far, paying for the cost of the trip? In any case, there is still money for a return ticket. But then why did I spread these conversations? No one else to share with? There is some rational grain in his chatter. Here's how to understand in the world of virtual reality: am I building a career with neural networks, or am I communicating with living Martians? In terms of earnings? But money, however, can be made in Moscow, especially if you are an unprincipled bastard with connections. And here any result is more or less virtual. A sufficiently powerful neural network will easily unravel all my dreams and slip into a cozy little world the appearance that they come true. Maybe in the depths of my soul I clearly realize all the unrealizability of my hopes and, secretly from myself, I never intended to put them into practice. And here is a great opportunity to see what an ideal world looks like. Just look with one eye, this is not forbidden by anyone, this is not a vice, not a defeat, but a harmless tactical retreat. And there, in the near future, I will definitely start doing everything for real: with one effort of will, I will take and cut the network cable and start. In the meantime, you can still dream a little, a little more ... Well, that's how it will be: a little more, a little more, it will stretch for a couple of decades, until it's completely too late, until I turn into a weak-willed amoeba swimming in nutrient solution. – with horror foresaw Max. - No, we need to tie up with these doubts. You have to be like Ruslan, or like a friend of Denis, for example. Here Dan clearly knows what he wants and does not take a steam bath. And for all sorts of chips and neural networks to him from a high bell tower ... But, on the other hand, is this a real dream? These are just instincts and a harsh vital necessity.

     “We’ve almost arrived,” Ruslan said, slowing down at an artificial tunnel going sharply uphill, “now we’ll go through the gateway and jump out into the city. Don't forget to activate your pass.

     What zone was this?

     — Epsilon.

     Epsilon? And here we are so calmly dissecting, it's almost open space.

     - I know, the oxygen content is not normalized, the level of radiation is high? And do you have children?

     - Not…

     - Then it's bad.

     - What is wrong? Max was worried.

     “Just kidding, you won’t lose anything. In this car, it's like in a tank: a closed atmosphere and radiation protection, and light spacesuits in the trunk.

     “Yes, the suits in the trunk in case of a serious accident will undoubtedly save our lives,” Max remarked, but Ruslan paid no attention to his irony.

    Without delay, they passed the old gateway and drove into the acceleration lane of the freeway already in Tula. Ruslan relaxed back in his chair and gave control to the computer. In any case, on the Thule freeways, where top speeds were limited to a fantastic two hundred miles an hour, computer decisions took precedence over any driver input. Only a road computer was capable of safely driving at those speeds in heavy traffic. The Martian transport management system deserved the most generous praise, it was enough to choose a destination and the system itself selected the best route in time, taking into account the forecast of traffic congestion according to the intentions of other users. If not for her, then Thule would undoubtedly suffocate in traffic jams, like many terrestrial megacities.

    Max admired the work of the well-coordinated mechanism of the road system from a bird's eye view on the interactive map of the city. The sparkling streams of cars flowing through traffic intersections resembled the circulatory system of a living organism. Heavy cargo and passenger platforms obediently trudged along in the right ranks, high-speed cars rushed past on the left. If someone changed lanes, the rest of the participants in the movement, obediently slowing down, let him through, almost scratching their bumpers against each other. Nobody climbed forward with dangerous overtaking, did not cut, all maneuvers were carried out in advance with ideal speed and accuracy. Multi-level interchanges were built everywhere: no traffic lights were required. Max thought with a grin that at the sight of such a spectacle, any Moscow traffic cop would shed a tear of emotion. Although, no, rather from chagrin: where a sober, error-free computer always controls, the corrupt traffic police will obviously remain out of business.

    “And the speeds could be less, and the distance between the cars, more than ten or fifteen meters,” thought Max, “it remains to be hoped that if some cargo platform fails to control, the system will have time to react, otherwise it will be a terrible mess” .

    There was much to admire in the city besides motorways. Low gravity and huge underground voids allowed for incredible architectural refinements. Thule, buried in caves and tunnels, and at the same time was all directed upwards. It consisted of skyscrapers, spiers, towers and air structures with thin supports, connected by a web of passages and transport routes. A link to a web page was placed next to each building; if desired, one could learn a lot of interesting things about the metropolis. Here is a two-hundred-meter glass ball, as if hanging in the air - this is an expensive club. Inside it, richly dressed people and half-dressed corrupt young ladies are having fun in an augmented reality setting. And here, after a few blocks, a strict gloomy building without glass and neon - a hospital and a shelter for the poor, and located in a beta zone favorable for life. It turns out that civilized Martians are quite ready to share the crumbs from the master's table, although it seems that no state will captivate them anymore.

    Some of the buildings, like columns, rested against the ceiling of the caves, a swarm of drones arriving and hurrying away usually circled around them. These buildings housed the fire, environmental and other city services. Not too lazy to look at their page, Max discovered that these columns really also perform the function of load-bearing structures, protecting the natural vaults of the dungeons from collapse. The measure is rather preventive, there is no particular tectonic activity on Mars: the bowels of the red planet have long been dead and do not bother people. But, on the other hand, it is full of other problems, and with ecology: spores of ancient bacteria are constantly found in stones, and with radiation: the natural background, even in depth due to the high concentration of radioactive isotopes, is many times higher than on Earth. Therefore, the main laboratories of powerful corporations were usually located in separate caves, closed from the main city by several levels of protection.

    There were also quite exotic examples of local architecture: where deep gaps gaped in the floor of the caves, towers hung from the ceiling like gigantic stalactites, breaking off into the void. From the gaps came the hum of oxygen stations - the lungs of an urban organism. And the role of the conductor of the gigantic orchestra was performed by electronic devices. They easily took care of imperfect human beings, replacing them almost everywhere. The inhabitants of Thule strolled relaxed along the fragile high-rise galleries, rushed in maglevs, inhaled clean filtered air and did not worry that nanoseconds and nanometers of errors separated them from instant or vice versa painful death, accidentally crept into the thinnest crystals of computer devices.

    Of course, any screensaver could be chosen to decorate the urban landscape. The most popular was the screensaver of the elven city, where the spiers turned into giant trees, waterfalls ran from the walls, and an exotic sky with several suns stretched overhead. Max liked the intro of the city of underground warlocks more. It was much closer to the real textures of the environment, and, accordingly, it devoured less chip resources. Neon advertisements, turned into priestly lights, cast bizarre reflections on the black-and-red rock walls, snatching translucent veins of precious minerals from the darkness. And the drones, turned into elementals and spirits, danced under the arches of the caves. The beauty of virtual creations and the beauty of natural dungeons intertwined so closely and organically that the heart sank. Even if it was alien and cold, this beauty, even if it was smelted millions of years ago by the evil spirits of a dead planet, but its cold beckoned to itself, and the soul happily forgot in a sweet poisonous dream. And the triumphant ghosts, laughing evilly, performed their incomprehensible dance and waited for a new victim. Max looked and looked at Thule, whom he so long and passionately wanted to see again, when suddenly, someone invisible and terrible broke the string stretched to the ringing and whispered: “Well, hello, Max, I was also waiting for you ... ".

     - Did you fall asleep? - Ruslan poked his counterpart in the shoulder.

     - So ... I thought.

     — Central office, almost arrived.

    Previously, for some reason, Max was little interested in what the headquarters of the main Russian company was like. Here is an image of the Neurotek office - the famous "crystal spire", he came across more than once on the net. Yes, and no wonder: the brand, as they say, is promoted. This spire was located in a crater covered by the largest and oldest dome of Thule, reaching a height of five hundred meters. But most of all, he was famous for the fact that in his load-bearing structures, completely transparent and mirror elements alternated. Through the transparent sections, one could observe the internal life of the corporation, like chefs in some restaurants, and the mirror ones refracted the light in the most bizarre way. This, apparently, symbolized: the complete openness of the company, the purity of the thoughts of its employees and the shining peaks of scientific and technological progress. In general, everything was clear with the Neurotek tower sprout: expensive, shining and callous to the eyes. Of course, Telecom wouldn't be Telecom if it didn't try to measure the size of its towers with Neurotek. And where there was not enough height and brilliance, Telecom gained points by scale and scope. The huge reinforced concrete structure with its base went into a deep failure and its upper floors rested against the roof of the cave. A worthy example of Gothic architecture was surrounded by a ring of smaller turrets, which stretched towards each other from the bottom and ceiling of the dungeon, very reminiscent of a toothy maw. By analogy, the central building of Telecom symbolized the complete closeness of the company, especially for any extraneous corrupt freaks who call themselves the “fourth power”, well, with thoughts, everything is obvious, and delays in the development of scientific and technological progress were easily compensated by the “big club” inherited from legacy from the late Russian Empire.

    Ruslan readily took on the role of guide. Probably, at the sight of an architectural instrument of intimidation of competitors dear to the heart, some patriotic feelings woke up in him.

     Did you see how well we got along? The narrow-eyed have already envied everyone.

    "Neurotek, is it? They'll probably die of envy soon." Max's mental skepticism hardly showed on his face.

     “This is the underground part of the power dome's central support. You must have seen them from the terminal. The power dome was never brought to perfection, but the capital structures were useful to us. Here you can at least sit out a nuclear war, not like in a glass birdhouse. Am I saying right?

    Ruslan turned to his interlocutor for confirmation of his words, and Max had to urgently agree:

     - My home is my castle.

     - Exactly. In principle, there can be no better protection than inside the support. Even if the cave collapses completely, the structure will stand. Soon you will see for yourself how good we are here ...

    “Yes,” Maxim shuddered, “now you can’t get anywhere.” As soon as he thought so, the gigantic mouth swallowed a small four-wheeled shell.

    

    October 18, 2139 Breaking news.

    Today, at 11 o'clock local time, the INCIS corporation applied for full membership in the Advisory Council of Martian Settlements. The application was supported by the voting members of the Council: Telecom-ru corporations, Uranium One, Mariner heavy industries and others. Thus, the application was supported by 153 full votes with a mandatory minimum of 100 votes. This issue is included in the agenda of the next session of the Council, which opens on November 1. In the event of a positive vote on its application, the INKIS corporation will receive 1 full vote and the opportunity to submit draft resolutions through the office of the Council. At the moment, the INKIS representative on the Council has limited observer rights. INKIS also announced an additional IPO of its shares with an estimated value of about 85 million creeps.

    The news was supplemented by a video where workers in spacesuits dismantled Orion, Ural, Burya and Viking from the pedestals, which served faithfully for many years, and then guarded their last home port. Allegedly, this was done only in order to send old ships to the Mars Exploration Museum, where it would be easier to ensure proper storage conditions. Yeah, that's what we believed, Max thought irritably. Judging by how hastily and barbarously the work was done, the new exhibits will reach the museum's storehouses in a fairly shabby form, if they are not previously disposed of under another plausible pretext. Most of all went to the Viking. Clumsy workers shattered all the thermal protection when they loaded the ship onto the ramp. The whole process: piles of fragments scattered across the sand, and disgusting bald spots were captured in a series of expressive photographs. In short, INKIS hastened to heed the wishes of the Advisory Council.

    Max mentally wished the bosses of the corporation to earn a couple of purulent abscesses from too hard licking Martian asses and moved on to watching the next news.

    The unrest continues on Titan. After a brutal crackdown on demonstrators, accompanied by numerous arrests of perpetrators, the situation is still far from being resolved. Supporters of the so-called Quadius organization advocate the creation of an independent state on Titan, where radical reforms of copyright laws will be carried out and state support will be provided for software development projects with a free license. They accuse the organs of the protectorate of political repression and secret murders of those who disagree, and also threaten to respond with terror for terror. So far, the henchmen of the "organization" - the quads, fail to realize their threats, petty hooliganism and hacker attacks remain their only achievement. Despite this, the Titan Protectorate Police Force has already implemented increased security measures in transportation, industrial plants, life support stations and medical facilities. Neurotech Corporation was among the first to declare the inadmissibility of the use of violence, in fact, condemned the actions of the local protectorate and made appropriate proposals to the Advisory Council. In the near future, at an extraordinary session, the issue of recalling the current protectorate of Titan will be decided. Neurotech's position is not yet understood by either competitors or even its closest allies. The Sumitomo conglomerate, which is heavily investing in its manufacturing assets on Titan, has expressed strong disagreement with the proposal submitted to the Advisory Board and is trying to block discussion of it. Sumitomo representatives offer to investigate the riots with their own security service and openly declare that they know the neurochip numbers of all quads.

    “Wow, what's going on in the solar system. Max thought as he idly scrolled through the news site. - Some crazy people decided to play on this frozen satellite, really psychos, apparently froze their last brains ... An independent state on an isolated satellite, completely dependent on external supplies, also thought of me, but crush them in a jiffy. There is nowhere to run from a submarine when there is a lake of liquid methane around. - Max quite logically considered the plans and demands of the demonstrators absurd, but refused to apply the same logic to his own dreams of transforming Mars. – And Neurotek suddenly turned into a champion of democracy and human rights. Not otherwise, I decided to chop off the production assets of a recent ally.

    Max, for the sake of interest, looked at the logo of the mysterious "organization" left on the hacked sites: a blue rhombus, the right half of which was painted over, and on the left half of the all-seeing eye flaunted. Then he moved on to the next news item.

    Telecom-ru has announced an increase in the speed of access and the size of file storage for all users of its network, in connection with the launch of a new supercomputer cluster based on superconductors to optimize data exchange. The company promises to completely eliminate known wireless connection problems in this way. Telecom-ru, in response to such complaints from customers, has always referred to the lack of a private resource allocated to it, and submitted requests to the Commission of the Advisory Council on the electromagnetic spectrum. In fairness, it should be noted that the frequency resource allocated to Telecom is only slightly inferior to the resources allocated to the other two largest providers Neurotech and MDT. And in terms of the ratio of the allocated frequency band to the average number of users, Telecom-ru is far ahead of its competitors, which indicates poor optimization of the existing resource. The new supercomputer is designed to eliminate this long-standing problem. Also, Telecom-ru announced the imminent launch of a new data center and several fast communication repeaters. The company expresses confidence that the quality of its services will now be in no way inferior to the “big two”. Now a full-fledged "big three" has formed in the network services market, Telecom-ru claims. Company representative Laura May kindly agreed to answer our questions.

    The tall blonde, with the type of glamorous diva from the golden age of Hollywood, smiled dazzlingly, demonstrating her willingness to answer any questions. She had shoulder-length curly hair, ample breasts, and large, less-than-ideal features. But she looked at the world with a slight smile and even a challenge, and her hoarse voice added some kind of animal magnetism to her. Her skirt was a little shorter and her lipstick a little brighter than her status required, but she did not worry about this at all and seemed to provoke the audience to doubt her moral stability with every intonation and gesture, while never crossing the fine line of formal decency. And the quite official winning reports of Telecom in her performance sounded very promising.

    “Yes, when they promise you an unearthly connection speed in such a voice, anyone will run to draw up a contract faster,” thought Max. - Although, who knows what she really is, what language she speaks and whether she exists at all? Maybe female users see some brutal macho?

    Laura, meanwhile, bravely repelled attacks against her own syndicate.

     - ... They like to stick labels on us that our services are cheaper, but of lower quality and reliability, and that we allegedly use outdated network exchange technologies. Although full immersion and all basic services have been implemented by us for a long time, some problems arose only due to general network congestion and only in a wireless connection. But now, after the launch of a new supercomputer, Telecom will provide quality services at the same price, which is noticeably lower than that of its competitors.

     — And how would you comment on the claims of Neurotech and MDT for dumping by Telecom? Is it true that Telecom uses income from its non-core assets to keep the price of network services low?

     - You understand that a low price does not always mean dumping ...

    “What a fine fellow our Telecom is,” Max thought irritably, closed the site window and flopped down on the sofa. “He takes such good care of his customers and his employees as well. Medical insurance, relaxation rooms, career management, everything except normal work. Well, let them not let me go to the superconducting core. I am ready to learn, and I would definitely cope with the development of peripheral devices. My place is in development, but not in the operation service. Not for nothing that I was a system architect in the Moscow branch, but now who am I here? In the short term, being a Tier XNUMX Optimizer Programmer in the Channel Split Optimization sector, which in turn is part of Network Operations, is a great start to a brilliant career. It only calms a little that there are already fifteen categories for unfortunate programmers. The main thing is what a dizzying career growth is still ahead - as many as nine categories! Although, yes, the consolation is very weak. Damn, how much can you talk about the same thing!

    Max cursed and in some family shorts proceeded to the kitchen. It’s stupid, of course, to replay the same situation in your head a hundred times, especially when nothing can be changed, but Max couldn’t stop either: yesterday’s conversation with the head of the sector in which he had to work had knocked the ground out from under him legs. Therefore, he waged an endless polemic with himself, shuffling and inventing new irresistible arguments and, time after time, forcing the mental opponent to capitulate. Unfortunately, the imaginary victories had no effect on the real situation. To two main questions: “who is to blame?” and “what to do?”, Max did not find an answer. More precisely, he came up with an answer to the first question: his new friend Ruslan is to blame for everything, he croaked, a beast, he would have to sew up his mouth, but further steps to correct the situation loomed extremely vaguely.

    Max, of course, understood that the new position was an unpleasant surprise only for him. It is unlikely that everything was decided just yesterday. But he felt his share of guilt in what had happened. After all, back in Moscow he could not clearly agree on where he was taken on Mars. The phrase that the position would best suit his competencies, strictly speaking, did not limit the arbitrariness of the personnel service. So it turns out that there is nothing to complain about. Only that he so wanted to get to Mars that he was ready for any conditions.

    And yesterday, as they say, nothing foreshadowed such a terrible denouement. Ruslan dropped off a fellow traveler in the parking lot near the central office, promised to organize a tour of the haunts of the city of Tula, if he suddenly got tired of sitting in virtual reality, and he himself drove off somewhere further, hiding in the bowels of a huge building. Max lowered his eyes a little, downloaded the guidebook and set off towards his fate, following the friendly rabbit in the vest. This, like, was such a telecom chip, a replacement for the standard indicators that light up in front of the nose.

    Max was in no particular hurry. First, I went to the personnel service, passed a DNA test, passed other checks and received a coveted service account, one of the main gingerbread cookies used to lure employees of provider companies. Any, the most ordinary of admins, but with official access, by default, is a hundred times cooler than a vip user who paid big money for his tariff. The world has changed a lot since the advent and rise of the Internet. Now it is not known what is better: happiness and luck in the real world or in the virtual one, because they are so closely intertwined that it is almost impossible to separate them, as well as to determine which one is more real. Yes, most people were not even interested: what is this unknown real world from the legends of the pre-computer era, already poorly imagining life without pop-up hints and universal translators - a life where you have to learn foreign languages ​​and ask passers-by for directions to the library. Many did not even want to learn to print. Why, if any text can be slandered, and in the light of the latest achievements of neurotechnology, it can also be read directly, through mental commands.

     There was some hitch with Max's service account, a reinstallation of the old operating system on his chip was required, but the problem was resolved relatively quickly. The manager grimaced, looking at his medical record, which featured an obviously outdated, by Martian standards, chip model, but nevertheless issued a referral to reinstall the system at the corporate medical center. Then there was a social service, where Max was politely informed that, of course, Telecom provides service housing to any employee, but alien origin, or any other circumstances, does not affect the fact of provision: this is the company's policy. In general, Max refused a free tiny room in the gamma industrial zone and decided to settle in a rented hut in a more decent area. So, decorously nobly, he visited several more units, some in the flesh, and some as a virtual ghost, filling out various questionnaires along the way, or receiving instructions. Thanks to the successful completion of such easy quests, Max was completely relaxed, approached the final point of his journey - the manager's office, in a complacently confident mood. The office turned out to be equipped with serious biosecurity: instead of a polite greeting, a cold shower of disinfectants was waiting in the airlock.

     The owner of the office, Albert Bonford, was a real Martian in the full sense of the word. His foot, obviously, never set foot on the sinful Earth: the usual force of gravity would undoubtedly break this fragile creature like a reed. Tall, pale with bleached hair, he wore a gray plaid suit with a pale tie. The Martian's eyes were large, dark, with an almost indistinguishable iris, either from nature or thanks to contact lenses. He was reclining in a deep armchair with motor-wheels and a lot of some kind of connectors, folding tables and even a long arm sticking out of the back as a manipulator. The promised segways have apparently gone out of fashion. The obvious predilection of the Martian for the possession of the latest achievements of cybernetics led to the formation of a whole flock of flying robots around his person. They were in constant motion and pointedly winked at each other with LED lights. They also brewed tea and coffee for visitors, shook off dust particles from the owner, and simply enlivened the atmosphere in the room.

     “Greetings, Maxim,” the Martian typed in the unfolded messenger, without turning his head to the newcomer and without changing his facial expression. "I'll be free in just a couple of minutes." Come on, sit down." A similar chair pulled up to Max, but without unnecessary bells and whistles and manipulators. “Good,” Max typed in response and for some reason repeated his meaningless remark aloud, apparently from excitement. Indeed, in those first minutes, when he saw a living Martian, he was very worried. No, Max was not a xenophobe and thought that he was absolutely indifferent to the appearance of other people. But, as it turned out, it concerned only people, whether they were even smelly punks or goths, but communication with anthropomorphic creatures that are not very similar to you is a completely different matter. “Here, you are a real neurohuman,” Max thought then, swallowing with difficulty a dry lump in his throat. “Tomorrow I’ll sign up for the gym and I’ll exhaust myself until I lose my pulse,” he promised himself in horror, watching the birdlike movements of the Martian’s head, planted on a long, thin neck. Max at that moment really physically felt how calcium was washed out of his bones, and they became brittle, like dry twigs. And Max did not really want to work under the authority of such a creature. He did not like the new boss at once, from the first, so to speak, printed letter.

     In addition to a bunch of sly robots and Albert, there was also a gray mirror-polished table, chairs and two aquariums built into opposite walls in the room. In one aquarium, some large bright fish opened their mouths and waved their fins reassuringly and looked in bewilderment at the opposite wall, where, behind thick double glass, in a bath of liquid methane, cobweb-like colonies of polyps from Titan trembled. After a couple of minutes, Albert woke up, and his eyes gained an iris, catching up even more horror on Max.

     “So, Maxim, I am glad to welcome you as a new employee of sector 038-113,” the lifeless politeness of the Martian did not in the least endear him. “I was also informed that there is a slight problem with your neurochip.

     “Oh, no problem, Albert,” Max replied quickly. — I will reinstall the operating system within the next week.

     - The problem is not in the axis, but in the chip itself. For every position in my sector, there are certain formal requirements, including the characteristics of the chip. Unfortunately, you can only apply for the position of a tenth category optimizer programmer.

     - Claim? Max asked confused.

     “You will be permanently enlisted after you complete your probationary period and pass the qualifying exam.

     - But I was counting on the position of a developer ... More likely, even a system architect ... So we kind of agreed in Moscow.

     — System architect? The Martian barely suppressed a mocking smile. “Have you read the service manual yet?” My sector is not engaged in project work, as such. Your work will be related to databases and training neural networks.

    Max began feverishly leafing through the received documents.

     — Channel separation optimization sector?

    Max fidgeted in his chair, starting to get really nervous. “And, well, I’m a fool, I didn’t even figure out what was hidden behind the faceless number of the sector to which I was sent.”

     There must be some mistake here...

     “Human Resources is not wrong about such things.

     But in Moscow...

     — The final decision is always taken by the central office. Don't worry, this job is well suited to your qualifications. You are also given three months of probation for retraining, then an exam. I think, given the excellent recommendations, you can do it faster. The problem with the chip is also quite solvable.

     - The problem with the chip is now the least of my worries.

     - That's fine, - apparently irony, like other stupid emotions, was alien to the Martian. - You go to work the day after tomorrow, all instructions by work mail. If you have any questions, please contact the personnel department. Now excuse me, I have a lot to do.

    The Martian blacked out again, leaving Max completely bewildered. He sat a little longer in front of the motionless torso of the authorities, tried to say something like: "I'm sorry, but ...", but he did not achieve any reaction. And, gritting his teeth, he went out.

    “Yes, all Martians are liars. And what could be done in such a situation? Max asked once again, sitting in the tiny kitchen and sipping tea that tasted synthetic. - Specifically, in that one, of course, nothing, just initially it was necessary not to relax. It is more concrete to speak out all the conditions back in Moscow, and not to sit nodding like a Chinese idol for joy that I am being sent to Mars. But on the other hand, yes, I would have been wrapped up in the same place. Well, then I went to the personnel service, and what? The manager sent me just as politely, saying that he was not authorized to resolve such issues, but I can always leave a request to the higher management and they will definitely contact me. Well, yes, they will call me soon, they will say that there was a most unfortunate misunderstanding and they will appoint me a system architect for some new supercomputer. In general, the obvious logic suggests that in such a situation I can only slam the door and get out of Telecom. And this means that, most likely, we will have to forget about Mars forever. It is unlikely that, given the local draconian orders, I will find another job here. But the very thought of giving up the opportunity to live on Mars caused Max such terrible disappointment that he drove it away with a filthy broom. “So there is no choice, you have to come to terms with what you have. In the end, someone less scrupulous would gladly jump at any place in Telecom. It's not so bad, let's break through." Max once again sighed unhappily and went to sort out things that completely ate up the already small space of the apartment.

     He was distracted from household work by a message from Masha. "Hi! Still sorry you left. More precisely, I'm very glad that you were able to get a job in Tula, but it's a pity that you left without me. Please tell me how you are doing at work, I hope everything is in order? How are the bosses? Real Martians, look like what your grandmother said: pale, skinny, with thin hair and like huge underground spiders? Just kidding, your grandmother is known to like to lie. But please still eat calcium and go to the gym, otherwise I'm afraid, having arrived in half a year, to find something from my grandmother's stories.

     You promised to immediately check with Telekom about a temporary visa for me. I would come at least for a couple of weeks, I know that the tickets are expensive, but what to do: I also want to see this wonderful city of Thule. I have already collected the documents, there are no problems, only an invitation remains. Maybe it's still better to come on some kind of tourist package, despite the fact that they are very expensive? Or maybe you don't want me to come anymore. I found some kind of Martian girl, it’s not for nothing that you were so drawn to this planet. I'm kidding, of course."

     “Oh, this freak with his aquariums and armchairs upset me so much that I even forgot about Masha's invitation,” Max thought sadly.

     “At home, everything is fine, I saw your mother. At the weekend I will go to the country to help my parents. Also, when I was cleaning up, I accidentally hit one of your ships, the one that is the healthiest, I don’t remember what it’s called, but I didn’t break anything, I checked. And in general, it is high time to take these toys somewhere to the garage, they only take up space.

     “My Viking, but not that! She didn't break anything, Max thought skeptically. - So I believed, but you, in principle, will not notice if you break something in the model. I asked you not to touch it, is it really so difficult?

     “I would like to know how you are going to have fun in your free time? There must be so many cool places on Mars, please send me more records, otherwise these desert landscapes of yours are somehow not impressive.

     I'm waiting, I hope, when will you take me to Mars. And, to be honest, messages are, of course, cool, but fast communication is still better. Can we splurge? You are now earning a lot of money in Telecom.

    Or maybe we’ll dump somewhere in Paris, huh? To dream about the city of Tula, you have to be like you. I would like, Max, something simpler: Montmartre there, the Eiffel Tower and warm, quiet evenings in a small restaurant. I honestly do not really understand how we will live on this Mars. In the same place, probably, it’s impossible to take a walk in the park arm in arm, there aren’t any parks there either. And you won’t admire the stars, and the full moon, no romance. In general ... in vain I started it again, everything has already been decided.

    I don’t know what else to tell, nothing special happens at home, it’s so boring and routine. Oh yeah, if you didn't appreciate my efforts with the letter, maybe you'll appreciate my new underwear in the second file. All right, bye bye. Think about a quick link, please."

     “She bought underwear, I hope only for me,” Max was wary. - And, really, what the hell did I ride away, leaving everything. So our relationship won't last long. And parks, stars and a lunar path on the mirror surface of the water are available here, only they are slightly virtual.

    

    Yes, unfamiliar things rarely turn out the way we imagine them to be. Max knew that there was no justice in the world and that rich, powerful corporations were doing arbitrariness, but he sincerely did not expect to become a victim of arbitrariness.

    Max knew that the Martian environmental service was not to be trifled with, but he could not imagine such ecological totalitarianism. In most of the clothes he brought with him, he could only show off at home in front of a mirror, she did not meet local requirements for dust formation, and the gateway of her own house did not let her out into the street. And the detectors installed in the airlock would not allow illegal drugs, weapons, animals to be carried with them and would automatically report such violations to the police. Moreover, the "big brother" also reported to the insurance service if a person came home in a state of drug or alcohol intoxication, or was sick. Of course, there were no penalties for this, but all these cases were carefully recorded in personal history and the price of insurance was slowly growing. The Martian "smart home" turned out to be worse than the most grumpy wife.

    Max knew that life in Tula was expensive. Cheap test-tube grown food tasted like the nutritious compost it grew on, and real food was obscenely expensive. And housing, and utilities, and transport and life-giving oxygen - everything is very expensive. But Max believed that the increased costs would more than compensate for the salary at Telecom. But it so happened that the salary turned out to be less than promised, and life is more expensive. Most of the money immediately went to insurance, tariffs, payment for a tiny twenty-meter apartment, and there was even no question of buying a car or seriously saving anything.

    Max knew that virtual reality was akin to a new religion, but he had no idea how much all the thoughts and aspirations of the Martian inhabitants revolve around a virtual axis. And in Max's tiny apartment, a large area was occupied by this altar of a new all-consuming cult - a biobath for complete immersion. Biovanna on Mars is the center of the universe, the focus of the meaning of life, the gateway to other worlds, where orcs defeat elves, empires fall and rise, love, hate, overcome and lose everything. There is now real life, and outside it is a faded surrogate. Oh, source of unearthly pleasures, touching your cool metal side, like a throat in the desert, awaits countless sellers, builders, miners, security guards, women and children, exhausted in schools and workplaces. They look up with longing eyes to where the sky should be and pray to the Martian deities for the speedy end of the shift. For someone, a biobath is an expensive, complex complex with thermoregulation, hydromassage, droppers and medical equipment, allowing you to spend weeks and months in it. Some actually do just that: they spend their entire conscious life swimming in saline, because most intellectual professions have long allowed working remotely. Yes, what can I say, you can get married and, in principle, even have children almost without getting out. Two spouses drenched in flasks opposite each other - the ideal Martian family. For someone who is not so familiar with virtual values, a biobath is really just a bathtub filled with warm liquid with an oxygen mask and a few simple sensors. But, absolutely everyone had it, without it there is no life on Mars. With Max, due to the morally obsolete neurochip, this equipment was mostly idle. Therefore, he often had a lot of free time, which he could spend on something useful, but usually did not.

    Almost two months have passed since Max arrived in Tula. He reinstalled the operating system on the chip, received a full-fledged service account and orange access to Telecom's internal networks. Gradually, his life entered a period of gray, monotonous everyday life. Alarm. Kitchen. Street. Job. Although a quarter of a century had not yet passed, there was a persistent feeling that the cycle was repeating itself and would repeat itself forever.

    He tried to regularly send letters to his mother, once he talked to her on a quick connection. Mom was sitting in the newly renovated kitchen. Under her feet, a cleaning robot dressed up in a cheerful turtle cover rumbled at home, the first snowstorm of the year beat through the dark window. The conversation began quietly and peacefully with mutual questions about life, then Max tried to unobtrusively find out what happened during his first trip to Mars in early childhood. For some time now, thoughts about what prompted him to drag himself so far became very intrusive. Probably, there was not much time to think about it before. But on Mars, paradoxically, there was time and a desire to delve into their cockroaches. Max realized that he didn’t have any special childhood memories before this trip, so there were some fragments, although he was ten years old. And he almost did not remember the trip itself - also solid fragments. But after that, there are already bright, distinct pictures of how he sits on the floor in an embrace with models of rovers. As if before that, a certain amorphous, unremarkable boy lived in his body, and then another child abruptly appeared, possessing a completely unchildish perseverance in achieving a completely unchildish goal. And now, through long boring evenings, Max tried to find that old boy, with his ordinary dinosaurs, transformers and computer toys. Tried and could not, he disappeared like the smoke of a fire at dawn. When asked by Max, my mother only shrugged her shoulders in bewilderment and answered that the underground cities seemed boring and uninteresting to her, like the whole trip as a whole. And in general, it would be better if Max returned home, found a simpler job and took up “production” with Masha and raising his own children.

    Max categorically did not like his new job at Telecom. There was no real programming in his current activities: just the monotonous collection of a database and the training of a neural network that was engaged in optimizing load and traffic in a certain area. In the very first week in a new place, Max fully felt what it means to be a cog in the system and an appendage to his neurochip. Five thousand programmers in the optimization sector alone, densely packed, like semiconductors in a crystal, into long halls filled with terminals for accessing the internal network. The neural network and database he worked with were just a small part of the supercomputer's lifecycle management system. Max did not know how the rest of the system worked. Only limited functionality was available to him within the framework of his modest competence, and even then only in the educational version. A set of all kinds of situations and options for responding to them was spelled out in the most detailed job descriptions, it was strictly forbidden to deviate from them. Actually studying the instructions became Max's main task for the next three months. All managers and practically all leading specialists of the optimization sector were without exception pure one hundred percent Martians, without any earthly impurities, which led Max to sad thoughts about the prospects for a future career. Max, of course, was preparing for the upcoming exam. He easily memorized the instructions almost verbatim, he did not see anything complicated in them and was sure that any technician of average skill could handle such things. But all the same, I was waiting for the exam with fear and nervousness, fearing that I would get some dirty trick from the employer.

    Max also learned that all the inhabitants of Mars, both indigenous and those who came in large numbers from other planets, except for adherence to any network provider, are divided into two large groups: "chemists" - those who like to keep molecular processors in their heads, and "electronics", respectively, fans semiconductor devices. These two groups waged a permanent holy war between themselves over which chips are better. M-chips were better integrated into a living organism, and semiconductor ones were more versatile and productive. The head of the optimization sector, Albert Bonford, was a typical "chemist", fanatically obsessed with cleanliness and panicking when any foreign molecule was detected in the surrounding air. And the "electronics" were no less obsessed with electrostatic protection, in fits of paranoia, fearing that some overly negatively or positively charged individual would arrange a breakdown in their thin-film brains. Chemists surrounded themselves with flocks of detector robots, and electronics ionized the air around them, wore special electrically conductive clothing and anti-static protection bracelets. Both of them were afraid of physical contact with other living beings. There must have been individuals alive and well somewhere who acknowledge that both types of devices have their advantages and trust built-in protection, but for some reason Max mostly came across puffed-up stubborn ones. Apparently the degree of cybernetization had no effect on the original depravity of human nature. Max has not yet joined any of the sects, since his neurochip caused only polite indulgence, and not a desire to participate in an intellectual discussion.

     All these difficult circumstances were superimposed, moreover, on a small culture shock received by Max from acquaintance with the Martian network standards. Previously, he did not really think about how the Martian networks achieve such data exchange rates to ensure the operation of all virtual gadgets, such as cosmetic programs, without glitches and brakes. The neurochip itself, being only an interface between the human brain and the network, of course, did not have the necessary power to run complex applications. Therefore, in Martian networks, the emphasis was on the speed of information exchange so that the user could use the power of network servers. To ensure that all those peta- and zetta-bytes were reliably transmitted between millions of users, the Martian wireless communication systems evolved into something incredibly complex. No tricks in the form of compaction and separation of radio channels have helped for a long time, therefore, in underground cities, not only the entire available radio frequency spectrum, but also infrared was packed to the limit, and even creeps were made into ultraviolet. What led to the presentation of special requirements even for lighting and advertising signs. In general, another Martian golem - the EMC commission, committed atrocities no less than all the others. And he could easily rob for some non-certified flashlight.

     Wireless repeaters were practically everywhere in Tula. From stationary: on the towers and ceilings of caves with many active antennas, to the simplest microrobots that stick to the walls of houses and caves like parasitic mushrooms. Managing the variety of antennas, their coverage areas, taking into account the level of scattering and reflection of signals from many surfaces was one of the functions of the new supercomputer. Under its vigilant electronic eye, numerous repeaters sent signals where required at a given frequency and level, without interfering with each other, guided users during their chaotic movements around the city and transmitted them to neighboring devices in a timely manner. Accordingly, users received a high-quality picture without brakes. Having received the first idea of ​​how it all works, Max, of course, lost confidence that he could cope with the design of such systems. But he did not smile at all about spending the rest of his life as an appendage to his neurochip. In response to cautious questions, the leading optimizer programmer, with a coldly arrogant smile, shared such a multi-thousand-strong Talmud entitled: “general principles of channel separation in Telecom wireless networks”, that Max already felt himself far from a genius on the second page of the Talmud. He knew he couldn't give up. And he even outlined his top-priority tasks: to pass a trial period and save up money to upgrade his outdated chip. But for now, I had to do tedious work according to instructions, almost like on a conveyor belt. And Max felt how every day his determination to break through somewhere was melting: he was plunging deeper and deeper into the swamp of the optimization sector.

    There was some variety on duty once every two weeks, when the optimizers, stupefied by endless databases, went to work in the field: fixing minor malfunctions in network equipment or optical cables. It was possible to refuse duty, but Max grabbed them with joy, as did many of his colleagues.

    Usually, all shifts also looked like one another - Max and his partner were looking for a failed microrelay and replacing it with a new one. However, this calm, not requiring special efforts and skills, work became a kind of outlet in an endless series of monotonous everyday life. Just as Max did not like to teach neural networks under the guidance of the Martians, in the activities of a simple installer, on the contrary, for some reason he liked everything. I liked his partner - Boris, with whom he shared the optimization bread in Telecom. They worked in the same room, behind neighboring terminals, and also went on duty together. Boris said that the purpose of the shifts, adopted as a tradition in Telecom, of course, is not to compensate the company for the lack of low-skilled workforce. And in order to get acquainted with the work of different departments of the company and to unite as a team. Apparently, the duty was invented by some particularly smart manager from the personnel service, from the category of those who come up with all sorts of "exciting" corporate gatherings, which, officially, you can skip, but in practice it is categorically not recommended.

    Max did not like managers, and who loves them, but this particular idea appealed to him. “And these crap-suckers are sometimes useful,” Max admitted after the first watch. Boris also contributed in no way to the success of such an event. Calm, not talkative, with a philosophically relaxed outlook on life. Boris, a short, slightly barrel-shaped lover of beer, online RPGs and implausible tales about Martian inhabitants, their way of life and customs, was a bit like a gnome, that is, a dwarf, as he never tired of specifying, and always played the corresponding character in his favorite online gatherings . Also, he carried a heavy backpack with a full-fledged emergency kit everywhere with him and, for any irony, did not get tired of repeating with a serious look that, in which case, he alone would survive, and the rest would die in agony. But, in his magical backpack, in addition to relatively useless oxygen tanks, there were always beer and chips, so Max didn’t really make fun of this.

    He and Boris, without saying a word, chose tasks in the most remote corners of the underground city. In just eight hours of work, three tasks had to be completed, which was no problem, even when traveling slowly by public transport. Max liked to travel and liked trains, so he really enjoyed being on duty. Usually they went like this: meeting with a partner at some station and then gradually moving in gently rocking trains or fast-moving maglevs. Transfers at bustling central stations or long waits for rare trains at dull tiled stations somewhere in the depths of distant dungeons. In the huge city of Tula there was no generally recognized center and there was not even any kind of building system, it simply sprawled in the natural voids of the planet, like a chaotic cluster of stars in the sky. Somewhere a heap of bright dots merging into one blinding spot, and somewhere the darkness of industrial areas, interspersed with rare lights. And the Thule metro map was distinguished by enchanting complexity. It looked like a masterpiece of a crazy spider, which braided some areas with a dense multi-level network, and somewhere left a single thin thread. In the evening before the trip, Max did not deny himself the inexplicable pleasure of turning a three-dimensional map, imagining how tomorrow he would swim past this spherical cluster of points, then through a thin line that in some places goes to the surface of the planet, he will fall into a cluster that looks like a fat, blurry blot where the first task is to be completed. And you can get into the blot in a different way, a little longer and with transfers, but on the other hand, passing through a frighteningly interesting area of ​​\uXNUMXb\uXNUMXbthe first settlement.

    The endless city of Thule, passing by, was striking in its contrast: empty gray-concrete rows of boxes in the "gamma" and "delta" zones were replaced by a bizarre jumble of towers, covered by a network of paths and platforms, clogged with people in hats with light guide threads woven into them to ensure reception - transmission of light signals. Some fashion trend followers preferred elegant decorative umbrellas. People with funny umbrellas and hats seemed to Max like aliens with antennas in children's drawings, and, passing by Thule, from their presence only looked more like a phantasmagoria. Martian cities never slept, the change of day and night is not visible in the dungeons, so everyone lived at the time that was convenient for him. All institutions and organizations worked around the clock, and the streets were full of traffic at any time of the day.

    Usually, he and Boris finished one or two bottles of beer before the first task. Accordingly, the first task was carried out quickly and in high spirits, the second, in principle, too, with the completion of the third there were already some difficulties, so in the end we tried to leave the easiest task closer to home. Often Max was silent and almost did not talk to Boris, although Boris was always trying to tell some local story, but seeing that his partner answered in monosyllabic phrases, he didn’t press too hard. Boris was the person next to whom Max was quite comfortably silent, for some reason it seemed to him that he had known Boris for ten years already, and this trip was at least a hundredth. Max looked out the window, sometimes pressing his forehead against it, slowly sipping his beer and reflecting something like this: “I’m a strange person - I wanted to get to Mars so much that I rushed about like a clockwork toy, almost without breaks for sleep and food. And here I am on Mars and what happens: I no longer need any job, no career, I completely lost my craving for all this running around, as if some kind of toggle switch was switched. No, of course, I will do obviously necessary things, such as passing qualifying exams, but so, purely, out of inertia. I completely lost my purpose and motivation. What kind of downshifting is this on the Martian expanses? Maybe then he will get a job as an installer, since I like everything in such a job? Oh, if only Masha could see me, I couldn't avoid a serious conversation. But Masha is there, and I am here. Max concluded logically and opened the second bottle.

    Very often during his trips, Max was visited by thoughts about his incomprehensible dream of transforming Mars, but Ruslan's predictions about the fact that he could not make any career here did not come out of his head. "That's my whole Martian dream - to come to Mars, understand that there is nothing to catch and relax." Max thought. To share his doubts, he turned to Boris, who seemed to be a man of reasonable and wise experience:

     “Here, Bor, you seem to know everything about local life. Explain to me what this thing is - a Martian dream?

     - What do you mean? The Martian dream as a social phenomenon or a specific service of some companies.

     — Is there such a service? Max was surprised.

     - Well, yes, did you fall from the moon? Any child knows about this, even though the advertising of this crap is officially prohibited, Boris explained with the air of an expert. - Like, if you have not achieved anything in life, you are disappointed in it, and in general, if you are just a stupid loser, then you have only one road, to the Martian dream. There are special offices that, for a relatively moderate fee, are ready to create a whole world in which everything will be as you want. Your brain will be manipulated a little and you will completely forget that the real world, in principle, exists. You will happily flounder in your cozy matrix as long as there is money in your personal account. There is a light version of this drug crap, you can enjoy your own world for a couple of days, without therapeutic amnesia, like going to a spa. But, you understand, the pleasure from the light version is not complete, it is not always possible to deceive, first of all, oneself.

     - And how do these light versions differ from the usual full immersion?

     “It’s like everything is much cooler there, you can’t distinguish it from the real world at all. They use clever m-chips and supercomputers to simulate all the sensations.

     - And how can the notorious losers take advantage of the Martian dream, it's probably quite expensive?

     — Oh, Max, well, you really fell from the moon, or rather from the Earth. Well, supercomputers, m-chips, so what? Virtually sunbathing in the Canary Islands is still a hundred times cheaper than flying there on a spaceship. Think about it, living in a biobath has a lot of advantages in terms of spending: you don’t take up much space, food through a dropper, no expenses for transport, clothes, entertainment, yes, if you also use the standard world from the provider’s catalog, then a Martian dream will be available to everyone. Even working as a waiter in a diner, you can save up for a Martian dream, provided that you rent a kennel in the gamma zone and eat nutritional briquettes.

     - What is it like: somewhere in the depths of the red planet there are huge caves from top to bottom lined with rows of biobaths with human beings inside? The anti-utopian fantasies have come true.

     - Well, maybe everything does not look so apocalyptic, but in general, yes, it is. There are definitely a lot of clients of the Martian dream. But they chose it themselves. In the modern world, you are absolutely free in your choice, as long as it brings profit to corporations.

     “I had another culture shock,” Max stated, gulping down his beer almost in one gulp.

     - What's so shocking about it? Many people from other planets, having saved up some money, go for the Martian dream. By the way, they are issued visas without any problems at all, and unlimited tariffs even partially compensate. Sorry, there are no social benefits on Mars and in the cities of the protectorate, and there are no fewer drunks, abandoned old people and others who do not fit into the market. Therefore, they are disposed of in such a relatively humane way, what's wrong with that?

     - Yes, it's a nightmare. This is very unfair.

     - Not fair? The terms and conditions are clearly stated in the contract.

     - It is not fair, in principle, to give such a choice. Man is known to be weak, and some things cannot be chosen.

     - That is, it is better to die painfully from alcoholism?

     - Undoubtedly. If such a path has already fallen out, then it is necessary to go through it to the end.

     — You, Max, it turns out a fatalist.

     - And the unlimited tariff is really not limited in time?

     - If there is enough money to pay for storage services with interest from the deposit, then the tariff will be really eternal. They can even extract the brains and place them in a separate jar. Brains on artificial support seem to be able to function for a couple of hundred years.

     “I wonder how many such dreamers are on Mars?” Is it possible to get electricity from them?

     - Xs, Max, look, it’s better to ask neurogoogle how many of them and what they get from them.

     - I wonder what the process of concluding a contract looks like?

     - Max, you scare me, I see you are seriously interested in this muck. Play better Warcraft for example. Or thump, in the end.

     Don't worry, it's just idle curiosity. But still, you come to the office and say: “I want to become a rock star in America in the sixties,” to wild popularity and squealing fans at concerts. Well, they tell you, here is a special annex to the contract, describe in it in as much detail as possible what you want to see.

     - That's what happens, I guess. Only their own dreams are really expensive, the more original the more expensive, the standard hour for Martians costs a lot. Usually they offer to choose from a standard set: a billionaire, a secret agent, or, for example, a brave conqueror of the galaxy on a spaceship.

     “Suppose a brave conqueror of the galaxy, and then.

     - Yes, I didn’t use this muck, I’m inventing it myself ... Well, let’s say further, so that you don’t get bored of conquering the galaxy for decades, you will save the most beautiful of women from the clutches of evil aliens. And you, apparently, will be asked which women you prefer: brunettes, blondes, with the second size or with the fifth ... well, or, men.

     “What if you don’t really know yourself?”

    What don't you know, women or men? Boris was surprised.

     — Yes, no, if you yourself don’t know exactly what you dream about and can’t describe it, naturally assuming that you have enough money for a personal matrix.

     - Since there is money, they will bring an experienced shrink and he will pick out all the hidden desires from your unlucky head. Unless, of course, then you yourself are not afraid of what you got. I think that in the case of some Franz Kafka, it would not be a dream, but a living hell.

     - To each his own, maybe someone would like to turn into a creepy insect.

     “There are few perverts in the world. What, you don't really know what you want?

     Yeah, that's my main problem.

     - I hasten to assure you, you have a few far-fetched problems.

     - What can you do, a simple person has simple desires and motives, and a person with a complex organization of the psyche, you see for yourself, is sheer grief from the mind. I am also, in addition to everything else, afraid that the Martians can unravel me before I myself. After all, they do not engage in fruitless self-digging, but approach any problem in a utilitarian and pragmatic way. That's why I imagined the phenomenon of the Martian dream in a completely different way.

     — And how?

     - Something like special supercomputer systems in the bowels of the largest corporations-providers, which are sharpened to decipher human personalities according to the history of their activities on the network. They gradually figure out what this or that ordinary user wants and unobtrusively slip into his virtual world what he wants to see in real life.

     - What for?

     - Well, why, so that a person thinks that everything is fine and does not twitch. Well, to zombify, suppress, and then taunt stupid little people and get free electricity from them. After all, any self-respecting Martian corporation should do this. Or, at worst, to convince them to shove another newest, most advanced uberdavies into the long-suffering brain.

     - What are your complex conspiracy views on the surrounding reality. Relax, the world is easier. Of course, they’ll sell you advertising, but there’s something to solve ... Why bother so much for the sake of miserable little people?

     - Yes, it is, rather inspired by the words of another person. What do you think about the Martian dream in a social sense?

     - Beautiful fairy tale. In order to maintain their overwhelming intellectual advantage, the Martians draw all the best forces from the solar system with their fairy tales and here flush them down the toilet, in stupid jobs like an optimizer programmer. And at home, these homegrown intellectuals can and could do something useful.

     “Ha, so you are also not alien to the idea that the Martians are to blame for everything,” Max grinned.

     “What to do, too convenient an explanation,” Boris shrugged.

    They were silent for a moment. The frozen, reddish landscapes of the surface streaked monotonously past. Behind Boris, from time to time, a homeless-looking gentleman snored, shamelessly staked out three seats for rest at once.

     — Yes, it was strange. Max broke the silence. — Apparently my Mars is a castle in the sand. The very first encounter with reality washed him away, leaving no trace.

     “You know, you yourself are worse than any Martians. Think about real problems.

     - And this is what a devoted fan of Warcraft and a level 80 dwarf is telling me.

     “Dwarf… well, am I a lost man, but there is still some hope for you.

     - Why immediately lost?

     - Fate is not easy.

     - Will you share?

     - And here's the bastards. The situation is not the same, the mood is not the same. I have been calling you to sit somewhere for a long time: I know a couple of excellent bars, inexpensive and atmospheric, and you keep coming up with leftist excuses. After work, you see, he can’t get up early tomorrow, and on the weekend he has some business, preparing for exams.

     “No, I’m really getting ready,” Max said uncertainly.

     - Yes, yes, I remember, nibbling capital work: "General principles of channel separation in wireless networks of Telecom." And how are you doing, have you mastered a lot?

     — So far, not very ..., but who am I kidding, — Max admitted dejectedly.

     - What has already changed your mind about breaking into system architects?

     - Old Max, of Moscow temper, would never have been stopped by a miserable two thousand pages, but the new Max has stalled for some reason.

     - Yeah, all these dreams and soul-searching only soften the will to win, - Boris said importantly. “And you didn’t even visit the personnel department?”

     - I visited. There is such an interesting manager there. It seems to be a Martian, but small in stature, like an ordinary person. Although still a freak: skinny and a huge head. And somehow he is a little livelier than his fellows, it seems more like a person, and not like a robot.

     — Arthur Smith?

     — Do you know him?

     - I don’t make a personal acquaintance, but I’ve been pulling a strap in Telecom for a long time, many interesting personalities have already become familiar. His eyes are still so big.

     - Yes, yes, just the same huge eyes, also gray, besides, and all Martians are usually black. The real "white crow". I honestly explained that they would not hire me as a leading specialist, if only because of the old neurochip. Like, given my age, installing a professional chip and, most importantly, training to work with it will cost the company a lot. The company can go to such expenses, but only for the sake of particularly distinguished employees.

     — I know one story about this Arthur.

     - Tell me.

     - Rather, not even a bike, but gossip.

     - So tell me.

     “I won’t,” Boris shook his head, “besides, she’s not very decent.” If I had heard this about myself, I would not have been happy.

     - Bor, you're just some kind of sadist. First he mentioned the bike, then he clarified that it was gossip, and then he added that it was also dirty gossip. What, he got drunk at a corporate party and performed an incendiary dance on the table?

     “Fi, I wouldn’t even think of telling such banal stories,” Boris grimaced, “especially the Martians, as far as I know, don’t drink alcohol.

     “Come on, tell me already, stop breaking.

     - No, I won't. I say the situation is not the same, the mood is not the same, but after three or four glasses of rum with Marsa-Cola, you are always welcome. Moreover, you did not appreciate my last bike.

     Why didn't you appreciate it? A very curious story.

     - But…

     — What but?

     You added a "but" last time.

     “But implausible,” Max spread his hands.

     "What's wrong with her?"

     “Yeah, you don’t believe that evil Martian corporations are sleeping and seeing how to get into everyone’s soul?” And the fact that the entire network is some kind of semi-intelligent substance, like a living ocean, which gives rise to virtual monsters that devour users ... Is that all, then, pure truth?

     “Of course, it’s true, I saw it with my own eyes. Look at some of our colleagues, they have long since become shadows, I'm sure.

     - And which of our colleagues became a shadow? Gordon maybe?

     Why Gordon?

     “Licking Martians’ assholes too enthusiastically, lead fucking programmer. He only knows how to make presentations.

     - No, Max, the Martians have nothing to do with it at all.

     - That is, your digital Solaris does not care who to eat, people or Martians?

     - The network does not specifically eat anyone, you didn’t listen to me at all in my opinion. A shadow is something that is a reflection of our own thoughts and desires, but does not have any specific physical carrier or piece of code.

     — A digital god to be worshiped and sacrificed?

     - It's just not necessary. Shadows are born only thanks to the people themselves. So you think that the network will endure everything - all stupid, vile requests, entertainment, and you will get nothing for it. In virtual reality, you can torture kittens or dismember little girls with impunity. Yeah, how! Any request or action on the network casts a shadow. And if all your thoughts and desires revolve around virtual entertainment, sooner or later this shadow will come to life. And here I'm sorry, how you behaved, so will the shadow. If the real world is so boring and uninteresting, then the shadow will gladly take your place while you have fun online. And you yourself will not notice how the shadow becomes real, and you turn into its incorporeal slave.

     “Yeah, apparently your shadow looks like a dwarf in mithril armor with a beard down to the navel.”

     “Ha ha… You can laugh as much as you like, but, I answer, once I saw my shadow. Then I didn’t go into full immersion for a month.

     And what did this terrible shadow look like?

     “Like… a dwarf with my features.

     - Oh, Borya ...

    Max choked on his beer and for some time could not clear his throat and laugh.

     “Dwarf with your features!” Maybe you accidentally looked in the mirror? .. Forgot to turn off the cosmetics before that?

     - Yes, you go! Boris waved his hand and opened a second bottle of beer. - Here you will reach the appearance of a shadow, then there will be no time for laughter.

     “Yes, I’m not going to dive with you there, or wiggle. All these Warcraft and Harborian eras do not really draw me in.

     - For this, it is not necessary to gamble, it is enough to spend a lot of time in complete immersion, no matter for what purpose. Do you know what you should never do?

     - And what is it?

     - In a dive, in no case should you fuck bots.

     - Seriously? Maybe you shouldn't watch porn. Yes, half of the users, for the sake of this, order the latest upgrades of the chip and biobaths.

     “They don’t understand what they are doing. Any strong emotion helps the shadows to be born, and sex is the strongest emotion.

     “Then everyone would be creating those shadows. Or at least walking around with hairy hands, according to an older version of this tale.

     - Or maybe yes, who knows how many shadows live among us? After all, the shadow will have access to all your memory and personality while you sit in virtual slavery. How to distinguish it from a real person?

     “No way,” Max shrugged. - It is difficult to distinguish a modern bot. Just some tricky logical questions. And the vicious revived neural network generated by the vices of human nature ... there are no options here. Maybe we are the only two real people, and there are only shadows around for a long time?

     “The digital apocalypse is inevitable if people don’t come to their senses and stop spreading trash, waste and sodomy on the Internet.

     - It already smells of a sect: “Repent, sinners!” In my opinion, some people spend too much time masturbating all sorts of orcs, according to one friend, so they begin to see shadows and other glitches.

     - You're a bore, Max. Every legend is based on something...

     “Forgive me, please,” the waking homeless gentleman suddenly interrupted Boris, “but the subject of your conversation seemed so interesting to me ... Will you allow me?

    Without waiting for an invitation, the newly formed friend climbed closer to them. His face: thin, wrinkled and overgrown, betrayed a man shabby by life, who obviously did not have money for cosmetic software. A modest wardrobe consisted of torn jeans, a T-shirt and a worn jacket from which a dirty gray synthetic winterizer climbed out. “And where does the environmental service look? Max thought. “It feels like this mutated Greenpeace was following me from the shuttle ladder, but the guy opposite, at least henna.” However, Max did not feel much ambiance, so he did not show dissatisfaction with his new neighbor.

     - Let me introduce myself: Philip Kochura, for friends Phil. Currently a free-roaming philosopher.

     “What an intricate euphemism,” Max remarked sarcastically.

     — Classical education makes itself felt. Sorry, I didn't catch your name, mate.

     — Max. Currently a promising scientist who escaped corporate slavery for a day.

     "Boris," Boris introduced himself reluctantly.

     “Will you let me taste your life-giving drink?” Thirst completely exhausted me.

    Boris glanced at his uninvited friend with annoyance, but pulled out a bottle of beer from his backpack.

     - Thank you very much. Phil paused for a moment, sucking on the freebie. - So, regarding the conversation overheard inadvertently, I apologize for the second time for the intrusion, but it seems that you, Maxim, do not believe in shadows?

     - No, I'm ready to believe anything if at least some evidence is presented?

     “Well, believe it or not, I saw a real shadow come to life and talked to it.

    Boris vigilantly guarded the backpack from Phil's further encroachments. The skepticism written on his face, perhaps, would be the envy of a paleontologist who entered into an argument with a creationist, as if he himself had not reproached his comrade with tediousness a minute ago.

     - Tormented virtual kittens? Okay, the road is long, go ahead, tell me, - Max agreed easily.

     — My story began in the distant year 2120. It was a terrible time: the ghosts of the collapsed states still roamed the solar system. And I, young, strong, not at all the same as now, was eager to fight with the ubiquitous corporations. Then neurochips were also produced with the option to turn off the wireless connection. Such chips allowed a smart person a lot. In those years, I was well versed in the intricacies of illegal work. Now, of course, no one is embarrassed by the initially closed architecture of all axes, as well as the constantly open wireless ports on the chip. You know that ports 10 to 1000 on the chip are always open.

     “Thanks, we know,” Max confirmed.

     - Do you know why they are needed?

     — For transmission of service information.

     - Yeah, except for service information, a lot of things are transmitted through them. For example, the developers of cosmetic software agreed a long time ago to also use these ports. And then if you use the usual ones, then it is enough for normal people to install a firewall and the clients of these offices will appear in their original form. But most importantly, everyone, in kind, does not care that their right to privacy has been taken away from them ...

     “It's very sad, really. We bitterly regret the loss of privacy, - Max said in a deliberately insinuating voice, - But you seemed to be going to talk about the revived shadow.

     - That's what I'm getting at. How about wetting your throat a little? - Phil asked, showing an empty bottle and carefully turned towards Boris, but came across a prickly look that did not bode well - No, well, okay. So, when you are captured by some grand goal, you rush forward like a urged horse. When I was young, I was such a galloping horse. When you rush without understanding the road, the world around you trembles and floats in a reddish fog, and the words of the mind are drowned in the roar of hooves. I thought that I could handle everything and that I could run the shortest way to the goal in no time. But the ancients correctly said that a real samurai should not look for easy ways ...

     “Listen, buddy, I understand you're a philosopher and all, but can't you get to the point quickly?

     “Why are you hanging your ears, Max,” Boris got in annoyed, “I found someone to listen to.

     — Okay, Bor, let the man finish.

     “Well, I ran, which means that I didn’t understand the road, and then they threw a lasso around my neck and dragged me down the slope. And so quickly and unexpectedly, as if I were a weak-willed rag doll. And the fall began, it would seem, with complete nonsense: I was given an important task, and in order to conspire, I had to become an inhabitant of the Martian dream for a while ...

     “So you were in the Martian Dream?” Max perked up. "Tell me, what does she look like?"

     - So in a nutshell can not describe. I have been there many times. At the moment, for two years now, as a string. But recently I broke off a good jackpot, so I'll be there again soon. A full-fledged five-year plan lacks literally a couple of creeps. In a lousy reality, the Martian dream is like a beautiful vivid dream. The details are hard to remember, but I really want to go back. A little more and this smelly train and our conversation will turn into an unpleasant, but harmless dream there ... Damn, buddy, my throat is dry in nature, it's already tearing up. Phil stared hungrily at the magical backpack.

     — Bor, treat our friend.

    Boris gave Max a very expressive look, but shared the bottle.

     “So you still remember real life in the Martian dream?”

     - ... Yes, there are different options, - Phil did not answer immediately, for a start he took a pretty sip of the healing elixir. - If memories cause unbearable discomfort, they will be relieved, no problem, but only if you buy an unlimited version. I never had that kind of money, so I have to be content with traveling for three or four years. On short and medium trips, amnesia is prohibited, otherwise how can I return you back. But the local soul engineers came up with a clever psychological effect. In dreams, reality seems to be a blurry, half-remembered dream. Like, you know, there are these nightmares in which you end up in jail, or flunk your exams at the university. And then you wake up and realize with relief that this is just a nightmare. That's about the same in the Martian dream. You wake up in a cold sweat and exhale fuf ... lousy reality - just a harmless dream. True, there is a small side effect: the dream itself acquires the same features upon return.

     - It's strange, does any impression, or let's say a tourist trip, have value if you have practically lost the memory of it? Max asked.

     “Of course it does,” Phil answered confidently, “I remember how good it was for me. There is also a common option to wipe the memory selectively so that the Martian dream develops as a continuation of a previous life. It seems you live as you lived, but luck suddenly turns its face, and not its usual place. Suddenly you discover an incredible talent in yourself, or you become successful in business, earn a lot of money, buy a villa on the coast, women give any, again. No deception: everything that ordered comes true. And you won’t feel the catch either: the program specifically throws up various obstacles that must be courageously overcome.

     - And if you order the victory of the anti-Martian revolution throughout the Solar System, and yourself as a leader, driving the Martians to filtration camps, where they are barbarously removed neurochips?

     “Yes, you can at least poison them in gas chambers, at least build communism,” Phil laughed. “The guys who sell dreams are indulgent with the whims of their clients.

    Boris also considered it necessary to speak:

     “And you thought someone cared about the political beliefs of the finished dreamers. You never know in the world offended by the brutal arbitrariness of corporations. You are not the first, you are not the last who wants to carry out a revolution and build communism.

     What makes you think that I want this? Max shrugged.

     - From the fact that he already pulled up with his talk about the Martian dream. Do you also want to be homeless on the wagons?

     - Why are you angry, Bor?

     - Yes, why this aggressive bias? Phil was a little offended. - Everyone is drunk, hangs out in online games all day, but when they see a harmless dreamer, they lash out in a crowd with hypocritical reproaches. You get angry at yourself, but you take it out on others. We just go a little further than the average layman. And, mind you, we don't do anything bad to anyone.

     Blah blah blah, standard whining. Nobody loves us, nobody understands...

     “In short, pay no attention, Max,” Phil continued. - In fact, if you do not touch the memory, then the dream does not differ in anything, except for the length of stay, from online games, or from the same social networks. In the standard world from the catalog, there will be living people around, you can even hang out with friends there. You can join someone's personal dream, it will be cheaper, but you have to accept that the owner of the dream will be some kind of dictator-emperor there. In general, there are different 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 sits down great,” Phil suddenly agreed. - Yes, and to return, of course, every time more and more difficult. Lousy reality does not wait for us with open arms. The world changes in leaps and bounds every time, and after three or four trips you give up on trying to catch up with what's what. You plow like a robot to save up for another year or two. Often you don’t have enough patience, you break down without really earning anything ... - Phil has already become rather drowsy after a couple of bottles. Boris waved his hand doomedly and gave a third.

     - Just to shut up at last, - he explained, - this, by the way, is the last one.

     “I’ll buy on the way,” Max promised. “I can’t understand one thing: why not hang out in a Martian dream without any amnesia and side effects. Then it will turn into a rather harmless entertainment.

     “It won’t turn,” Boris snapped. – No matter what dreamers and providers tryndeli about harmlessness and similarity to ordinary online games, they themselves know very well that without psychological effects, this whole idea completely loses its meaning. The Martian dream was invented to create the illusion of a happy life, and not to fill up the monster and get another level-up. And happiness is a fragile thing. This is a state of mind, we are not quite primitive animals, for whom an unlimited amount of money and females will be enough for happiness. And in the Martian dream, such prosaic things as social recognition and self-respect are impossible without full or partial amnesia.

     “You know the subject, hic,” Phil said. - You know what makes the brains out at the moment. From a personal dream, whether with total or partial amnesia. I saw one cupcake that was taken from a personal dream. He did some kind of scam there to pay, but it was revealed. I spent only four years there, but it was a pitiful sight...

     "More pathetic than you?"

     - Yes, okay, Boris, don't drive. I have everything under control. I'm not a fool, I understand what the right trip should be. And that cupcake, the dream was like paradise, everything falls from the sky and you don’t need to lift a finger. Like no surprises from the environment in the spirit of challenge-response, so consciousness degrades at a fucking rate. Yes, and in view of the complete inadequacy, real people did not dare to appear in his cozy little world. Some bots had fun with him. In fact, a bot can be easily distinguished from a human if you know what to look for. It seems to me that no one keeps such stubborn ones for too long. So, they spin the kintso for ten years until the brains completely soften, and then they drain the contents of the biobath into the sewer and start the next one, uk, - and Phil chuckled stupidly.

     - You see, Max, he laid out the whole truth.

     - Yeah, well done. This begs the provocative question: if the Martian dream is indistinguishable from reality, maybe we are there. How can I, for example, understand that Phil is not a software bot?

     - Why am I a software bot? I'm not a bot, hic.

     “Draw a captcha for him,” Boris suggested. “Or ask your own tricky logical question.

     - Phil, repeat the third word in the phrase you just uttered.

     - What? Philip closed his eyes.

     - Like a bot, or a shadow. We actually started the conversation with this: like, somewhere you met a revived shadow. Can you please tell me where you found it?

     — In the Martian dream, of course.

     “Yeah, that’s where they belong,” agreed Boris, slightly tempering his skepticism towards Phil.

     — Hey, Phil, don't go to sleep. Tell me.

    Max shook the nodding wandering philosopher.

     - Well, I was in the Quadius organization in general. He was an ordinary quad and performed various tasks throughout the solar system. I received all instructions by deciphering the messages of a user with the nickname “kadar” in one social network. I almost never saw my comrades, knew nothing about who was in charge of us, but I believed that we were close to victory and the total power of corporations would soon collapse. Now I understand what nonsense I fell for, and how much our fluttering was up to the lantern of the same Neurotek.

     - So what, what is stupid, but the fight for a just cause. Anything is better than just fading out of the real world.

     Better, I agree.

     How did you get to where you are today?

     “How did you get there, how did you get there, let him sleep already,” Boris was eager to end the conversation. - The rubbish, on which he got hooked, causes a strong psychological dependence. Once you try it, you won't get off.

     “I didn’t come there myself the first time,” Phil began in a slightly apologetic voice. - The first time I was sent there to get some important information, and then as a courier to deliver it to Titan. Information is uploaded into the brain with the help of a hypnoprogram, and then only the one who pronounces the code word can get it. Upon hearing the correct code, the courier falls into a trance and unmistakably reproduces what was uploaded into it, be it even a meaningless set of numbers or sounds. Information is stored directly in neurons, and you yourself do not have access to it, and there is no artificial carrier that can be detected. I don't know how they do this trick, but it's very secure from a secrecy point of view. Even if the courier is captured by Neurotek, they won't get anything from him.

     “And this Quadius is clearly technically savvy,” Max noted.

     - Yeah. In short, I had to get the information in the Martian dream. The organization often used the dream as a safe meeting place. After all, they have their own network, not connected to the Internet, and even their own physical interfaces, such as m-chips. Corporations need to specifically bother to get into it. Unless the admins of the Martian dream themselves accidentally look at the logs. But usually no one cares what customers do there.

     - And your organization was not afraid that the brave quads might inadvertently daydream from frequent meetings? Max asked.

     - No, I was not afraid. And I was not afraid, we had a great goal ...

     “Well, did you see the revived shadow?” Max insistently asked, seeing that Phil was trying to glue his fins together.

     - Saw.

     "And what does she look like?"

     - Like a dumb Nazgul in a black torn cloak with a deep hood. Instead of a face, she has a ball of inky darkness, in which piercing blue eyes glow.

     - And what makes you think that it was the notorious shadow? In the Martian dream, you can certainly look whatever you want.

     “I don’t know what it was: a complex virus embedded in the software of the Martian dream or real artificial intelligence. I'm only sure it wasn't a human or service bot. I looked into those eyes and saw myself, my whole life at once, all my miserable memories and dreams of defeating corporations. All my future, even this conversation was in those eyes. I will never be able to forget them... now my life has no other worthy use but to serve the shadow, without that it does not make any sense... Then I heard the order and immediately passed out, and when I woke up, the shadow disappeared.

     “Yes, it looks like this shadow is great crippling fragile minds,” Max shuddered.

     Phil, get up. Next what? What's the order?

     Deliver a secret message to Titan. There come to certain places every day for three weeks and wait for someone who will come for a message.

     - Did you complete the task? Has anyone come?

     “I don’t know, I did everything as the shadow ordered. If someone came, I could forget about it. I only remember that I stuck in this frozen hole for three full weeks.

     “Is the message still inside you?”

     "Probably, but believe me, it's more inaccessible than Alpha Centauri."

     “I did everything as the shadow ordered,” Boris put into words the maximum degree of sarcasm that he was capable of. “Didn’t you think that you just imagined everything. A small side effect of digital drug abuse.

     “I’m telling you that I didn’t abuse anything then. However, you may be right, I just imagined. After poking around in the lousy reality a little more, I realized that both the world of free software and the victory over corporations just seemed to me, and I have always been an ordinary stupid dreamer. Now I'm not even sure that the Quadius organization exists, that it wasn't corporations that played cat and mouse with us. What was I to do? I returned to the world where my struggle was real. Then, of course, he tried to quit, he held on for five years ... but, of course, he broke down ... And then it went and went ...

    Phil finally exhaled and closed his eyes.

     - Max, do not touch him, please, let him sleep already.

     - Let him sleep. Sad story.

     “There is nowhere sadder,” agreed Boris.

    Max turned to his reflection in the window. From the darkness of the speeding tunnel, another dreamer stared at him intently. “Yes, the modern world is saturated with the spirit of solipsism, and my head is filled with its confused creations,” he stated. - The catch of the Martian dream is not even that it is addictive like a drug, the catch is hidden in its very existence. Suppose you have achieved what you wanted in this life: planted a tree, raised a son, built communism, but you will not have any confidence that there is no illusion around ... "

    The train stopped at the station, interrupting the smooth flow of thoughts with the hiss of opening doors.

     Is this our station? Boris came to his senses.

     "Damn, grab your bags!"

     Where, where are the chips?

     “Oh, you forgot the most valuable thing. Hold the door.

     - Faster, Max, this is not Moscow, for "hold the door" then a big fine will be sent.

     - I'm running ... Bye, Phil, you'll be in our reality, maybe we'll meet, - Max finally pushed a random fellow traveler, and ran to the exit, bouncing unnaturally high at every step, the recent arrival from Earth had an effect.

    

    Max tried to quickly get the unlucky revolutionary and his sentimental stories out of his head. But, constantly, it was worth at least a little distraction from the routine of everyday life, his thoughts returned to the same channel. And in the end, one fine evening before the weekend, brewing synthetic tea in a tiny robotic kitchen, when, in principle, it was possible to do something useful, or it was possible to score on everything, Max could not stand it and called. I agreed on everything, made an advance payment and made an appointment for tomorrow morning. It is known that the morning is wiser than the evening, but, unfortunately, in the morning, jumping out of bed, Max did not even think about anything. With his head clear and empty, like a balloon, he set off towards his dream.

    A secretary was sitting at the reception desk of the DreamLand Corporation, having fun with the change of visual images. Either she turned into a glamorous blonde, then into a burning oriental beauty. But, having seen the client, she immediately abandoned these nonsense and invited the manager - Alexei Gorin. He was a perfectly normal middle-aged bald man, not some sleek, sleek boar exuding false benevolence over a thinly concealed intent to sell. In response to Max's nervous joke about where to sign with blood, he politely smiled and said that there was no need to rush and left, leaving the client alone for a few minutes.

    Perhaps this five-minute doubt helped Max, at the last moment he carefully weighed everything again and assessed the possible consequences, he refused. However, the price of a two-day dream, taking into account the problems with the old neurochip and the need to urgently refine the standard program in accordance with one's own whims, was also impressive. And just a few minutes later, sitting on the steps in front of the building, swallowing an ice mineral water, Max felt that he woke up from an obsession. The unconscious collective visions of the sorcerous city of Thule no longer came to him in restless dreams. A little ashamed of his stupidity, he diligently and forever forgot about the Martian dream and thanked all the gods put together that at the last moment they grabbed his hand, sending a bit of doubt and elementary greed. At the mere thought of how random and blind reasoning had kept him from an irreparable decision, he broke into a cold sweat. Well, yes, it's okay, because they are judged by actions, and not by intentions.

    Having banished from his thoughts the ridiculous ghosts generated by the lack of inner strength to resist temptations, Max felt much more confident. What had previously seemed unattainable suddenly emerged from the fog of abstract thoughts about the meaning of being and turned into a purely technical problem. Max stubbornly and concentratedly climbed the career ladder. First to the systems engineer of projects. At first, of course, he had a great complex because of the apparent intellectual superiority of the Martians over ordinary people. Both eidetic memory, and fantastic speed of thought, and the ability to solve systems of differential equations in the mind greatly impressed an unprepared person. However, over time, it became apparent that the abilities of a seedy computer are even more impressive. The whole trick was to combine this computer with neurons in the head and learn how to mentally control it. Traditionally, it was believed that an adult no longer has the necessary mental flexibility to fully perceive serious modifications of the nervous system. But Max exhausted himself with long, long workouts, like a man taking steps again after a serious spinal injury. He himself was amazed where so much determination and faith in success came from, because the first ten thousand steps were awkward and looked like torture. Gradually, Max ceased to feel flawed among the Martian elite.

    After a successful performance as a systems engineer, Max was entrusted to represent the interests of Telecom in the Advisory Board. Thanks to him, Telecom, together with INKIS, very fruitfully participated in the further exploration of the planets and satellites of the Solar System. Over time, the inconvenience of the Earth as the main material and technical base of civilization became obvious. The deepest gravity well increased transport costs too much, and all the same resources: energy and minerals were abundant on small planets and asteroids. Humanity gradually moved into outer space, the first ground cities appeared on Mars, covered with power domes, the process of terraforming the planet was in full swing, and a project to create a new interstellar ship was in the air, and Max felt himself involved in this rapid progress.

    As soon as life priorities were set and the path to them ran along the shortest distance, time flew by as if in a fast motion. It would seem a strange paradox: for someone who is absorbed in what they love for days on end, time often flies unnoticed. And when family worries are mixed in, the years go by in minutes. So twenty-five years flew by in an instant. Weeks and months flew by like lines of endless program code being scrolled through with a pressed key. Before my eyes, endless lines rushed upwards faster and faster, and to this accompaniment, Max gradually turned from an ordinary person into a pale-faced Martian sitting on a levitating platform. With the final chord, doubts and worries disappeared in his huge black eyes, and running lines of code were reflected instead. He also married Masha, moved his mother to the red planet, raised two children, Mark and Susan, who never saw the earthly sky or sea, but, by the way, the children did not regret it. They were the children of free space.

    “Yes, how quickly time flies, as if only yesterday I was digging in a cramped rented apartment on the outskirts of the beta zone deep underground, and today I’m already drinking tea in the kitchen of my own mansion in the prestigious Io district of the Mariner Valley,” thought Max. He finished his tea and, without looking, tossed the mug towards the sink. An octopus-like kitchen robot, peeking out from under the sink, deftly picked up a flying object and pulled it into its dishwasher inside, so that in a few seconds it would return already clean and shiny.

    Max went to the window, it swung open, and a stream of sunlight spilled onto his fragile figure. It breathed with the aroma of eternal summer of the green valley, securely covered by a power dome and additionally illuminated all year round by a solar reflector in a stationary orbit. Max extended his hand to the double sun, his hand became so fragile and thin that it seemed the light penetrates through it and you can see how the blood beats in the smallest vessels on the skin. “Still, I have changed a lot,” Max stated, “the way back to Earth is now ordered for me, however, what I forgot on this overpopulated, crap ball. The whole space is open before me, if, of course, I agree to participate in an interstellar expedition, and if Masha agrees. I really don't want to fly without it. The children are almost adults, they will sort it out themselves, but she must be persuaded at any cost, I don’t want to fly alone ... "

    Max grabbed a bottle of Marsa Cola from the table and some ice from the fridge and went to lounge in the shade of the overgrown cherries by the pool. Low gravity and almost ideal conditions of the artificial biosphere contributed to the prosperity of the personal biocenosis. The vegetation was slightly neglected, so it seemed that after taking a few steps, you find yourself in a corner of the old park, hidden from prying eyes, where the contemplation of yellowed leaves floating in the water brings peace and tranquility to the soul. Max even wanted to get some large ornamental fish with bulging eyes in the pool. However, the family council decided that the pool should be used for its intended purpose, and for the fish to buy an aquarium, and in general, so the whole house is lined with models of spaceships, there were still not enough fish in the pool. Having become rich, Max really spent a lot of money on his passion for modeling, while the acquired models became more and more complex and perfect, but less and less of his own work was invested in them. Due to lack of time and effort, preference was given to finished copies. Expensive, perfectly made, they piled up, folded into the attic, they were broken by the children during the game, but Max did not worry about them. Only the beloved, battered by life "Viking" moved into a transparent crystal with an inert atmosphere and was guarded more strictly than passwords from wallets. And the real Viking was returned from the Museum of the Exploration of Mars to the pedestal in front of the cosmodrome by the cares of its main admirer and placed in a similar transparent crystal of the appropriate size. Guests and residents of Thule began to call it a crystal ship.

    A flock of personal robots followed their master into the garden in a short train. Molecular processors scattered throughout the nervous system required constant monitoring of the state of the environment. As well as life without diseases and pathologies up to one hundred and fifty years, it required the same strict biological discipline. A cyber-gardener crawled out of his hole and, with a guilty, businesslike look, began to restore order in the entrusted territory.

    Masha and the children were supposed to appear only in the evening, but for now Max had a few hours to enjoy the peace. He deserved a little rest after so many years of hard work for Telecom. Besides, I had to think it over again. Max himself received an offer to take part in an interstellar expedition quite recently and did not know how Masha would react to the prospect of leaving the Solar System forever in order to literally and figuratively start life anew. At least with the latest cryo-freezing technology, they won't waste twenty years on spaceflight. Max did not even think about possible failures and dangers. He was absolutely confident in the superpowers acquired during the years of life on Mars. Intelligent supercomputers can't be wrong. Ahead was the senseless and merciless conquest of a new star system.

    Lounging comfortably in front of the pool, he succumbed to a pleasant sense of idleness. The house was located on a small hill. Behind the house, the wall of the Mariner Valley rose into the sky in grandiose rolls and faults. Along the upper edge of the wall, following its whimsical curves, emitters of a force field diverged into the distance. Around the emitters, a crown of miniature lightning sparkled and crackled, reminiscent of the terrible power running through the metal bodies to the opposite side of the valley. From time to time, huge iridescent spots blurred over the heads of the inhabitants of the valley, like on a soap bubble, reminding them of how thin a film separates them from the surrounding space. There was no opposite wall to be seen, instead, mountain ranges were piled up, running along the center of the valley. They have already acquired the usual ice caps and green foothills, like those of earthly giants. A little to the side, in a bluish haze, the outlines of a city consisting of spiers and towers appeared. Artificial rivers flowed from the ridge and walls of the valley, the city was immersed in greenery, at night there was a stuffy aroma of flowering meadows in the air and grasshoppers chirped deafeningly. And all this was absolutely real, albeit like a dream.

    Unfortunately, the pleasant solitude was soon interrupted by a stubborn neighbor. Nothing good can last too long. Sonny Dimon was a well-known web blogger who specialized in covering various technical innovations, although he himself was not very versed in technology. His physiognomy was the most ordinary, unremarkable, and, in general, he looked like a gray, inconspicuous anonymous person from those that rush past by the thousands on their way to work. And he dressed in the same style, in casual slightly torn jeans and a light gray jacket with a hood. And he even managed without some frilly yellow scarf tied around a thin neck.

     “Hey buddy, don’t have a minute.

    Max gave the intruder a skeptical look.

     - So you came to chat?

     “Yeah,” Sonny sat down beside him, made a couple of meaningless comments about the weather, drummed his fingers on the table, and asked. "Can you help me deal with the cyber-gardener?"

     I watched your blog yesterday. Do you like technology?

     “Yes, I’m lying,” he dismissed.

     - And not tired of hanging noodles on everyone's ears about the latest in the high-tech industry?

     “This is how novelty manufacturers are able to make strong arguments in favor of an unobtrusive story about their products.

     — Yes, there are more than enough advertisements on your blog both hidden and explicit. Look, you lose the whole audience like that.

     - You won’t believe it, with finances it’s a complete ass, you have to go to extreme measures. But you have to admit, it's still top notch. An ordinary moderately cool, moderately instructive story about how my best friend mastered new functions of the neurochip.

     - Well, well, next time he will master the neurochip of a competitor company.

     - Life is changeable. How about a cyber gardener, though?

     - And what happened to him? Trim something wrong.

     - Yes there is a bit. Mother-in-law, with her creepy tulips, planted them everywhere, and this stupid piece of silicon cut them off along with the grass, although I kind of laid out all the rules for him. The howl will now ...

     - Try to quietly install a special tulip screensaver on the chip to your mother-in-law, she will not notice the difference. Okay, give me the password for your piece of silicon.

    Max got into the wireless interface of the garden piece of iron and, habitually accelerating the flow of subjective time, quickly corrected the obvious mistakes of the previous user.

     - Done, now she will cut according to the rules.

     - Well done, Max. You know, I'm so tired of pretending.

     - Don't pretend. Honestly write that N.'s neurochips are complete bullshit.

     - Acting is the cost of my profession. You know, if you write with talent about what the neurochips of the company N. really suck, there will definitely be a representative of the company M. and ask you to squeeze a couple more posts in the same vein. It's hard to hold on.

     - Have right.

     “Well, at least with you I can not pretend.

     “Not worth it, to be honest. I have these neurochips in me, like glitches in the new Telecom operating system. So I'm not your target audience.

     “Yeah, it’s good to be superhuman.

     - In what sense?

     "Yes, straight," Sonny answered cryptically, hooliganly clicking one of the robots swarming around Max. - Do you like the role of the superman?

     I don't play any roles.

     - We all play. I'm acting, you're acting, but I've read my script and you haven't.

     - And what is your role?

     - Well, the role of a moderately dumb neighbor against the background of which your brilliant abilities look even more brilliant.

     — Really? Max choked on his cola in surprise. “Congratulations, you seem to be doing well.

     - Trying…

     “Listen, dear neighbor, you are some kind of strange today, you would go home and sleep. Honestly, I wanted to be alone, not go crazy with you.

     “I understand that you, in fact, have 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 to you. Honestly, I also dream of being alone, I also do not need anyone. All these ridiculous human feelings, relationships only make you suffer and distract from really important things. Why go through these ridiculous cycles of rebirth. He was born, grew up, fell in love, had children, raised them, his wife got drunk - divorced, and the children left and repeated the same thing. How nice it would be to break out of the vicious circle, become a passionless, intelligent machine and live forever.

     Yes, I'm already half machine. And what didn't you like about the kids?

     “It meant that it would be nice to have a perfect mind in the real world.

     What world do you think we are in?

     - A philosophical question, is everything around just a figment of our imagination. Think about it.

     Yes, halfway down the middle. Half of the world around us is exactly the result of digital signal processing, 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 mixture of condescension and slight irony.

     It is impossible to answer such questions. These gnostic postulates are fundamentally unrefutable, the same as trying to prove the existence of a higher mind.

     But should we try? Otherwise, what is the meaning of our life?

     - Today, what is the day of rhetorical questions or what? Honestly, I'm trying to somehow politely get rid of you, but you very impolitely clung to me like a bath leaf. Leave, please, your deeply philosophical conversations, for the pasture of the Internet audience.

     “Oh, Max, I didn’t intend to practice the technique of grazing the audience on you at all. Okay, I’ll also say it straight: your world is a prison, human weaknesses and vices have led you to a golden cage. Find a way out of here, prove that you are worthy of gaining power over the world of shadows.

     I'm not going to look for anything. What are you attached to, really?

    Sonny looked genuinely confused.

     - Well, suppose for a moment that the world around is a real prison. Do you really care or are you playing with me like that?

     - I actually like my life, but the possible prospects are already breathtaking. The only thing I want is not to go on an interstellar flight in splendid isolation, so that you don’t invent yourself there. By the way, I didn't tell you, I was offered to take part in an expedition to Alpha Centauri.

     “It doesn't matter if you like the prison walls or not. And, yes, Masha will agree to fly with you to conquer new worlds, and you will submit to them and everyone will admire you?

     - How do you know? Nobody can know the future.

     - The jailers know exactly what the prisoners will be doing in the near future.

     - Okay, suppose if you are one of the jailers, then why are you helping me, and even so intrusively?

     “No, you must be kidding me, that’s pretty cruel of you. I said I'm pretending. At the moment I'm pretending to be your neighbor, but in reality ...

     You are actually Santa Claus. Guessed?

     - Not very smart. You have no idea what kind of torture it is when one second is equal to a thousand years, and there is a huge sandy beach around, where there is only one very precious grain of sand that you need to find. From century to century I sift empty sand. And so on ad infinitum and no hope of success. But now, it seemed to me that I had found someone who would once again return the meaning to my existence. And you turned out to be a mere shadow, like millions of others.

    Sonny looked terribly depressed. Max was seriously worried.

     “Listen, buddy, maybe you can call a doctor. You scare me a little.

     “It’s not worth it, I’ll go, perhaps,” he rose heavily from the table.

     You should quit your blogging. It’s better to go to Olympus for a couple of days, have a good time, otherwise don’t get me wrong ... but I wouldn’t want to live next to a crazy neighbor.

    Now Sonny looked at the interlocutor with genuine disappointment.

     “You could have freed yourself and me, but instead you continue to deceive yourself. And now we both will forever wander in the world of shadows.

     “Just calm down, okay. If you want, you can kind of release me from prison, I don’t mind ...

     “You should have freed yourself.

     - Okay, but how?

     “Learn to distinguish dream from reality and wake up.

    Max shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment, reached for a glass, and when he looked up, Sonny had already vanished into thin air. “An incomprehensible conversation, apparently purely for fun, decided to powder my brains. It will be possible in retaliation to shit in his comments.

    A light breeze drove yellowed leaves across the watery surface. Max mentioned the stubborn neighbor with a bad word, who violated the subtle spiritual harmony with his conversations, but the lazily relaxed mood did not return, an annoying headache came instead. “Okay,” he thought a little more, he decided, “after all, it’s not at all difficult to conduct a small experiment.” Max went up to the kitchen, poured water into a plate, found a glass, a piece of paper and a lighter. “Well, let's try, in childhood everything worked out fine - white smoke and water driven into a glass by external pressure.” He waited until the paper blazed brightly in the glass and, abruptly turning it over, put it on a plate. For some fractions of a second, the picture seemed to freeze, but Max could not resist - he blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, white smoke was already filling the glass and water rushed inside with a gurgle. “Hmm, maybe try something else: some kind of chemical experiment or freeze water. Yes, this is what you need - a rather complex physical effect - the instantaneous transformation of supercooled water into ice. So, the exact freezer and distilled water seem to be there. Although, on the other hand, if it does not work out, then who is to blame - insufficient purity of water or one's own curvature, and if it turns out that it proves. Either that I am in the real world, or that the program knows the laws of physics and, if the coders were literate, then it is likely that it knows them better than me. She does not need to model the process itself, it is enough to know the end result. We need some really complex experiment. But again, any measuring technique in accordance with the program will show any necessary numbers. Damn,” Max clutched his head in despair, “you can’t determine anything like that either.”

    His torment was interrupted by the chirping of the propellers of a flyer landing on the roof of the house. “Well, Masha also returned a bit early, how can I communicate with her now”?

    Max entered the hall at the same time as his other half, they met at the column, dotted with ornate patterns, which served as a stand for the crystal Viking.

     How are you, Masha?

     - Good.

     - Why so early? Is the board of trustees not meeting today?

     - She is in session, but I ran away. You wanted to talk about something important.

     — Is it?

     Yes, I called you this morning.

    “It’s strange,” thought Max, “something has become with my memory, but it seems to be eidetic in me. So what was I doing yesterday at three o'clock in the afternoon? He tried to remember, but instead of a clear, complete record, some fragments emerged in his head, similar to a half-forgotten dream. From transcendental mental efforts, my head ached even more.

     “Hmm, don’t you want to go with me on a spaceship on a twenty-year flight to the Alpha Centauri binary system,” Max asked head-on, wanting to check the suspicions that had crept into his head.

     - Seriously? On an interstellar flight? Great! I am so glad.

    Masha squealed with joy and threw herself on her husband's neck. He gently removed it from his neck.

     You must have misunderstood a little. This is a flight as part of a large interstellar expedition. There will be ten thousand colonists on the ship, selected specifically for the development of a new star system. This is not an entertaining space tour of the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. Anything can happen to us and we most likely will never come back, and our children and friends will stay here.

     “So what, you can handle everything. You always got it right.

     - You are too easy to agree to a throw into the unknown.

     But, I will be with you. With you, I'm not afraid of anything.

     - You're talking wrong.

     - Почему?

     “It’s like you’re specifically saying what I want to hear.”

    Max looked at his wife in a new way and she suddenly seemed a little alien to him. Instead of a slightly plump, fair-haired and brown-eyed ordinary girl, he was smiling at a thin, airy Martian with big black eyes, perfect in everything. “Even more strange: why does it seem to me that it should be different? We've lived on Mars for twenty-five years."

     - Tell me about your day?

     - Fine.

    “And he answers all the time in monosyllabic phrases.”

     - How did yours go?

     - Yeah, that's fine too.

     — Do you feel bad?

     - I feel like Pontius Pilate, my head is splitting. Do you remember how we vacationed on Titan the year before last. No children, parents, just you and me.

     — Yes, it was great.

     - And you don’t remember any details, except for “great”?

    Max found, with growing anxiety, that he himself did not remember any of the details. However, the migraine is clearly getting worse.

     “Kotya, let’s go and do something more interesting,” Masha suggested playfully.

     Yes, I'm not in the mood. Have you ever thought about what is left of the real in our world? After all, everything that we see and hear has long been formed by a computer.

     - What's the difference, the main thing is that you and I are real. Even if the world around was created only for us to be together. The stars and the moon are created only to decorate our evenings.

     - Do you really think so?

     “Of course not, I just wanted to play along with you.

     - Ah ..., of course, - Max laughed with relief.

    “No, it’s definitely not a neural network,” he thought and calmed down. The headache was slowly subsiding.

     Is my cat worried about something? Masha purred, snuggling up to Max.

     - Yes, I got tired of talking about the nature of everything that exists.

     “What nonsense, relax. And do what you want, you deserve it.

     - Of course, he deserved it.

    “True, some stupid things come into my head, but all you need to do is relax and get what you want,” thought Max. He obediently went in the direction where he was being pulled, but accidentally stumbled upon a column with a crystal ship. A small female hand persistently pulled in one direction, but the good old "Viking" attracted a blurred look with no less force, as if he wanted to say something very important with his appearance.

     “I’m going now,” Max threw, climbing the stairs to his wife.

    “So what did you want to tell me, my good old friend? About the wonderful moments spent together: just you, me and the airbrush. But these moments will forever remain in my heart. You may be inaccurate in something, clumsily made, but never again has any work brought me such satisfaction. For several days I felt like a great engineer, a great master who had created a masterpiece. It was so nice to realize that life is short and art is eternal. You want to say all this in the past. And my whole real life is meaningless because I did nothing better than you. But, indeed, when in the last twenty-five years I have experienced satisfaction from what I do. No, it seems formally, everything is in order, but what exactly did I do and what am I happy about, where is the real result of my efforts, with which I have to look into the eyes of infinity. There is nothing but a crystal ship. Am I really being controlled by the same self that lovingly stenciled your name many, many years ago? Or is there something else? Maybe you're implying that you look too perfect. Yes, I remember every detail of yours, every speck, I remember all my mistakes: and paint streaks in a couple of places due to too much solvent thumping and cracks in the landing gear due to inaccurate separation from sprues. I remember one rack even had to be replaced with a homemade one. With a tenacious gaze, Max felt every square millimeter of the surface. - No, for some reason I can’t see it, everything is in a fog. We need to look closer."

    Max unscrewed the valve with trembling hands, waited until the excess pressure of the inert gas left, threw back the transparent cover and carefully lifted the meter model. He had to make sure it was his Viking, had to touch its warm, rough surface with his own hand. The touch was foreign and cold. Getting the ship out of the deep structure was extremely inconvenient.

     "Come on, don't make me wait?" came a voice from the stairs.

    Max awkwardly turned, forgetting that he was still holding the model in his hands, hooked it on the edge of the tank and did not hold it. As if in slow motion, he saw a ship moving down from outstretched arms. “It will still be possible to glue it together,” a panicked thought flashed through. There was a deafening sound and thousands of multi-colored iridescent fragments scattered across the floor.

     - What's happening? Max whispered in shock.

     “It’s not for nothing that they ordered a new cyber-cleaner. Don't hang around here, dear.

     This is how my wishes come true. Give me back the real Viking, it's not really crystal! Max shouted into empty space.

    “Perhaps there is no one to blame but yourself. In a world of self-deception, the Viking has become a lifeless crystal monument to foolish dreams. Here is the simplest solution: in this ridiculous theater, I myself play all the roles, and the crooked reflections only repeat my thoughts. Or maybe I don’t need any real world, - a devilish thought flashed, - the real world is not for everyone, it is only for Martians. And this world favors everyone. After all, it has always been like this: the cruel reality and the world of good fairy tales. And fairy tales became more and more perfect over time, until they turned into a Martian dream. The Martian dream is also justified in its own way, it relieves suffering, makes one come to terms with the inequality and injustice of cruel reality.”

    Max took a step forward and fragments of the ship clearly crunched under his feet.

    “But, this doesn’t apply to me, I’m not some kind of rag, I never believed fairy tales.”

     - Hey Sonny! Where are you, I changed my mind, I want to get free?

    Max ran out of the house, his head was now falling apart, and the surrounding reality was melting like hot wax.

    A figure in a dark robe appeared from a bizarrely distorted space. Two piercing blue fanatical fires burned in the inky darkness of the deep hood.

     - Finally, the leader, I did not go anywhere, I knew that this was just a test. No more tests are needed, I will always be faithful to the cause of the revolution, even if only the two of us remain on our side.

     Sonny, stop talking nonsense. What a leader I am to you, what a revolution! Get me out of here.

     “I can't, I'm nothing more than a guide to the world of shadows.

    Max, ignoring the excruciating pain, tried to thoroughly recall his conversation with the manager of the DreamLand company, allegedly taking place twenty-five years ago. The surrounding area crackled, but so far held.

     “Careful, your awakening will soon be discovered.

     “I need to get out of here as soon as possible.

     - Why did you come here?

     By mistake, why else?

     - By mistake? You should have restarted the system. Say your part of the key.

     What other key?

     — The permanent part of the key, which you must know. The second, variable part, the keeper of the keys must say, this will restart the system and you will again become the lord of the shadows.

     “Listen, Sonny, you are clearly confusing me with someone else, I don’t understand what you are talking about. What are the keys, what is the keeper?

     - You don't know the key?

     - Of course not.

     “But the system can't be wrong, it clearly points to you.

     - So maybe. Or, suddenly I forgot the key, it happens.

     You couldn't forget him. You were able to free yourself from the fetters of the false world. So your mind is pure and able to gain true freedom. Remember...

    The surrounding valley, city, sky, artificial suns merged into some kind of indistinguishable mess, and Max seemed to himself a shapeless amoeba floating in the primary digital soup. An alarming red window hung in front of the inflamed consciousness: "Emergency reboot, please remain calm."

     “Sonny, can you say anything useful before I get rebooted?”

     “You must remember your part of the key and find the keeper.

     - And where to look for it?

     “I don’t know, but he’s definitely not in the world of shadows. If you remember your key, you can control the remaining shadows.

     - I met in that real life one person, whose name is Philip Kochura. He told me that he saw a shadow and was a courier for an important message.

     - Maybe. Find him again.

     - Sonny, tell me what message he was supposed to convey?

     — I don't have it. I'm just a system interface, after the emergency shutdown, all information was erased.

    As if from afar came a low, distorted voice:

     - In a safe place, in the absence of prying ears, say the key so that the courier understands every word. Find the keeper of the keys... Go back, start the system, give back people true freedom... - the voice turned into an indistinguishable whisper and finally faded away.

    Max went to the window, it swung open, and a stream of sunlight spilled onto his fragile figure. It breathed with the aroma of eternal summer of the green valley, securely covered by a power dome and additionally illuminated all year round by a solar reflector in a stationary orbit.

    "What now? Enough!" - Max gurgled, opened his eyes, and thrashed like a tangled fish in the nets of oxygen masks and feeding tubes inside the biobath. The face, then the torso, gradually protruded from the liquid slowly leaving downwards. The weight immediately set in. Lying on a slippery metal surface was unpleasant. The sharp light that splashed from the open lid blinded his eyes and Max tried to awkwardly shield himself with his hand.

     Your service time has expired. Welcome to the real world,” said the melodic voice of the automaton.

     “Release me immediately,” Max yelled and climbed out of the bath, slipping and making out nothing in front of him.

     — What are you waiting for? Give an injection right now, another dry female voice said.

    The steel paws of the orderlies tightly squeezed Max, a hiss was heard along with a sharp pain in his shoulder. Almost immediately, the body became cottony, and the eyelids became heavy. The same steel paws pulled the already weakly moving Max out of the bath and carefully seated him in a wheelchair. A thin waffle towel appeared from somewhere, then an old, washed-out robe and a mug of cheap, instant coffee. Nearby, pursing her lips sternly and clasping her hands behind her back, stood Dr. Eva Schultz. That's what it said on the badge. She was thin and straight as a mop. Her long, sallow face showed as much sympathy for a patient as a scientist dissecting frogs.

     “Look, your methods of work leave much to be desired,” Max began, moving his lips with difficulty.

     — How do you feel? Eva Schultz inquired instead of answering.

     “All right,” Max replied reluctantly.

    Eva seemed to be a little disappointed by the answer, in particular that there was no more need for knitting and stabbing.

     So, my mission is over. Auf Wiedersehen. The doctor said goodbye in a tone that brooked no objections.

    Slightly dumbfounded by such treatment and still not regaining consciousness after waking up and taking medication, Max was simply shoved out into the street like a plucked chicken. The company Dreamland now did not care about his further fate at all.

    Sitting on the steps in front of the building, swallowing an ice mineral water, Max felt that he had been deceived, brazenly and cruelly, a little different from what Ruslan had predicted, but still very unpleasant. And of course, he was tormented by the riddle of who Sonny Dimon was and why he had chosen him for the position of some kind of "master of shadows." Was it just the fruit of an inflamed consciousness, or did the ghostly neighbor really exist? “Hmm, however, this expression is also not entirely appropriate in this context,” thought Max. — Yes, and the world of shadows is perhaps correct. All pagans after death fall into the world of shadows, where they spend time in eternal feasts and hunting, or in eternal wanderings. Perhaps there is only one way to test Sonny's "materiality": try to find a courier ... "

    Next to Max, another citizen flopped onto the step, with a disgruntled wry grin in his mouth.

     - Have you also been in the Martian dream? – the citizen seems to be thirsty for communication.

     - What is noticeable?

     Well, you don't look too happy.

     - Actually, in theory, I should have a satisfied look: my cherished dream has come true, can you imagine?

     I guess I have the same story.

    Max finished his water and, in impotent anger, threw the empty bottle up, but it did not even reach the glass doors from which he had just been thrown out.

     - Bad divorce.

     Max's comrade in misfortune nodded in agreement.

     “All the evil in the world is from the Martians,” he added sagely.

     From the Martians? Is it? Rather, all evil comes from ourselves: instead of fighting these cybernetic freaks, with our laziness and primitive instincts, we imitate them in everything, without hesitation we fill our brains with all sorts of rubbish developed by them, and live in a world of phantoms created by them. We are a miserable herd of sheep with their muzzles buried in their digital feeders full of digital slops, who are completely satisfied with such a life. We can only bleat plaintively when they start cutting our hair!

     Max, with an expression of deep remorse and contempt for his own sheepishness on his face, collapsed onto the step.

     “It’s been great for you,” the citizen said sympathetically, “my name is Lenya.

     Max, let's get to know each other.

     - Max, have you ever thought of starting a fight against the Martians, for real, not in words?

     “The romance of the revolutionary struggle and all that, right? Fairy tales are the same as the Martian dream. Neurotech Corporation can only be defeated by a more powerful corporation.

     “Imagine that I have access to people from such a corporation. And these people are just as implacable opponents of the existing order of things as you are.

     “And they think the Martians can be defeated.

     Well, you won't know until you try.

     So Max joined the Quadius organization and devoted his life to the struggle for the independence of the solar system.

    Having driven out of his thoughts all the admiration for the Martians, generated by their incredible achievements in the field of information technology, Max felt much more confident. What had previously seemed to him alluring and beautiful, suddenly clearly appeared before him in all its disgusting essence. Max stubbornly and concentratedly studied the wisdom of illegal work. At first, of course, he was very worried about the apparent total control of the Martians over all spheres of the life of ordinary people and shuddered at night, imagining that the "Chekists" from Neurotek had already come for him. And the always open wireless ports on the chip, and the ability of the chip to automatically notify the appropriate services about violations, and dust-sized detectors that penetrate any leaky room, greatly frightened the revolutionary with a weak spirit. However, over time, it became obvious that the neural networks of controlling services are able to recognize only those actions for which they are trained, and no one will waste the time of employees on analyzing the records of some unknown small fry. The trick was not to draw too much attention to yourself. Of course, if, without hesitation, you hack the closed axis of the chip and install a couple of programs that are not registered anywhere, then unpleasant questions cannot be avoided. This required more flexibility. Max was harassed by illegal surgeries. First, the legal neurochip was carefully untied from the owner's nervous system and placed on an intermediate matrix, which, if necessary, fed the prepared disinformation to the chip. Then, an additional chip was implanted, connected to encrypted communication channels and stuffed to the eyeballs with forbidden "hacker" lotions. Max himself was amazed where he got so much courage and devotion to the ideas of the revolution, because his first illegal steps in the network were often careless and extremely dangerous. Again, the open operating system on a chip required the strictest self-discipline, one mistake could ruin the device integrated with the nervous system. But, gradually, Max learned to cover up the digital traces of his activities and thoroughly check the codes of installed programs. So he felt like a real revolutionary without fear and reproach.

    This pleasant feeling significantly lifted Max above the faceless crowd, always tightly squeezed within the framework of legal software, total external control and copyright. He spit on draconian restrictions and prohibitions, saw the richest VIP users without the mask of cosmetic programs and squandered stolen money from other people's wallets.

    After a productive activity as an ordinary quad, Max was entrusted with the position of regional curator. Now he himself encrypted and posted tasks on social networks for numerous followers and coordinated their attacks on corporate websites. Thanks to his accurate insider information from numerous agents, the organization's emissaries were able to defend Titan's independence. So the organization has a reliable base. It was necessary to develop success. The next grandiose goal was the revival of the Russian state. Max retired from Telecom a long time ago and, as a cover, supported a large business for the delivery of natural delicacies to Mars with the money of the organization. Needless to say, the old transport ships carried more than just delicacies. Max began to manage other people's lives as easily as choosing a melody on an alarm clock. The received power at first slightly turned his head, and then began to be taken for granted. He also settled Masha and her mother far away in the German outback and tried to devote them less to his dark deeds.

    Max went to the elevator door, it swung open, and the cutting light of fluorescent lamps splashed on his figure, chained in a light armored suit, followed by a powerful rumble of many working mechanisms. The long underground warehouse of the INKIS spaceport stretched as far as the eye could see. Max, carefully maneuvering between the scurrying loaders, proceeded to his terminal. His gray suit, with Kevlar plates sewn in and huge, dragonfly-like, dull yellow vision lenses recessed into the heavy helmet, attracted the attention of a few personnel. True, the maximum that he was honored with was a short glance from under his brows, the working people were not inclined to ask unnecessary questions. Moreover, Max's hand reflexively reached for a disguised holster to check if the weapon was in place. “After all, I have changed a lot,” he stated, “the way back to the world of universal virtual prosperity is now ordered for me. However, what have I forgotten in this digital garbage dump: through and through deceitful and intoxicating. All paths are open to me, unless, of course, fate favors our struggle for Russia. We must win. No, I must win, at all costs, because everything is at stake. I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life poking around from Martian bloodhounds in the barracks of the delta zone.

    His terminal was bustling with life. Chains of military plastic crates were disappearing into the belly of the space transport. Max threw off his heavy helmet and climbed onto one of the crates. Our time has come, he thought as he watched the loading intently. - The fighters of the revolution will have enough cartridges to take the conditional mail and telegraph. And I need to have time to wind up the fishing rods before the start of the mess, there are too many threads leading to a modest merchant.

    Lenya ran up in a similar armored suit.

     - Everything is okay? – for order inquired Max.

     - Well, in general, yes. However, there is a small, not that problem ... Rather, it can be described as an incomprehensible situation ...

     “You drop those long introductions,” Max snapped sharply. - What's happened?

     - Yes, just ten minutes ago, right here, some homeless guy showed up and said that he knows you and he urgently needs to talk to you.

     - What about you?

     “I said I didn’t understand what it was about. But he did not leave, but instead, the infection, explained exactly who you are, why you should come here, and even said what time. Amazing awareness.

     - And further.

     - He also wove that he wants to fight for the revolution to the last drop of blood. That in his youth he made many mistakes, but now he repents and is ready to atone for everything. Like his old friends told him where to find you. But, you understand, random people do not come to us, but this one came by himself, none of ours brought him.

     - Understand. I hope you made a bewildered face and sent this Don Quixote on his way?

     — Uh-uh… actually, my guys detained him. To clarify, so to speak.

     — How diligent you are, just great, — Max shook his head. – Probably, he is still not an agent of Neurotek or the Advisory Council, otherwise we would already be lying face down on the floor.

     - We turned on the jammer and put a cap on his head.

     “Great, now we definitely have nothing to fear. However, if we are allowed to take off, then it will no longer matter much. Come on, it's time to finish loading and set sail.

     - Not everything was loaded, there are still generators, all kinds of equipment ...

     Forget it, we have to go.

     - And what to do with this "agent"? Can you look at him?

     - Here's another. So that he would let him breathe with some kind of sarin or blow up the fuck. By the way, did you check it, searched it?

     - Searched, nothing. Scans were not performed.

     Relax, look. Okay, on the way we will decide what to do with it, after all, it is never too late to throw it into space.

    Max contacted the pilots and ordered to start preparations for the launch, and he quickly walked to the passenger airlock. Workers were running around at double speed.

     “Oh yeah, this guy said his name was Philip Kochura, if that name means anything to you.

     - What? Max was taken aback. "Why didn't you just say so?"

     - You didn't ask.

     "Quickly, take me to him."

     So are we taking off or not? - Lenya asked already on the run.

     We'll take off as soon as we get permission.

    They ran into the cargo hold. In the nearest narrow cul-de-sac, between tall rows of identical boxes, lay a shackled man. Max yanked off his cap of metallic fabric.

    Phil didn't seem to have changed at all. He was wearing the same torn jeans and jacket. It even seemed that his wrinkled face was the same degree of unshaven as at the first meeting, and the dirty spots on his clothes were located in the same places.

     “Max, I finally found you. You have no idea what it took me to find you. I have important information that can help the cause of the revolution.

     - Speak.

     It's not for prying ears.

     — Lenya, stay near the exit.

     “You yourself just said it was dangerous. It doesn’t matter how he looks…” Lenya started offended.

     Don't argue, but don't go too far.

    Max defiantly took a pistol out of its holster and took it off the safety catch. Lenya dumped, throwing a last suspicious glance towards the prisoner.

     “Release me,” Phil begged.

     - First lay out your important information.

     “Okay, the information is still inside me, say the key.

     - I don't know…

    It was as if an atomic bomb had exploded in Max's head.

     “The one who opened the doors sees the world as infinite. The one to whom the doors are opened sees endless worlds.

    He covered his mouth, completely stunned by what he had just said.

     “It's part of the key, it's enough to access the information, but you have to remember everything.

     “Wait a minute… Okay, I don’t even ask how you found me, but how do you know about the key?”

     - I have friends in Dreamland, I thoroughly studied your notes and understood: you are the one who can save the revolution.

     I see you have friends everywhere. Very unconvincing, why did you even start looking for records of me in the Martian dream? And what, they keep these records there for years or what?

     “So the familiar admin… accidentally stumbled… But it doesn’t matter,” Phil interrupted himself, seeing that the legend was bursting at the seams. - You would do well to treat everything that happens with the same healthy skepticism. And then he lit a world fire of revolution here.

    Phil stood up lightly, dropping the handcuffs to the floor. Max instantly stepped back down the aisle, aiming his weapon at the miraculously freed prisoner.

     - Stay where you are. Lenya, come here quickly.

     “I’m standing, I’m standing,” Phil raised his hands and smiled. - I think your Lenya will not hear.

     - What's happening?

     - At first I was sure that this was a tricky test, but now I see that you really do not understand what is happening. I assume that you were trying to create a new identity for yourself and overdid it a little.

    Phil threw on a deep hood and two piercing blue fires lit up in his darkness.

     “Sorry, but your ideas about revolution are a little outdated, about two hundred years old. Think about whether what you see is real?

     - That's just not necessary. Our enemies are just capable of such a trick. Do you think I believed I was still in the Martian dream and you are Sonny Dimon?

     - It's easy to check.

     - Undoubtedly.

    Max did not look for signs of fear on Sonny-Phil's face, such as a drop of sweat flowing down his temple, especially since the otherworldly appearance of the enemy did not leave room for such nonsense, but simply and without fanfare pressed the trigger. A line of thin tungsten needles, dispersed by an electromagnetic field, pierced through the figure and melted a deep mark in the wall opposite.

     - Well, did you make sure? the shadow inquired as if nothing had happened.

     - Convinced.

    Max leaned wearily against the crate wall, releasing the pistol from his suddenly weakened hands.

     But how do they do it? After all, everything looks real, you can cut your finger and feel pain. After all, I had an old neurochip. Why is there a finger, how do computer programs manage to carry on a conversation in such a way that you cannot distinguish them from people? And you? Where did you come from, so omniscient and omnipresent?

     You can find answers to all questions on your own.

     “You act like a typical Eastern soothsayer with beards to the navel and useless advice in the form of obvious platitudes.

     “Remember, Max, there are such questions, the answers to which, even the most correct and best, but received from the lips of others, do more harm than good. And remember, there are no secrets in the world, any really important information is available to you at any moment. The system can answer any question, but it is better not to ask important questions. The information received in the form of ready-made instructions will each time narrow the space of free choice for you and, in the end, from the master of shadows you yourself will turn into a shadow.

     Well, thanks, now everything is 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.

     - With what exactly? Too many of them have fallen off lately.

     - Well, for example, with the illusion that you have no illusions. In fact, you are as weak as most people and the power of the Martian phantoms over you is enormous. Make sure.

    A burst of tungsten needles blew Max's foot to shreds. For the first moment, they only stared at the bloody stump in bewilderment, and then with a heavy groan fell on its side.

     - No, why? – through clenched teeth hissed Max.

     “Don’t be afraid, there really isn’t any pain.

    Sonny broke the other leg with the next shot.

     “Yes…please…”

     “The world may seem cruel to you,” Sonny Dimon continued to broadcast over the howling Max. “But you suffer for a reason, it will help you open the doors to the future.

    The world around was floating in a reddish fog, Max felt that he was losing consciousness.

     - Come back when you're ready. The shadows will show you the way.

    The last frame with the needle flying out of the accelerator hung before my eyes, blinked a couple of times, changed to a blue screen with running numbers and went out.

    

    Pleasant relaxation waves swept through the body. Through an absolutely transparent wall on the right, one could admire a large clear lake at the foot of the mountains. A cold wind from the peaks drove small ripples across the lake and soothingly rustled in the reeds. A light-beige, softly luminous ceiling swayed smoothly overhead. “No, I'm swinging myself,” thought Max. - What a strange feeling: as if I have a very small head, and the body is alien and huge. Ten meters to the right arm, no less, but to the legs ... Oh my God, the legs! Max screamed sharply and sat up on the bunk, pulling the blanket to the floor. Bare legs peeked out of a hospital gown. Max wiggled his fingers in relief. "So it was just a bad dream." Covered in a cold sweat, he sank back onto the bed. The pounding heart gradually calmed down.

    Someone hastily entered the room. Dr. Otto Schulz's plump face leaned over Max. That's what it said on the badge. Otto Schultz outwardly looked like a quite good-natured, slightly plump from beer and sausages, decent burgher. But his gaze, tenacious and collected, not at all swollen with fat, reminded him that this was nothing more than a disguise, and if the new thousand-year-old Reich ordered, the family black uniform with runes would fit the doctor just right.

     — Did your neurochip boot up?

     — Well, if you do not know Russian, then apparently the translator is already working.

     - No, unfortunately I do not know. How is my patient feeling? the doctor inquired sympathetically.

     “It’s okay,” Max yawned, pleasant drowsiness again rolled over. “Except for the fact that I am completely confused about what is real and what is not.

     “You yourself wanted it.

     - I wanted? I didn't want to go crazy.

     — Do not worry, our programs have been repeatedly tested, they cannot harm the psyche of the client. And the side effects will go away in a few days.

     “I’m not worried, you better start worrying about how to quickly return the money to me for an improperly rendered service,” Max tried to go on the offensive.

    It came out not too confidently and not at all aggressively, apparently due to the fact that he continued to yawn at the top of his lungs. At least the doctor just chuckled good-naturedly:

     “I see you have finally come to your senses.

     - Comrade Schultz, let's discuss the financial issue better, - suggested Max.

     “You don’t need to worry, as far as I know, the wishing well service was fully paid. You transferred four creeps and two hundred zits at once and four creeps were taken on credit for six months.

     — On credit for six months? Max repeated in shock. I couldn't sign this.

    “How to explain to Masha that she will not be able to fly to me in the next couple of months, at least?” - from the prospect of such explanations, Max was ready to sink into the ground from shame right now.

     - Full records of negotiations with company representatives have been sent to your mail. The contract is confirmed by your signature, you can check the database right now.

     - I could not sign such a thing, - Max repeated stubbornly, - it was the same me that is sitting in front of you now.

     - Sorry, I'm not authorized to discuss such matters, it is better to contact the manager.

     - Well, but you will not deny that the service ordered and paid for by me was not performed.

     “We honestly did everything we could,” the doctor spread his hands. - We launched the program again, although under the terms of the contract we could not do this. Improvised literally on the go.

     “Like I don’t have to do a lobotomy after your improvisations.

     “I assure you, everything is normal with your psyche,” Otto assured again, apparently hoping, according to the methods of the Ministry of Propaganda, that the many times repeated lies would pass for the truth. - Yes, for some reason, you have an individual incompatibility with the standard program. This happens if all the necessary diagnostics are not carried out before diving. But you yourself wanted an urgent order, so you took the risk.

     - Do you want to say it's about me? It will not work, Mr. Schultz, your program is not working correctly. They helped me all the time to make sure that there was an illusion around. I wouldn't have guessed anything on my own.

     Helped, how?

     - Both times a certain bot appeared to me and practically said in plain text that I was in a fictional world. And then he shot me a couple of extra parts. I'm not saying that you did it on purpose, but maybe your software is infected with viruses, or something like that?

     “There can be no viruses in the Martian dream, it is not connected to external networks.

     “Someone could infect you from the inside.

     “It’s out of the question,” the doctor pursed his lips.

     Well, look at the logs. You yourself will see everything.

     - Maxim, I'm sorry, but I'm a doctor, not a programmer. If you are so convinced, then write a claim, we will consider it, study our files in detail. Let's take a look at your memory...

     “I’ll write today,” Max promised coldly.

     “…And, of course, we will inform your insurance company and employer about what happened,” Otto finished no less politely.

     “There is nothing illegal about the Martian dream.

     - Of course not. And officially no one can apply any sanctions against you...

    “But in practice, they will look at me as a potential drug addict. Goodbye career and hello insurance in the sharashka office at double the price, - mentally continued Max. “Looks like I’m seriously screwed up, and only because of my own stupidity. No, really, is it really the same me, being in a sober mind and solid memory, just a couple of days ago thoughtlessly signed everything and paid. I also lost the memories of this regrettable moment. I wish I could look myself in the eyes now."

     - Listen, Maxim, it is better to address your claims to your personal manager, Alexei Gorin. He will soon come and try to resolve all differences.

     - What a relief. And your program somehow strangely read my memory. If during the first launch my spaceship model had not broken like glass, I would not have guessed anything either.

     I don't quite understand, please explain.

     “As a child, I was fond of modeling. My favorite piece is this large 1:80 scale model of the Viking spacecraft. One of the first Russian ships built at the dawn of the development of the solar system. So, in the dive, she was also present, and when I dropped her, she broke, as if she was made of glass. So I realized that the world around is not real.

    Otto Schulz took a few seconds to answer.

     - Modeling is a rather rare hobby in the modern world. I myself, to be honest, used the search to understand what it was about.

     - So what?

     Let me explain a little about how the wishing well works. Unfortunately, these explanations have also been erased from your memory. This service should show your potential future: what you can achieve, based on the results of the memory and personality scan. That is, this is not some abstract dream about anything. It is really feasible if the client in the future makes every effort to achieve it in the real world. On the one hand, it helps a person to understand what to strive for. It's not so easy to understand what you're most talented at. And, on the other hand, a person who sees the end result of his efforts receives additional motivation. That's the beauty of this service, it's not some kind of entertainment. The service is relatively new, and not everything, of course, works perfectly. I am not an expert, but you see, a memory-scanning neural network recognizes only those classes of objects that are embedded in it. When she meets a fundamentally new situation, she can easily make a mistake. Well, very roughly speaking, he can confuse a leopard coat with a leopard.

     “I understand perfectly what you want to say. But there are too many bugs in your software: both recognition errors and some strange bots...

     - Again, understand that program characters adaptively adapt to your actions and your conscious and subconscious images. Normally, they work with negative feedback: that is, the program will take you away from the awareness of the unreality of what is happening. But, in a non-standard situation, if the program incorrectly recognized what was happening, the connection can become positive and it will seem that the bots are deliberately ruining the dive.

    “This is all fine, of course, but where did the strange talk about keys, shadows, and so on come from. It's definitely not from the Dreamland software. How can I check what Sonny Dimon is. It is unlikely that anyone will allow me to delve into the logs or source codes. Maybe you shouldn't draw attention to it at all? Yes, but what about the creeps? Or when I become the lord of shadows, then I will not care about the money. Ha. Maybe it's just another stupid dream to become the chosen one. A dream in disguise that I was not told about under the terms of the top-level contract. And am I still in the dream? No, that's for sure the roof will move out! Max cut himself off irritably.

     - It turns out that I'm so non-standard and it's my own fault? Or maybe my old chip is to blame?

     “Your neurochip is of little concern to us. Basically, he's not capable of that. As an interface, we use combinations of short-lived m-chips. Previously, we implanted our own neurochips, but the new technology has obvious advantages. Although, to be honest, it is not completely polished. Cases like yours are already quite rare, but not yet unique. Come back in a couple of years, I'm sure this won't happen again. Sorry, you wanted a rush order: many tests were skipped, so we don't accept any contractual liability. The manager, believe me, will tell you the same thing.

     “I'll talk to him myself.

     - Of course, you have every right. And under the terms of the contract, I am obliged to remind you that it is now December 4, 8.30 am and, according to your schedule, you must be at work at 14.00 pm.

     “Do I still have to go to work today?”

     - You planned it that way.

     - Well, fucker...

     - Sorry, Maxim, but if you have no complaints about the medical part, I have to take my leave.

     - Wait, and so, for the sake of interest, Eva Schultz is your wife?

     No, it's a fictional character. The joke may not be entirely successful.

     - You are not married?

     No, and I don't plan to. I, you know, prefer relationships exclusively in social networks. They have many advantages over real ones.

     - Uh-uh ... but there can be many advantages, but how, excuse me, the sensations?

     — You've seen the possibilities of modern chips. Believe me, the sensations are almost indistinguishable from the real ones. By sensations, you meant sexual contact, I guess? I am sure that real contacts will soon become a thing of the past. It's dirty, unsafe and, in principle, inconvenient.

     “Y-yeah, probably…

     — Well, it was nice to meet you, Maxim.

     - Mutually. Best wishes.

    “I wonder how Masha will react to such supporters of Martian values? Or a proposal to join these values? I’m afraid I’ll have to hang out on social networks myself, where no one will ever show the truth about themselves, ”Max thought.

    He tried to make a scandal, demanded to return the money paid and provide the logs of being in the Martian dream, but his arguments lacked persuasiveness due to confusion and memory lapses. Manager Aleksey Gorin, on the contrary, was extremely persuasive and legally prepared. He immediately showed the dissatisfied client the recordings of his negotiations with DreamLand representatives, the smart contract with Max's digital signature, and refused to provide the logs, citing the law on trade secrets. As well as he refused to return the money, pointing to footnotes in small print to the terms of the contract, where it was recorded that due to the urgency of the order, the company is not responsible for possible failures in the program. Max also blamed the consumer protection law and the fact that such footnotes clearly contradict him. However, he was not sure of this, because the Martian laws, constantly corrected and supplemented in the interests of corporations and lawyers, evolved towards completely impenetrable casuistry. Moreover, in theory, a contract contrary to the law 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 not yet been trained to recognize.

    Sitting on the steps in front of the building, swallowing an ice-cold mineral water, Max experienced an acute sense of deja 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 let all sorts of dubious businessmen rummage through my head? This is my only head, no one will give me a spare. He also gave almost two monthly incomes for such a dubious pleasure. Well, aren't you an idiot?

    Like Bolkonsky, Max looked up to realize the futility of life compared to the beautiful, endless sky. But there was no one to pour out grief, the yellow-red vault of the cave dominated him. So an unpleasant, sucking fear of a ruthless hand settled in his soul forever, which would pull him, naked and helpless, out of the biobath and say in a polite voice on duty: “Your service time has expired, welcome to the real world.”

    Max decided that all his troubles and problems come from the original depravity of human nature. This nature, with all its innate vices, will, like the devil, tempt the mind again and again, and the more perfect the mind becomes, the more sophisticated the tempter becomes in his methods. And you can not win this fight, it lasts forever.

    Unfortunately, it so happened that in the duel between the voice of cold reason and stupid desires, stupid desires won a decisive victory. No matter how hard Max tried, from year to year, by force of habit to drive his demons deeper inside, it was all in vain. Sometimes, immersed headlong in the cycle of daily petty problems at work and at home, he did not hear their voice at all and proudly thought that he had won the final victory. The demons did not forgive him for this pride. As soon as they stopped running for a while and were left alone with themselves, they easily broke free and forced to capitulate the one who considered himself the master of his own destiny. Yes, Max turned out to be weak and not ready to go, falling and rising again and again, through thorns to distant stars. As it turned out, it is easier for him to pay and believe in any mirage that promises everything here and now. And how I would like to have a perfect mind, impassive and unmistakable, like a machine. Not that lazy, mortal lump of gray matter, doomed to fight forever with the innate ailments of the physical shell. And a pure mind, free from everything and immediately doing only what is right and necessary, without crooked paths and stupid throwing between Scylla and Charybdis. Sitting on the steps and swallowing an ice-cold mineral water, Max swore that he would sacrifice anything in order to get such a mind.
    

Chapter 3.
Spirit of the Empire.

    Intelligence. All the troubles of human beings are from the mind. But there are creatures and more perspicacious. The mind does not interfere with them, it turns on only if necessary, and then it also goes out easily so as not to interfere with the peaceful enjoyment of food, games and minor dirty tricks. If it wasn't for those dreams, he wouldn't wake up at all. To get rid of annoying dreams, you have to endure this eternally dissatisfied and terribly costly mind. It is good that he himself already has an understanding of his own inferiority, so he will not bother beyond necessity. But now you have to listen to him.

    Yes, the dream-man obviously does not know how to use his mind for its intended purpose, otherwise he would not have gotten into such trouble. But the new hostess is much better. Her mind is turned on only for solving purely practical problems and when all possibilities have been exhausted to shift these tasks to other male individuals. Arseny immediately liked the hostess, identified as Lenochka, so to speak, from the first trial run of claws into her gentle soft roundness. The emotional background is very pleasant, consisting of simple natural desires, not like a restless mind and barely restrained aggression of a man-from-dreams. While the man-from-dreams was rubbing how to take care of supposedly his pet, which he was forced to leave due to a difficult life situation, Arseniy had already managed to make a couple of standard visits to establish control. A slight rumbling, playing strokes with a soft paw, a few olfactory marks - contact was established almost immediately. And five minutes later, she didn’t call him anything other than a musik or Mr. Fluffy, which inspired obvious optimism about the boundaries of what was permitted. True, Lenochka's male turned out to be just as terrible as Lenochka herself was good as a host. Even worse than dream-man in terms of conflict potential. No wonder they found each other. Arseniy could not establish any contact with him, not to mention control. In addition to the obvious threat posed by the male, nothing else was read in the emotional background, as if this emotional background did not exist at all. Namely, the male was the source of the man-of-dreams problems. There were no other approaches to him, except through Lenochka, and in a pair, unfortunately, the male clearly dominated, and it was not possible to quickly change this state of affairs. Well, although he did not perceive Arseny as a threat, the man-from-dreams convinced Lenochka to say that a girlfriend imposed a new pet on her. If for an innocent dirty trick, like a slightly torn chair, which the standard owner never considered a dirty trick, the male promised to turn it through a meat grinder, then it’s scary to think what punishments would fall on Arseny’s head if they found out about his connection with a person -from-dreams. And the persuasion of the bearer with tears in her eyes did not save Senya from the unpleasant pulling by the collar, which was a very bad sign.

    Oh, how great it would be to forget all these dreams and make the mistress find herself a simpler male. After a couple of months of processing, ordinary people would become like silk, and Senya would not know grief until the end of his days. Yes, the life of a fluffy parasite is optimal in terms of the ratio of energy consumption to the pleasure received. But you have to work with what you have. Of course, he immediately began to release pheromones to increase the sexual arousal of the hostess, but just in case. There was no particular hope that this method would be able to enter the control of the male. He did not dare to influence the male himself, the animal instinct suggested that the slightest doubt about his natural origin would end sadly. In general, reason stated that a direct entry is absolutely safe, provided that the procedure is followed. Not a single person is able to recognize his tricks if he is not directly looking for them, but Arseny preferred to trust his instincts.

    The first priority was to get into the male's office, where he held all meetings and stored important data. Unfortunately, he always closed it from the inside or the outside, and Lenochka had access to the office only as attendants. Senya, of course, rubbed himself around her and then tried to hide imperceptibly between the table and the radiator, but he was thrown out without sentimentality with the most natural kick in the ass.

    In truth, he wasn't too worried at first. Sooner or later, simply by the law of probability, he would have managed to get into the office, and there it was already a matter of technology. He easily spied the admin passwords from the home network and, accordingly, could turn off hidden cameras or view password-protected data from laptops, for example, extremely valuable selfies of Lenochka after a shower. But nothing, in this case, gradualism is equal to safety. It's only after today's sleep that everything has become much more complicated. And the day started off beautifully: with a trip to the manicure, where Arseniy, as usual, delighted all the glamorous girlfriends. Then he settled comfortably on the stomach of the hostess, who was leafing through a stupid female site. And after all, nothing foreshadowed this disgusting vision.

    A second ago, his mind was in the warmth and comfort of a chic penthouse in Krasnogorsk, but now he has to contemplate the completely uncomfortable ruins of the east. Here is the bridge over the Yauza. Yauza itself has long turned into a vile, smelly stream, barely visible under piles of various garbage. We passed the buildings of Baumanka. The university had been on its last legs for ten years already, but the buildings were still maintained in a more or less normal condition. The man began to climb further up Hospital Street when he suddenly crossed paths with a huge guy who had turned out of the gateway. And the guy, instead of going his own way, turned to the question, after which there is often a serious adjustment of plans for the coming evening.

     - Bro, do you have a smoke? The boy's voice sounded like a nail scraping on glass.

    The guy was really hefty, but at the same time wiry and agile. Aggressive-punkish look: unshaven, in a faded black T-shirt and jeans, heavy high-top boots, with evil eyes and coarse tousled hair. His arms and wrists, peeking out of his jacket, were covered with blue-green tattoos depicting webs or barbed wire with hellish creatures entangled in it. His swarthy, flat face showed no emotion. Of the special signs, there was also a scar going down through the eyebrow.

    Yes, we must give him his due, the man did not build a hero out of himself, but prudently rushed back. Too bad it's not far. The door of a minivan standing on the side of the road suddenly slid aside, two masked bullies immediately twisted and dragged the man inside. The big man climbed in and slammed the door.

     - Hey, athlete, che, a lot of health? Stop jerking off.

     “Listen, stop wringing my hands, I won’t twitch,” the man croaked.

     - Vovan, in kind, handcuff him.

     - Who are you?

     "I'm Tom, and these are my friends," the punk guy chuckled.

     - Is it an American?

     - No, that's the call sign.

     - It's clear, otherwise I'm somehow not very American. My name is Denis, nice to meet you.

     - Stop fooling around. Our boss, you know him very well, has an assignment for you.

     “I don’t know anyone, you confused me with someone else.

     “I can refresh my memory, but it’s in your best interest not to strain me again. In short, I put the cell number and code in your pocket, there you will find a card with keys for fifty thousand eurocoins, for your pocket expenses. You call your friend from Telekom, Max, you say that you need to meet. Designate a place where you can quietly pick it up, and pick it up. Then you immediately call me and tell who I will tell. You can buy tools yourself, you have connections. If they want to do business with you, say that you are from Tom. Just look, the client is needed safe and sound. How exactly to execute, think for yourself, but if you light up or fail, we will merge you, don’t blame me.

     "No, are you kidding me?" How can I not light up, he has a chip that writes everything for the telecom SB. I won't do anything, knock me out right away. Do you think I'm an idiot, like you let me live after this?

     “Don’t piss, my friend, no one will touch you if you do everything cleanly. Our godfather does not abandon useful people. On the contrary, you will get another half a cent for work and new documents. How to contact, so that no one knows where and why the client is going, think for yourself. We give you a week, so don't slow down. So that you do not baragozil, we will make an injection.

     Denis felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder.

     “Now you have several million nanobots in your blood, by their signal we can always find you. In seven days, the robots will release a deadly poison. Do not look for an antidote, the poison is unique. Be careful with shielding, if the connection is not more than two hours, the poison will go automatically. If you try to get rid of them, the poison will also go automatically.

     “Listen, motherfucker, let the poison go right away, what you are weaving here is complete garbage. Anyway, I'm not a resident.

     - Stop breaking. We are still talking in a good way, but we can talk in a bad way. What happened to Ian is still flowers compared to what awaits you. You will agree to everything, even cut your own mother into pieces, only before that you will suffer a little. The godfather promised that he would cover you, so he will cover you, he keeps his word.

     “Let Arumov personally promise me this,” Denis asked with an impudent grin and immediately received a painful blow to the kidneys.

     “Keep your mouth shut, bitch. I'm giving you one last chance, either do what you're told or it'll be a bad choice. I, you know, give a fuck which option you choose.

     - Go to hell.

     “Okay, okay, I agree,” Dan yelled as they began to beat him. Having received several more blows to the ribs for prevention, he flew out of the van onto the chipped asphalt.

     - How can I contact you? croaked Denis, sitting on the pavement.

     - I'll contact you myself.

     The minivan sped up the hill and quickly disappeared from view. Dan lowered his eyes a little more, cursed his hard life and Arumov's ancestors to the tenth knee, and trudged back home with an unsteady gait.

     "Well, what's up!" Senya stretched lazily, showing the world his mouth with sharp fangs and reluctantly tears from his warm belly. Lenochka was already safely asleep. There was no need to specifically euthanize her.

     “Yes, the dream-man has serious problems. And if he glues his fins in a week, then he will have to be reasonable until the end of his days. Cheerful perspective. You can, of course, turn off the cameras and, under hypnosis, extract everything that she knows about Arumov from the hostess, but this is unlikely to give anything. So the first thing to do is to send a message to the curator.”

     Arseniy deftly jumped onto the shelf of the furniture wall and not at all deftly knocked over the teddy bear, closing the peephole of the camera installed 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. And, curled up in a ball on a closed device, he began to wait.

     Denis again walked through the overgrown garden to the bust of Bauman. Something confused him in the environment, but for a long time he could not understand what it was. Small pebbles crunched underfoot, old trees rustled. The day was windy and chilly, and he smelled wet grass and withered leaves. Yes, the sounds familiar to the city, such as the horns of cars and the rumble of a crowd of people, did not reach here at all, but for the East it was a common thing even in residential areas. But it's still somehow strange: it seems like he was just licking his bruises in his kitchen, but when and how did he get to the park ...? It was only when he sat down on a bench in the center that Denis realized what was wrong. As in previous times, he realized this when he saw a large striped cat, comfortably lounging on the bench opposite.

     Milakha Arseniy did not seem to cause the slightest fear and never showed a single drop of aggression. Now, he just ran his claws into the cracked pieces of wood and squinted at the sun appearing behind the clouds. What kind of danger can come from such a cute cat? But it always seemed to Denis that this incredible creature, crawling out of the most secret depths of the imperial laboratories, was simply mocking him. He clearly saw that smile in his narrowed yellow eyes. And he carefully studies his mind, his strengths and weaknesses, so that later he can report to his secret masters. Although, according to Semyon, the only curator of these creatures was himself.

     “Well, boy, you seem to be completely screwed,” came the voice of Semyon, who sat down next to him, distracting Denis from playing peepers with the cat.

     - Yeah, screwed up. Before we even had time to properly compose a manifesto, Arumov had already credited the main fighter against the regime. And it’s so reliable, you won’t twitch ...

     What do you want, old school. But do not despair, our furry friend in his lair is a serious trump card. Excellent, by the way, was the idea about this Lenochka. Maybe some other ideas?

     - Not yet, except to try to lure Arumov out for Max's personal transfer, capture and knock out the nanobot shutdown codes from him. True, first you need to discreetly agree with Max himself.

     — A very dangerous option for you, for me and for your friend. After all, Arumov can show up for a meeting with a small personal army. And how many fighters can we field? Yes, and the real value of Max as a bait is not clear.

     That's right, thinking out loud. You'd better tell me: did you find anything about Arumov or their cabal with the Research Institute of the RSAD?

     - Nothing new about the colonel: he jumped out like a devil from a snuffbox, without a past, but with a whole army of personally devoted militants.

     “Have you dug up anything about the telecom super-soldiers?”

     - As for the super-soldiers, there is such a hypothesis: after the second space war, when our troops turned from Mars, some of the ghosts secretly hid in underground caves near Fula and other cities. I don’t know how they survive there, but there are quite a few indirect facts of their presence. It is clear that the guys are stubborn, so they are partisans on the sly, and the Martians attribute this to terrorist attacks of all kinds of radicals. For the Martians, they apparently create serious problems, maybe worse than MIK agents: they cannot be smoked out, and punitive expeditions from the dungeons do not always return. I think that in the end they managed to persuade all or part of the ghosts to cooperate. The traitors gave them the deciphered genotype of ghosts, so the Martians began to rivet them. And the INKIS Security Council is simply being used as cannon fodder in exchange for a seat on the Advisory Council. Or another option: Telecom stirs up this topic without its sworn friends from Neurotek and MDT, so they placed everything in Moscow. Against whom they are preparing it - 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 a fair market fight. In short, we need to dig further.

     — And Arumov, who do you think he works for? On Telecom?

     - Hardly, I think he has some plans of his own, he does not look like a lover of disinterestedly helping the Martians.

     - Yes, I thought so too. But Leo Schultz, on the contrary, seems to love the Martians. Why are they so sleepy?

     - It is necessary to distinguish between the concepts "has sincere unrequited love for the Martians" and "wants to take a high position in the Martian elite." I think our cunning Schultz is also playing some kind of double game with his goals and, probably, does not voice all the ins and outs about Arumov to his masters from Mars.

     — But what about the Telecom Security Service and loyalty checks?

     I don't know, so far we can only guess. All more or less reliable information and I laid out for you. Let's think about what to do next.

     - Let's think. Who is the brain of the operation?

     - Well, in general, Deniska, you are our brain and the main ideological inspirer. I'm so old bastard, I'm breeding cats. There will be more data from the replicant about Arumov, then maybe it will enlighten me. You better find out from your friend what kind of relationship they have.

     - Yes, you understand, you won’t ask directly, the telecom chip, and the handsome Tom is now breathing down his back. Can Max also throw a cat for a secret connection?

     - If he is a serious bigwig in Telecom, the cat can be checked. Yes, and he himself, if unreliable, then easily betray us. Are you sure about it?

     - No. There were kind of bosom friends, but when he dumped on Mars five years ago, we somehow got lost. With whom he hung out there, hell knows. But it would be necessary to talk, he himself called me, wanted to meet. And the faster the better. Now it is probably already very dangerous, but I see no point in dragging on, in the hope that the situation with Tom will somehow be resolved. Yes, and it would be nice to warn Max. Have you figured out how to deliver a secret message to a person with a Telecom neurochip?

     — No, Dan, we have already discussed this many times. Any system of secret ciphers or codes requires at least prior approval from Max himself. And she can easily attract the attention of the Security Council.

     - We need to come up with something that does not attract. Like you play chess and when you touch a certain piece, you say important information, and the rest is empty chatter.

     Kindergarten, I'm sorry. Such ancient tricks are unlikely to fail in our enlightened age. And anyway, it would be necessary to agree first with Max what to touch there.

     “Suppose he guesses along the way.

     “Dan, for the hundredth time, the same thing. If he guesses, why shouldn't the sexot who looks at his chip guess.

     - With chess for example. We need to come up with a trick based on what only the two of us know.

     - I already came up with such a phrase that will absolutely look like empty chatter for an outsider, let's forget for a moment that this outsider may be quite familiar with Max's biography, let him be unfamiliar ... And this magic phrase will completely explain to Max the essence of the secret message system.

     - You, Semyon Sanych, only criticize much. At least I suggest something.

     Well, sorry old fart. It became quite bad.

     - And just a little, right away: I'm an old horseradish, I'm in a house.

     - Habit already. If there are no better ideas, then I suggest that Max tell everything directly at the meeting. Just don't use keywords. There is an equally good chance that the SB will not watch this particular recording. Yes, and even let him look, you see, and help than against Arumov.

     - If you contact Telecom, then you won’t get off later.

     “So can we move on from grand plans for a war with the Martians to small things, like saving your skin?”

     - It's too early to give up.

     “Look, in seven days it might be too late.

     — There are a couple of new ideas.

     Even a couple?

     - Well, the first one, maybe it will lead you to some thought. If you cut off the chip, then there should be no records left. For example, some leftist type to run up, shy Max and me with your ratchet, steal something and dump.

     - If the chip is cut down, then the person is usually also, isn't it?

     “From what I've seen, it doesn't cut out. Maybe expensive telecom chips are somehow arranged in a special way.

     - Maybe. And how powerful should the discharge be, you know?

     - No. And I'm telling you, the idea is so-so: hearing also disappears. And if he had not disappeared, then the Security Council could listen to everything.

     “And an incident like this will definitely get her attention. But your way of thinking is interesting.

     — Yes, the second idea is a development of the first one. After turning off the chip, apparently, tactile and pain sensations remain, which means that these areas of the nervous system are not directly controlled by the chip, which means there is a big chance that they are not visible. Therefore, it is necessary to convey a message with the help of tactile sensations, something like the alphabet for the blind.

     Does Max know her?

     I suspect not, and neither do I.

     - And so do I. My opinion, Dan, hasn't changed, people working in the Telecom Security Service are no more stupid than we are. But okay, I'll think about it with my comrades. And since such a brilliant idea was born, there is an option 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 scroll through all the options. There are things worse than death, and Arumov's militants know these things firsthand.

     — No, Semyon Sanych. When the poison goes, I may regret it, but not yet. Try to develop a clear tactile message, and first I will meet with Max and gently hint to him that Arumov is out for his blood. Let SB guess what he wants.

     - Okay, I'll try. There is another option to risk the replicant. He will try to neutralize Arumov when he enters the office and rummages through his computer.

     — No, don't touch Arumov yet. This may not give anything, but very unpleasant questions will arise for Lenochka, which she will have to answer. Come on, how many fighters can you field?

     “Dan, this is crazy, trying to directly attack the Colonel…”

     - Yes, it is not necessary to attack him, you can capture Leo Schultz.

     "You're fucking crazy...

     - Or there are thoughts about that super-soldier who saved me - Ruslan. He, along the way, also has some kind of grater with the leadership, if he could be lured to our side ...

     “Which side, what do you think our side is?”

     In short, how many fighters do you have?

     - Well, the two who help me with the nursery, but they are the same pensioners. Maybe there are a couple of old friends. But first you need to give them at least some clear goal.

     It doesn't matter if there are means, there will be a goal. In general, I will order a dozen sets of equipment, heels of ordinary AK-85s with combined sights, a couple of silent vampires, a couple of ultra-long gausses. If there is enough money, there are also mini-rockets for grenade launchers, with thermobaric warheads. You can throw the enemy into the window from two kilometers. Well, I’ll capture a dozen small drones, such as “dragonflies”.

     “Dan, are you going to start a war?”

     - What difference does it make, war is not war, it will not be superfluous. Moreover, it is doubly stupid to die at the hands of Arumov and not even spend his fifty grand. If anything, you'll get the tools.

     - And you, really, can buy everything in a few days?

     - I'll try with old partners, they have such good in bulk. Probably through Kolyan, but he doesn't look like a child... so we'll have to share. I will ask you to leave the goods in the van at the agreed place, I will pass the address through the flea. While we wait, I can, by the way, still drop by Dreamland, see what Leo Schultz had to offer. As you say, you need to scroll through all the options.

     “You’re talking to Dreamland… Hmm, considering how much you dislike neurochips, the activities of this desk should infuriate you.

     — What are they doing?

     “They sell drugs, only digital ones. And the profits there, I think, are no less than from the good old chemistry. They create any worlds at the request of those who decide to leave this one forever and move to the virtual one. Moreover, they also twist the memory so that the patient does not remember anything. The service is called "The Martian Dream".

     “What a nasty thing, when we deal with my problem, the next item will be to burn this Dreamland to the fucking hair dryer.

     “And the great thing is that they have reached such heights in the development of molecular chips and drug effects on the brain that they can show the Martian dream even to those who have a cheap or old chip. Even you can probably see it.

     - Not in life.

     They recently released a new product: a temporary molecular chip. You take a stamp, stick it on your skin, and short-lived m-chips are gradually absorbed into the blood, which will send you on a digital trip. Marochki are of different types, for disinhibition of consciousness, for inhibition, well, or for complete liquefaction. Connoisseurs say that anyone will choose to their taste. And by the way, it just occurred to me, maybe this is just a good way to convey a secret message. Marochki something and to order can do.

     - Of course, it was not part of my plans to expand, but now it's okay.

     - Is there anything else required of me, except to find out everything about Arumov, sign several people on a crazy adventure and hide a ton of weapons?

     Yes, find another way to communicate. Damn it, Semyon Sanych, you have no idea how this telepathic connection through cats scares me.

     “Well, first of all, she’s not quite telepathic in the sense that you understand it. And secondly, I would have read that instruction carefully, I would have been even more afraid.

     “Ridiculous, are you sure the brute won’t get out of hand?”

     “So it's pointless to question a replicant. The project was created as an addition to the main spy program against the Martians. A spy bug disguised as a pet that can be planted on interesting people. But they quickly came to the conclusion that for the bug to work effectively, it must have at least limited intelligence. Some parallel programs were developed to develop intelligence in dogs, parrots and monkeys, but they all ended up in a dead end, as far as I know. And the replicants, like our Arseniy, grew out of one experimental fact, which was never completely explained by the “great minds” who pulled the project. Although I'm not a "great mind", I can be wrong. In general, the fact is that a copy of a person's consciousness, transferred to a suitable matrix, retains limited intelligence for some time, in the sense that it can act and make decisions like the original. Moreover, if a copy operates under the control of even the primitive intellect of an animal, but having a similar set of sense organs, and constantly receives information about the mental activity of the original, then this quasi-intelligence can persist for a long time. And between the original mind and its copy, a certain connection is established, which allows the active consciousness to “wander” between the bodies of people and replicants, and the physical line of communication does not even have to be permanent. It is enough for cats to meet once every few months in order to then provide communication between themselves and broadcast people's memories.

    Here is such a paradox: consciousness cannot be propagated, only transferred. There are even cases of a partial transfer of consciousness and memory into a replicant, if the person died, but never - bifurcation. All attempts to fully bifurcate consciousness led to the fact that one of the copies lost its rationality.

     And answering your main question: Arseniy and others are reasonable at the level of a dolphin, all his other mental activity is a mirroring of our intellects, plus the original firmware from standard instructions and algorithms. A huge side benefit of such a scheme is that since the intellect of the replicants is induced, they use it only when necessary and do not seek to develop it. There is no need to be afraid that they will become too smart and get out of control. In most cases, cats are just happy to get rid of these unnecessary problems. But if communication sessions are regular, then they act no worse than a whole team of agents. Plus, they know how to grow simple biorobots to control people. True, at the first stage they are usually limited to poisons and other small dirty tricks under the claws.

     “Yeah, it would have been better if I hadn’t told you. It's fucking creepy telepathy. That's where the real me is in the end: in the cat's head, or do I sleep at home? Listen, maybe the cats will grow biorobots to cope with the filth that Arumov's people injected?

     — No, Denis, I'm sorry. Kittens can only do what is laid down by the original program. I'm not being embarrassed, I'm really not a "great mind", not a biophysicist and not a microbiologist. I don't even know on what principle this telepathic connection of theirs works without a permanent physical channel. By and large, I am a livestock specialist and was engaged in purely applied tasks in the project. And when those figures who cut the legacy of the Empire for scrap metal came to our top-secret nursery to describe the property, we only managed to pull out some of the equipment and animals under the cover of night. There was one professor with us, but he had been dead for ten years. And even he could only maintain exploitation. Even if you are Sir Isaac Newton, creating a new biorobot will not work without an institute base.

     “So, it’s worth at least ordering a wake. The day is already known, everything can be planned in advance.

     - Do not lose heart, my friend, everything that is not done is for the better. And it's time for us to wrap up. The scope of work has been determined, the next session is scheduled.

    “Por-r-ra pr-r-sprinkle” piercingly meowed the cat and, like a fluffy projectile, with a powerful jump from its place rushed straight at Denis. The last thing he saw were yellow eyes and claws flying straight into his face.

    

    Denis was pulled out of his dormant state by a persistent call over the network. He reluctantly sat down on the sofa, rubbing his sleepy face, and opened the window.

     - Are you sleeping or what? – breathed dissatisfied voice. There was no image.

     - Who is this? - Denis, who had not fully awakened, was taken aback.

     — A horse in a coat. This is Tom, you should not relax, but look for options about Max. Or do you need additional incentives?

     “Listen, wait, how did you get in…?”

     Listen, village. You think hackers-altruists write firmware for your tablet. These people have been working for us for a long time, so don't be surprised. And move the tomatoes, take my word for it, you won't like the extra incentives.

     — Okay, okay, I have an idea how to meet with Max. You don't boil there.

     “I see that your insights appear only after our conversations. Maybe a personal meeting will add more inspiration.

     - Of course, you are a sweetheart, but you can do without personal meetings. Don't worry, in short, everything will be fine.

     “I'm waiting for concrete results,” Tom growled in the end and hung up.

    “Well, what a life,” Denis thought irritably, “it’s like in a swamp for three months, nothing happens, then, damn it, steeplechase. But the melancholy was removed as if by hand.

    Denis pushed another cat off his chest, which dug rather big claws deep under the skin. He provided telepathic communication with his fellows by connecting directly to the human nervous system. A fat, lazy, very large cat with a bad temper, named Adolf, was a striking contrast with the cutie Arseny. According to the same Semyon, one could simply call him Adik, but this fat brute never deigned to respond to Adik. Apparently, according to the old tradition, the system developers did not bother with a friendly interface.

     “I hope that if I die, I won’t move into you.”

    Adolf only yawned at this remark and began to slowly lick his personal belongings, not demonstrating not only the rudiments of quasi-rationality, but even elementary good breeding.

    Having rubbed his bruised ribs, Denis gathered himself at a pace and, like a cork, jumped out into the street. There were a lot of things planned for today.

    First, I had to drop into the bank to pick up a card with eurocoins. The next item he bought was a very simple folding tablet with a left SIM card. He stopped trusting his old tablet, but he was afraid to throw it away because of the possible reaction of the handsome Tom, he only took off the lenses and headphones. The collapse of a sense of false anonymity, tenderly nurtured all these years, had to be experienced with clenched teeth. There was no time to cry into the pillow. It only remained to strictly observe the session mode of communication and hope that Arumov's people did not trace Semyon through the device that betrayed him. In general, after talking with old acquaintances, Denis had the feeling that all traders in illegal swag are now somehow connected with Arumov, or at least they are very afraid of him. It remained a mystery how Arumov managed to figure them all out, because they were all cautious people and almost never saw each other in person. Personal contacts like the former boss Jan or Kolyan were rather an anachronism, based on school, college and other acquaintances, and even on a high position in legal structures and a sense of complete impunity. European or, moreover, Martian businessmen did not allow themselves such a thing.

    With Kolyan, everything went simple and difficult at the same time. Unfortunately, Denis lost his former connections and had no other opportunity to quickly place an order with his Siberian "friends". On the one hand, the mention of Tom and fifty grand had an almost magical effect on him. From relief, he almost melted into a puddle right on the floor. But when Denis hinted that not everything was going smoothly with Tom and asked him to hide the nomenclature of the order if possible, Kolyan's right eye began to noticeably twitch. Only the indecently high commission for the transaction overcame his fears.

    Denis made another unpleasant discovery when he asked to use the shielded room to warn Semyon about the old tablet and specify the time at which he would turn on the new one. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he felt a sharp dizziness, as if the floor had slipped out from under his feet for a second. The dizziness quickly passed, but crazy voices woke up in my head, which in every way began to whisper some unintelligible nonsense. At first, on the verge of audibility, but every minute louder and more annoying, and then a disgusting giggle was added to the voices. The collar he put on warned that it was better not to try to throw it off.

    Lapin also started calling, whining about why Denis is not at work, and poor Lapin is forced to dispose of a certain container and is not allowed to go on a long-awaited vacation. Why should our department deal with this, and not the suppliers ... And in general, there is some kind of biochemical rubbish, I don’t want to get close to it.

    Denis did not want to talk to Lapin at all. He was generally amazed at how he calmly pretends that nothing happened. It was as if he wasn’t the one who poured like a nightingale before and promised to put in a good word for his colleague, and then shamefully surrendered it, as soon as Arumov pressed a little. And in general, Lapin is initially to blame for everything with his childish excuses from the protocol. If I hadn't listened to him, I wouldn't have met Max, and I wouldn't have led Arumov to this bad idea.

    Denis muttered something like: “All questions to Arumov, I work on his behalf. And shove your problems on Novikov, as usual, ”and switched off. “A container is interesting,” thought Denis. - Isn't this the same container that Arumov poured in my office about? And why, one wonders, does he keep it?

    The hardest part of today is left for last. Max himself asked for a meeting for several days to discuss something important. Max said so, with pressure, that this is very important, but he did not voice any specifics. And Denis, together with Semyon, were feverishly trying to come up with a system of secret messages. And in the end, they reached the point that the meeting became simply dangerous. And Denis decided that it was worth the risk, until Tom finally overlaid him from all sides. There was hope that messages through the left SIM card and a messenger with the most sophisticated encryption technologies would save at least from the colonel's friends.

    “Max, healthy, ready to cross today?”

    "Who is this?"

    "This is Dan, I'm just texting from a different number."

    "And what happened?"

    “Yes, temporary difficulties. Are you free or not?

    “I can in a couple of hours, but where?”

    "Let's go to our favorite place."

    "Ah, come on."

    Denis began to plan a route, rather confusing in case of annoying attention from all sorts of dark personalities. But then Max sent a new message.

    “So, just in case, to clarify, this is not far from my university?”

    "No, which was after uni."

    "After? You at least hint in which direction to go from the university.

    "Max, don't be stupid, please. The one we went to after you graduated from university.”

    "In the country"?

    “Yes, what else outside the city. Where we used to hang out."

    "Dan, we've been drinking a lot."

    “Yes, all the haunts of Moscow were bypassed. Where else the stairs are so high.

    “Ah, stairs, now I understand.”

    "Did you understand?"

    “Listen, what the hell is this fortune-telling, write directly.”

    "Yes, that's what I need."

    “Ok, well, as I understand it, which is behind, but under ... the city”

    "Yes, Max, in short, come on, in two hours."

    Denis annoyedly threw away the tablet and started the wheelbarrow turbine.

    Any spy would shoot himself in disgrace after this, he thought, an incredible amount of clues for Arumov's people if they read this. Conspirators, motherfuckers."

    After the collapse of the Empire, most of the underground was gradually abandoned. The flight of the population from Moscow made its maintenance unjustified. Only sections in the west and south were maintained in working condition, which were supplemented by ground-based monorails. And the empty underground halls in the rest of the plots were sometimes conserved, sometimes used for warehouses, factories, or unusual drinking establishments, such as the 1935 pub, where Dan and Max liked to go in the good old days.

    Of course, compared to the good old days, when craft beer flowed like a river here, and beauties in wet bikinis danced on the bar until the morning, the pub also fell into obvious desolation. The escalator worked only on the rise, and the visitors, despite the evening time, were quite sparse. And they no longer pulled on lovers of craft beer, rather on bastards from the surrounding area. Behind the bar counter, stretching in the middle, almost along the entire station, only a couple of bartenders were bored. And at the best of times, a whole crowd of bartenders and barmaids barely had time to satisfy the demands of the wild hipsters. The trains on the tracks were tightly boarded up, and earlier they stretched far deep into the tunnels, and it was a special chic to walk along both trains in the evening, participating in all the theme parties and competitions along the way. But such delights, apparently, did not find a response in the hearts of the venerable public of the current convocation.

    Crazy voices in my head woke up about the middle of the escalator. Denis, just in case, first went to a familiar bartender to find out if any new noticeable guys had come in the last couple of hours. The bartender shrugged and pointed to Max, who was sipping beer at a table under a column.

     — First?

     - No, the second one already, come on, catch up, - Max answered melancholy. - The place has deteriorated, although the beer is still okay. And you can’t see dancing heifers, maybe later ...

     - The crisis has come, the heifers have all gone to places where it is warmer.

     Sorry, 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.

     — Now, too, atmospheric.

     - Yeah, like a beer stall atmosphere, just inside the subway, and not in front of it.

     “Well, not Martian restaurants.

     - Don't talk. Everything is sad here, but you know, I would rather drink here every day and die quietly than drag myself to Mars. Mars took everything from me, left a burnt shell ...

     "You haven't gotten drunk by any chance, have you?" Is this really the second one?

     “Maybe a third. The nostalgia just hit me. Why did you bring me here, Dan.

     “You actually wanted to talk.

     - I wanted to, but so ..., it is unlikely that you will help me. Out of desperation, I clutched at you, in truth, no one and nothing will help me. Let's have a good drink.

     “Oh no, buddy, that won’t do. First of all, I can't stop here. I have an hour max. And secondly, you should not linger next to me either. Remember, we discussed one dangerous comrade, whom you seem to know quite well. So, the comrade is now very interested in you and may try to get to you through me.

     - What?? - Max, somewhat dazed, began to rub his face, like a man just raised in the middle of the night. - Are you serious now?

     - More than. - Denis cursed himself for not thinking about alcohol, inviting him to a beer pub. - So let's discuss at a pace what we wanted, and we need to scatter.

     How did he even know about me?

     - What do you think? He got really upset when we didn't sign that fucking protocol and my chubby boss told him all the details. Sock, damn it, darned, I still remember it for him.

     - Yes, you never know in the world Maxov, classmates of a certain Denis Kaisanov. How did he understand that I was the same Max?

     - What else is the same Max? And, by the way, he may not have understood anything, but so, he decided to check, suddenly he is the same.

     “Ah… damn. Somehow unexpectedly. I just wanted to sit, talk, discuss my grave sins. And here it is. You should have been a little more careful, right? Leo will shake the soul out of me if he is reported. Yes, and from you, by the way, maybe. I'm still a valuable employee.

     - Okay, valuable employee, I just realized that we are having a hard time with hints. And there's no time for jokes. And also, if this dangerous comrade finds out that I warned you, then I'll have a pitchfork. So play along, please, and pretend that everything is a bundle.

     “I’ll play along, but since it turned out like this, do you remember about the offer from Telekom?” Is it time to agree?

     — No, Max, I can't go to Telecom. Don't worry, I'll get out. I still have friends in Siberia, I'll go to them as a last resort. Although they themselves are now in the wings of this dangerous comrade.

     - Well, what friends in Siberia ...

     “Max, now is not the time to argue, really. Let's get down to business, or we need to run away. And there is no need to thump anymore, you are already softened.

     - This is after Mars, the metabolism has become completely different, now it even cuts beer at once.

     “I see, Mars has spoiled a lot of your blood.

     “You can’t even imagine how you messed up,” Max continued to complain about the fate. “Now I can’t run a hundred meters on a normal planet. Why, I just can’t stand on my feet for more than half an hour. Here, love it.

    Max rolled up his pants, showing off the exoskeleton's carbon fiber ribs.

     - Without this thing in the morning I can’t really get off the compensating mattress, I stagger and sweat like a paraplegic. I have been suffering for almost half a year, but there is no particular progress in rehabilitation.

    Denis looked at his comrade with growing concern. He, apparently, seriously tuned in to a session of alcoholic psychotherapy. In the meantime, the voices in my head were already straining, although nothing had passed. And the prospect of running into Tom's lads at the exit, dragging Max carrying drunken nonsense under his arms, was truly frightening. Therefore, Denis took the mug with a decisive gesture.

     - Max, in kind, we can't be stupid here, let's get together if there's nothing on the case.

     “Oh, Dan, we were such good friends. Didn't you say that your house is always open for me, at any time of the day or night.

     “It’s not about our friendship at all, but about the circumstances. By the way, you yourself had a hand in these circumstances. I have not forgotten how the super-soldier showed.

     “I’m sorry, Dan, I didn’t apologize for that incident,” Max immediately somehow wilted. “I just wanted to tinker a little and didn't think about the consequences.

     - Lada, apologies accepted, now it's too late to drink Borjomi. But now it's time to get out of here.

     “Listen, Dan,” Max leaned sharply towards his interlocutor and said in a theatrical whisper. - There is one topic that will help both of us solve all the problems, without any Telecoms and other goats. I know how to quickly cut a lot of dough really, and almost legally.

     - Max, you didn't accidentally forget about the goats from the security service of your Telecom.

     - To hell with them. There is reliable information that the workload of the first department is now very large and the likelihood of viewing the record is not great. If we can do it fast, we'll grab the dough and get out before they wake up.

     "Okay, so what's the topic?" Denis sighed.

     “At one time, on Mars, I was a real big deal. But then, let's say, he messed up a lot and lost all privileges. But I saved a few things for a rainy day. Do you know how you can collapse the course of any Martian cryptocurrency?

     “Yeah, so someone will let you collapse the currency of Neurotek, it’s more likely that we ourselves will be collapsed in a jiffy.”

     - Yes, why Neurotek right away. There are simpler and smaller currencies. In short, I have a complete description of the vulnerability of the algorithms of one of the currencies, not the most common, but quite valuable. The scam is extremely simple: we borrow as much as possible in a given currency, change it to something stable, and then publish a vulnerability and voila: pay off all debts from the first salary.

     - Do you offer to play on the Martian exchange?

     - On the Martian, just not necessary. There are smart contracts everywhere that insure against such scammers, and they can automatically block the accounts of everyone who has shorted a given currency, so to speak, until it is clarified. And in our backward mother Russia, you can conclude an ordinary "paper" contract through some antediluvian credit service. And before the law we will formally be clean, we will dump wherever we want.

     - And we, interestingly, will earn a lot through an antediluvian service?

     We'll make good money, trust me. We just need to find more left-wing people who will take on loans. This, by the way, will be your task.

     Max, are you kidding me?

     — Dan, I'm offering a real topic to you as my best friend. Max grabbed Denis by the sleeve, faithfully looking into his eyes. "And you're up to something again." We will be in chocolate for the rest of our lives.

     - What makes you think that this vulnerability has not been closed for a long time.

     They didn't, I know for sure.

     - And what is this currency?

     — No, all the details later. Max switched to a very quiet whisper. “Go to Dreamland, like, see what Schultz has prepared.” I'll leave one more stamp there, it will have all the details. You will say there that a friend from the city of Tula sent you greetings.

     - Okay, I'll go to this Dreamland of yours.

     “Dan, you don’t just have to go. We must now look for people and the route of departure must be thought out. I hope you are an expert in such matters.

     “Do you think I have nothing better to do now?”

     - Yes, drop all your affairs, such a lucky ticket falls out once. But we need to do everything faster.

    "Faster!" - someone behind me said in a terrible childish voice. Denis twitched, as if from an electric shock, and began to frightenedly turn his head in search of the owner of the voice.

     "Dan, are you all right?"

     “Okay, it just seemed.

     - You're all sweaty.

     - It got hot. We're sitting here like two morons. Let's get down.

     So you will find people?

     I'll find, I'll find...

    Denis practically pulled Max from the table by force.

     "So you're signing up?"

     - Yes, I'm in the subject, move your hooves.

    Denis went up to the bartender and handed him a card for fifty Eurocoins.

     — Wow, tips, got rich? the bartender inquired melancholy.

     - He received an inheritance. Egor, please take my friend through the tunnels and put him in a taxi.

     - Are you waiting for someone?

     - No, just like any fireman.

     - Right? I don't need trouble here, you see, things are not very good.

     - I answer.

     - All right, Sanya is escorting out.

    The bartender gestured for a bored guard.

    Denis stoically withstood Max's long drunken goodbyes and insistent offers to drink on the staff, on the move of the foot, and so on. And he wiped the sweat from his forehead only when he, accompanied by a guard, disappeared behind the service door. He turned around and almost turned gray. Literally ten meters in front of him stood a little girl in a pink dress and with a huge bow. The girl did not laugh in a sepulchral voice, she just smiled sweetly, and piercing blue eyes relentlessly followed every movement. Denis sweated harder than before and felt a treacherous tremor in his knees.

     - Yegor, wait, I ran.

     “Wait, your friend seems to have slipped something into your back pocket while you were hugging.

     - Seriously, thank you.

    Denis felt for the paper in the back pocket of his jeans. “Interestingly, maybe Max didn’t get drunk at all. And it's not like him, he's always been a smart guy."

    He literally flew up the escalator. Thank God, Tom and his lads did not wait for him at the exit. But the call came as soon as the tablet caught the signal.

     - And where are you? Tom's angry voice rang out.

     - I just went to your business.

     “So you should only run about my business. Do you have more important things to do?

     - No, what are you doing.

     Why wasn't there a signal?

    Denis carefully looked around the square in front of the exit and the road. Nothing suspicious seems to be visible, but he was afraid to lie directly.

     — Was in one place underground. Met a dude who rummages through the telecom security system.

     - So, is there any progress? Come on, don't be silent, you have to call yourself and joyfully murmur, what and how.

     - There is progress, there is a way to secretly lure Max to a meeting.

     Listen, I'm losing my patience. What way?

     - When the time comes, I'll tell you everything.

     Your time will come in ten seconds. Count.

     “Yes, wait, we have an agreement, yes,” Denis began to frequent, “I will bring Max to you, and you will cover me from the revenge of Telecom. You, of course, are fucking terrible, I already crap three times, but SB Telecom, maybe it will be worse. What difference does it make to me, from whose hand to die? If I tell you everything, you just set me up and throw me. Let's play fair.

     - Honestly? I am the most honest person in the world, what I say I always do.

     You said I have seven days. In seven days I will manage and do everything so cleanly that Telecom will not even understand anything, - Denis continued to desperately bluff. “But you don’t have to constantly push by the arm.

     - Wanna play with me? Frets. Only to promise me and then not to do it is much worse than dying. The devils in hell will weep at you. Call next time, and try to get it done before I lose my temper.

     “Today, tomorrow I will get the instrument and organize everything.

     You can tempt fate all you want. Yes, and I, of course, did not think that you were such a cretin to check everything on yourself, but keep in mind: in two hours you will receive a lethal dose of poison, and in an hour and a half you will only go blind in one eye. Today you were close.

    At this, Tom passed out.

    “Well, what a darling, it’s a pleasure to talk to him,” Denis thought, getting into the car. – We must urgently think of something, otherwise we will have to make a very unpleasant choice. Oh yes". Denis almost forgot about the note. The message was written on a piece of paper, in a very clumsy handwriting, and the lines went at random, sometimes overlapping each other, but it was possible to make out.

    “Dan, forget all the bullshit I was talking about. It was a distraction, you can go to Dreamland, see what Leo left, so that SB would believe in this legend more. The only chance to deceive them is to write such a note without looking at the piece of paper. You can leave me a martian dream stamp with a message, hope they can't read it. Go to the city of Korolev at this address. The key to the apartment is hidden under the door casing, on the lower right. The apartment must have a laptop, the password for the account is “March Hare”. The laptop should have a program, something like a messenger with a huge number of contacts. Write to a person named Rudeman Saari: “I want to start over and I know how to communicate. Come to Moscow. Max". Leave me a stamp with his answer, if there is one. Please, Dan, I have no one else to turn to. On Mars, I lost much more than money, family and friends. Rudeman Saari is my only chance to get something back.”

    “Yes, Max, you are cunning, of course,” Denis sighed, “but for now I can hardly help you, unless this mysterious Rudeman Saari at the same time saves me from Arumov. Although Semyon may well drive to Korolev.

    

    The next day, the sun had not yet passed its zenith, and Denis was already standing in the parking lot in front of the DreamLand building. Yesterday, Lech's neighbor came in again with three flasks of beer, and it didn't work out early to wake up, although Dan was acutely aware that drinking in his position was very stupid.

    The newly built building was a glittering ellipsoid dome of glass and metal. A huge mirror of an artificial reservoir was poured right in front of him. Who would doubt that the trade in "digital drugs" really brought considerable profits. Inside, everything was lined with luxurious ceramics and marble columns. “And why, I wonder, is a company that sells illusions so hovering over the real decoration of their lair?” Denis thought, surveying the interior space skeptically. He felt an almost physical disgust for the place. Like a master of the Order of the Holy Inquisition, who accidentally wandered into an unbridled orgy of worshipers of Satan. No, he did not want to take part or protect the event, his desire to burn everything to the ground was quite sincere. It is possible that Denis would never have been able to overcome his disgust and go to the reception, but the sect's clerk came to the basement himself. A frail little man of indeterminate age, with gelled thin hair and a grayish unhealthy complexion. Despite the sour face of the client, he broke into a learned wide smile. Of course, it was foolish to hope for her sincerity in a place like this. However, empathy and friendliness are rarely sincere anywhere, more often hypocrisy and self-interest are hidden behind them. But fear and hatred are almost always real.

     - Is this your first time with us?

     “Of course, do you think I would come here again?”

     “Many come,” the little man smiled even wider, and for a moment an animal grin cut through his grin and immediately disappeared. But Denis was ready and managed to see everything.

     “A friend had to leave me…something,” he said reluctantly.

     — Yes, I'll check the base now. May I know your name?

     - Denis ... Kaisanov.

     Great, Denis. My name is Yakov, I'll work as your assistant, if you don't mind. Your friend did indeed leave a gift, a very generous gift.

     - Message?

     - No, what are you, he gave you a little dream.

     — Little dream? Denis said. - No, I won’t glue the “marochka”.

     — Oh, this is much better than a simple stamp. Come on, I'll tell you everything in a separate office.

    The little man gently grabbed Denis by the elbow and led him through the hall into the building. They passed through a series of halls with swimming pools, around which many people relaxed. “Why are these ducks nestled here, like seals in a rookery, and not lying at home on the couch. How is this brothel different from the usual online bullshit about elves and goblins? thought Denis as he passed by.

     What do they see there? he asked the manager.

     Everyone sees what they want.

     - Many psychos and drug addicts see what they want.

     - As a rule, no, they do not control the process. Of course, our technology is know-how, but, believe me, drugs have nothing to do with it. Imagination is the most powerful neurochip in the universe, you just need to make it work.

     - And if there is no neurochip, will one imagination be enough?

     “It will just be more expensive. Technology does not stand still, our m-chips practically do not need implanted electronics. The day is not far off when it will be possible to simply breathe in special spores that will themselves develop into the necessary device in the human body.

    Denis shuddered at such a prospect.

     “Don't worry, you don't need to pay anything, everything has already been paid for,” Yakov assured, misinterpreting the client's reaction. “Come in, please,” he added, opening the doors to a small meeting room.

    Almost the entire room was occupied by a glass table and a couple of shelving units. Jacob rummaged around a little and pulled out a small laptop from the rack.

     "You really don't have a chip?"

     - Нет.

     “Okay, then I’ll show a small presentation on a laptop…”

     - No presentations needed, just explain what was left for me.

     — Okay, let's do without presentations. We call this service the wishing well. It is very expensive and, let's say, not only an entertainment plan. First, a special m-chip scans the memory and personality of a person, then the information received is processed by the most powerful neural networks of our company, including on Martian servers. You know, like image recognition, only the algorithms are a lot more complicated. And already according to the results, the next injections of m-chips fulfill the most important, true dream of a person. At the request of the client, we can erase the client's memory of coming to our company, then the simulated dream seems to be a continuation of ordinary life and looks more real. But at this request, you can not wash anything if you do not want to. Of course, there are, to put it mildly, narrow-minded people and their dreams are too simple, there is nothing to solve. But sometimes an ordinary person comes to us, unremarkable, but comes out completely different. He has a qualitatively different motivation. He saw what he could achieve, and this instills such energy, such a will to win ... In order to look into the face of such a person, saying goodbye to him at the exit, I work tirelessly, we all work ...

     - So, Jacob, let's tie it up. Do you seriously think that I'll let myself be chipped with these m-chips and recognize my personality! Are you sure you don't use anything?

     No one will see your personal data, don't worry. They, in fact, are not stored after the provision of the service, even in encrypted form. It's just too expensive to stuff data centers with terabytes of useless information.

     “Of course, but neurochips never track users.

     - This is directly prohibited by laws and treaties, and why, tell me, do we need someone's personal life?

     Yes, I believe you with all my heart. And the fact that the Martians spent days scratching the manes of unicorns and chasing butterflies. In short, is there anything else left for me?

     — Only payment for this service. But, I can hardly imagine greater generosity ...

     - No problem, you can dive into your own well.

     - I have already used this service and, as you can see, nothing terrible happened.

     - Is it true? And what did you see there?

     “No one is supposed to know what I saw there, not even the director of the DreamLand company.

     - Well, who would doubt it. In general, all the best.

    Yakov managed to intercept Denis at the door.

     “Wait, please, just two seconds. Your friend, oddly enough, foresaw that the reaction might be ... not quite right. He asked to convey that perhaps this is a way to understand who you really are.

     My answer is the only correct one. And I'll figure out who I am.

     “Let me finish… If even for the first time some kind of overlay happens, although such cases have been counted on the fingers for the entire time of work, we will restart the program. The service is specially paid for twice, with the possibility of a refund for a backup run if it is not used ...

    Denis resolutely brushed off the manager and walked energetically towards the exit, so that at the very first pool he would run into Lenochka, almost nose to nose. She looked, as usual, beautiful, especially in contrast to the nondescript servant of Dreamland. Just like a ray of light in a dark realm.

     — Oh, Danchik, what are you doing here? she chirped happily.

     - I'm leaving. And what are your fates?

     - And I'm on business.

     - On business? I thought people come here from all over Moscow to hang out cool.

     “If you have money, you can bulge out,” Lenochka laughed. — Are you in a hurry?

     — No, although it should be. What's your business there?

     - Nothing special. You don't want to go lie by the pool just yet.

    “Yes, of course I want to,” Denis thought, “and not only by the pool, and not only to lie around. True, I have a couple of urgent tasks: I need to fucking figure out how not to die from the paws of your lover's Cerberus and decide what to do with Max's request.

     “Let’s go,” Lenochka clutched at his sleeve. “It’s like in a casino, everything is free.

     - Yes, you just go out later without pants, and, of course, for free.

     - Don't worry, let's go.

    Relaxing music was played by the pool and there were rows of sofas and sun loungers. Nearby were small vending machines with free drinks. The floor, paved with pinkish-white tiles, smoothly descended directly into the pool, so that artificial waves sometimes rolled under the feet of the rest. Pot-bellied balding types, who made up the main contingent of this place, floundered listlessly in pinkish water or lay around on sunbeds, from time to time throwing interested glances at Lenochka. In Denis, to his considerable surprise, these greasy looks evoked the feeling that he was being stroked the wrong way.

     “I’ll go and change for five minutes,” said Lenochka.

     “No need, I won’t be long anyway. I have things like that too.

     - Why? I'm quick, don't you want to take a dip yourself?

     - Absolutely not. I'll pick up some more virtual bullshit from these seals.

     “Yes, you won’t pick it up,” Lenochka laughed again. “There are some special tubs on the other side of the pool. Glue a stamp, climb there and wake up already in that world. And you can't catch anything in the pool.

     - Lena, tell me, how is this shnyaga different from the usual Internet? Fuck around here?

     “Well, you’re behind the times. Internetik is just cartoons, but here everything is absolutely real. You swim back through this pool and you feel its coolness. You touch a person and you feel his warmth, - Lenochka carefully touched Denis's face with her palm. — Marochki convey all the emotions and sensations. And you can even record the sensations from the real world, and then share with friends.

     - And what feelings do you share here?

     — Different. Isn't it great to drink a bottle of wine somewhere in Bali in the midst of a lousy Moscow winter?

     - Yeah, or throw something more serious at Goa, it's virtual.

     “Some people go there to try everything. There are no health implications.

     The most dangerous addiction is psychological. After all, it’s even better for them, the client lives longer, and he won’t jump off the hook either.

     — Oh, Danchik, why are you treating me! I'm just doing a little work here, no drugs.

     - Are you working? This is how?

     - Yes, nothing like that: you register as a personal assistant and accompany those who wish to that world.

     “What, bots can’t escort them there?”

     - Well, the whole point is that everything is like in reality. You get out of the pool and at first you don’t even realize that you are in another world. And then all sorts of fools will buy themselves cosmetic programs, if only they don’t sweat in the gym and don’t sit on diets ... What are you? Stop laughing!

     - Oh, Lena, I can’t, I thought all women were delighted with cosmetic programs.

     - All sorts of lunatics are delighted, with which they would only lure some fool. They do not understand that sooner or later it will come up.

     "So you're an honest woman?" All right, all right, stop fighting... Well, you know, I met fools who themselves said: let it be with programs, what's the difference. What do those pool junkies care about who hangs out with them? Though lahouders, even fat old perverts, why pay extra money?

     - Well, apparently there is, you yourself will know that this is a hoax. It's like instant coffee compared to real coffee.

     Is that you, or what, natural coffee?

     “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Lenochka pouted slightly.

     - All right, what do I want. Everyone spins as best they can.

     "So you don't care what I do?" Do you care about me?

     “Well, I don’t know,” Denis was confused, “I don’t give a damn, of course. You look after my cat, he found.

     “Yes, I’m keeping an eye on it,” Lenochka sighed. - Kitty you have such a paw, by the way, can I leave it a little longer? So please, please...

     - Of course it is possible. If so, I bequeath it to you.

     - In what sense do I bequeath?

     Well, that's it, figuratively speaking.

     — Danchik, you tell me what happened to you? I can see that something has happened.

     - Nothing happened.

     “If you tell me, maybe I can be of some help?”

     Yes, how can you help.

     - Anything.

     “Well, you’re already helping me,” Denis sighed. “All right, Len, you better get on with this vile Dreamland, but it’s really time for me to set off.

     “Well, wait a minute, Danchik, let me quickly go and change clothes, while you choose drinks for us.” And we'll chat a little more.

     “Come on, just a little, okay?

    Lenochka, surprisingly, almost met the stated five minutes. But when she, like a caravel in a red bathing suit, again swam to the pool, to the displeasure of Denis, the nondescript manager Yakov lurked in her shadow.

     — Oh, Danchik, they told me something about you.

     Don't listen to him, it's all lies and slander.

     No, it just looks a lot like you. You turned down such a cool thing. There is nothing worse.

     - Lena, and you are still there ...

     - Wait, that's not all, he said that the service was paid for you twice. Or it can be used by another person of your choice.

     “Exactly,” said Jacob.

     - So what?

     - Like what! Danchik, didn't you think that we could use it together, together!

     “Yes, there is such an option,” the manager yelled again.

     - I'm ready with you even to the ends of the world, but not there.

     - Stop doing that! We will have a common dream, we will see how great everything will be there!

     - What if it's not great?

     “Until you try, you won’t know, it’s stupid because of this they are afraid of their fate.

     — Fate? Do you really believe this thing? How do I know it's not quackery? A gypsy in the transition can also tell fate.

     — Danchik, there is nothing smarter than this thing. If she's wrong, then anyone else is wrong.

     “Even so: this computer does not make mistakes. But, if he guesses my fate, then it turns out that I will lose my freedom of choice.

     — Oh, Danchik, you are so boring sometimes. Well, if you are afraid, then say so ... But I will be offended by you, honestly.

     "It's stupid to refuse," Yakov grinned, giving Lenochka a brazen look. - This program does not encroach on freedom of choice, it only helps to make the right choice. After all, I myself would gladly buy such a service for your friend if I had the funds… But someone else might well…

    Denis gave the manager an already frankly hostile look, but he did not raise an eyebrow.

     “Okay, Lena, if you insist so much.

     - Yes, i want.

     "Okay," Denis gave up. - Let's go.

     — Denis.

     — What else?

     “We should definitely hold hands when we fall asleep, okay?”

     - Lena...

     “Then we’ll wake up in a better world and be happy, okay?”

     - As you say.

    

    A stream of shadows floated over the water, no longer pinkish, but almost black, deep as an abyss. On the other side, personal demons, grown by themselves, were already waiting for them, feeding on weaknesses and fears. Vile white worms with red greedy suckers coiled around their bodies, many-legged slimy spiders climbed onto their backs and stuck their chelicerae inside. Foul-smelling, floating in the air, jellyfish launched tentacles into the nose and ears, plucked out their eyes and replaced them with the eyes of toads and snakes. Thousands of nightmarish creatures swarmed on the other side of the pool. Small and frail for those who came for the first time, they stubbornly spun around and did not dare to climb onto the victim in its entirety. And fattened creatures for regular customers, they crawled lazily, and slowly, to the victim dutifully waiting for them, and with a rumbling drove their tentacles and mandibles into never-closing lacerated wounds.

    Then a large stream of vermin-entangled shadows split into many small streams flowing from the countless mouths of a huge demon lying in a red, bubbling swamp. They flowed on into the terrible other world, where they were fed on caterpillars, dressed in tattered rat-skin robes, put into rotten bone carts so that the shadows could show off to each other and discuss the taste of waste and the virtues of dead beetle necklaces. And the most vile, half-decomposed creatures crawling out of the swamps extolled and praised the fools in bone carts, giggling vilely, as soon as they turned away.

    They were patient, never in a hurry and did not frighten their victims. They drank life a little bit, each time saying: “It's just one drop, you have such a huge wonderful life, and we take only a drop, an hour here, a day there. Will she get away with it? And you can leave any time you want, tomorrow or in a month, or in a year for sure. Not now, now stay and enjoy." And they drank drop by drop, all dry, sending back incorporeal shadows.

    And somewhere in one of the streams, Lenochka was rushing, still alive and real, and a three-headed hydra was already curling around her, trying to grab a piece of her sweet fear of loneliness and desire to become someone other than the stupid mistress of a rich official. Hydra was in a hurry, because Lenochka rushed straight towards the spider queen, who would take her life all at once.

     “You broke the main rule, you listened to the woman and came with her straight into the lair of the enemy. Here they can see who you are and learn our secrets.

     I didn't break it, he broke it. The one who likes this Lena, who would like to connect his fate with her, the one who does not see the truth about this place.

     He is you, don't forget.

     “That’s not true, you know it yourself. I have long been a disembodied ghost. Look through my palm, do you see anything? I am the voice that whispers words of hatred to that person and nothing else. No wonder he didn't listen to the ghostly voice.

     You must be able to wait.

     “I've been waiting too long for a future that will never come, that has turned into a similar ghost.

     “It has already arrived, if you complete your mission.

     “Of course, because my consciousness after the victory was saved, restored after a thousand years and sent to a new past to fight again. This cycle of rebirth cannot be broken.

     Sorry, but the war never ends. Our enemy fights at once, always and everywhere, but the final victory is possible. The first one saw it.

     “Maybe the First One didn’t see anything. Maybe it's just a forgotten dream. If all people have forgotten some event, then it has ceased to exist?

     “You have become weak and suspicious, and you cannot lose. If everyone forgets the predictions about the future empire, then yes, it will cease to exist.

     - Okay, I won't lose. Save this Lena, don't let her life be taken away.

     “I cannot and have no right to be discovered.

     - Be careful.

     “This Lena means nothing compared to the cost 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 forgot that what matters most is the fate of your homeland, the Empire of a Thousand Planets. Do you remember?

     “This empire is a ghost like me. The forgotten dream of that man. Get that Lena out, show her a different future. Otherwise, I will simply dissolve into nothingness, and there will be no endless war.

     I already said I can't. What does it matter what she sees? Let this be a future in which you become her hero, save her from Arumov and take her to a white house by a mountain lake. It is unattainable neither for her, nor even for you. All she can do is come here time after time to see a dream that is so easy to believe in, but which does not exist. Forget it, she has no future of her own, she is a stupid, beautiful flower that will be plucked and trampled like others like her. There is no need to look for a source of strength where it cannot be.

     “Then let him just forget about everything and leave.

     “She will definitely come back, in a month or six months, with someone else. The servant said everything is correct.

     - Let her not come back, make her.

     You understand that this is impossible.

     “You keep talking about a great war and saving a great empire, but you don’t want to save even one person. We just hang around and watch the endless stream of people go to feed the demons and do nothing. When will the battle start? How will a ghost, devoid of even a shred of courage, win the great war?

     “You are the blood and flesh of the empire, its true origin. A spark that smolders in the midst of an icy desert, a spark from which the flame of the empire will flare up again and turn into ashes all enemies, external and internal. It is useless to fight the demons, it's like trying to kill all the flies, there will be no less of them. It is necessary to destroy the possibility of their origin. When the true enemy reveals himself, we will strike and destroy him. And the demons are false enemies, having entered into a senseless war with them, we will be buried under a mountain of their corpses and achieve nothing.

     So maybe we should look for the true enemy.

     “You have forgotten everything the first one taught. The true enemy cannot be looked for, he always comes by himself, because he needs us no less. And his search only creates false enemies.

     — Yes, I forgot everything and almost disappeared. You understand: all that remains of me is a voice that only one person can barely hear. I need to find something to justify my existence! And if there are no enemies, then I'm just a forgotten dream!

     “If there is no true enemy, then yes. But it is there, and because of that you will never disappear.

     So let him show up! Where is he hiding?! Who is he?!

    The red glow of the demonic world faltered and split.

     “We are the guardians of the world of shadows, and your beloved friend Max is the master of shadows, the former, really. His precious quantum project has become a pile of unadulterated rubbish.

    “Here is your true enemy,” a ghostly voice whispered to Denis.

    The familiar nasty face with a scar moved almost close.

     "Satisfied?"

    Memories of forgotten dreams, demons, and a thousand years of war rushed into consciousness in a continuous stream, causing physical pain. Denis crouched on the pavement, almost drowning in this stream. He could not understand who he was, where he was, or what was happening.

     “Hey, rag, stop crawling there,” Tom's raspy voice rang out again. “That won't help. I told you not to play with me, now get up and face death like a man.

    Denis struggled to get on all fours, shaking his head wildly and vomited right on Tom's shoes. He jumped back with obscene cries, and one of the kingpins kicked Denis in the side, sending him into a short flight.

     “Here’s an animal, now it’s still shitting everything here. And what boss said to deal with him quickly, - Tom continued to be indignant. - I'll make him lick everything.

    Somewhere nearby, Lenochka was squealing strangledly, whom two other hulks were trying to shove into the car. She bit the hand that was covering her mouth, and for a second the strangled squeak broke into a heart-rending squeal. But no one in the parking lot in front of the Dreamland dome rushed to help.

     — Fox, Roger, what are you doing there? If I have to pay more security, I'll deduct from your share.

     “Listen, brigadier, she seems to want to say something. He shakes his head ... You won't yell, chick?

     Okay, what did she want?

     “Don’t touch him,” Lenochka sobbed, “I ... I will tell Andrei and he ...

     What is he, stupid? What will you tell him? That she wanted to jump on one worthless lieutenant, but Tom came and broke everything? Come on, it'll be interesting to hear.

     “I have more friends, you will regret it!” Freak, creature, 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 roaring Lena was stuffed into a pickup truck, and he gave the gas.

     - Again you disappointed me, you were asked to complete a simple task for the boss, and instead you decided to fuck his woman. Why are you silent, bitch? Vovan, search him.

    To the shame of Denis, Vovan almost immediately found yesterday's note from Max in his back pocket, which he simply forgot to hide or destroy.

     “I should have ripped him off right away.

     Yes, smart guy, you should have. Why didn't you cheat?

    Next, Vovan unloaded tablets, keys and other trifles from Denis's pockets. Tom only snorted contemptuously when he saw the second tablet, and after reading the note, he grinned rather and immediately removed it.

     “Everything turned out for the best. Now your help is not needed, we will deal with Max ourselves.

    Consciousness cleared up a little, and short-term memory returned to Denis. He remembered how he offered to give Lena a ride after this stupid idea with "wishing wells." Waking up, Denis immediately tried to pour out all the skepticism about Dreamland and his fairy tales, embroidered with white thread, but Lena put her finger to his lips, and they didn’t say another word. It seems that Lena seriously believed in this banal, sugary dream with heroism and a white house by the lake. She really glowed with happiness, and, despite all the skepticism, Denis was forced to admit that this joy was pleasant to him.

    When they approached the car, which, as luck would have it, was abandoned in the very depths of the parking lot near the overpass columns, a small van and a pickup truck parked nearby abruptly took off and blocked the aisles. And the jumping out hulks in masks twisted Denis. Then, quite openly, Tom got out with his face twisted with rage and announced that the game was over. Kolyan took the money, sent the order to Siberia, but then finally got cold feet and decided, just in case, to make sure with Tom's lads that Denis ordered a mountain of weapons with their full approval, otherwise you never know.

    “That's all, you had a chance to exchange your worthless life for your friend,” Tom hissed, “but you apparently decided to fight. Sclerosis, probably tortured, forgot about my little gift. You know, if you let poison in small doses, then a person dies much longer and in terrible agony. Or have you found someone else who will try to take us down? Who is this crazy bastard? No, I even respect it in principle, so you have two minutes and a last wish. Denis shrugged his shoulders and asked: “Who are you and what do you need from Max?”. And when he heard the answer, he collapsed to the ground and his consciousness turned inside out.

    “Access to the Roy system has been activated. Find the basic system kit for further instructions,” said a ringing female voice. The owner of the voice sat on the hood of Denis's car and, pursing her lips, looked around the battlefield. She was tall and lean, dressed in a tight, stylish military uniform and high platform boots. Long nails with bright manicure looked more like false claws. Her face was pale, almost white, slightly elongated, with huge clear blue eyes, and her hair was gathered into a heavy silver braid with ribbons woven inside. Due to the unnatural pallor and severity of her features, it was difficult to call her beautiful, but her appearance breathed the predatory grace of a Valkyrie, ready to tear apart the souls of defeated enemies.

     "Who else are you?" Denis asked.

     “I’m Sonya Daimon, queen of the swarm. Don't you remember anything?

     - My head is full of mess. Do something, they'll kill me here!

     — I need a swarm. The more system kits you find, the more opportunities we will have.

     “And how do you think I will look for him after I die?”

     - Yes, it failed. But you wanted a fight, and here it is. Fight! You are the last soldier of the Empire and you have no right to lose.

     - Brigadier, why is he trading with himself? one of the remaining hulks named Vovan asked dumbfounded.

     - Mows like a psycho, or really the roof has gone. We overestimated it.

     - Well, this is not the first time we have killed someone, and I have heard all sorts of things, but I don’t remember anything like that. Maybe you shouldn't have told him about us.

     You haven't been asked yet. It doesn't matter what he heard, he won't tell anyone anyway, - Tom seemed to be a little confused himself. — Taras, where is the remote control?

    Before that, the kingpin, who had not participated in the brawl, pulled out a large khaki-colored tablet in a metal case with a retractable antenna from the van.

     "Good dreams," said Tom.

     “You won’t lure Max out like that anyway. Too late to rush.

     “Well, you really piss me off already,” with these words, Tom pulled a frightening-looking hunting knife from his belt. - I'll have to, apparently, a little heritage.

     “I gave Kolyan fifty pieces to go to Korolyov and send a message to Rudeman Saari. And he ordered the weapons himself, he seemed to owe someone from the locals and wanted to pay off. Sorry, but not only did I lie to you a little.

     - What other locals does he owe, what are you sculpting here!

     “I came here to give Max Rudeman Saari's answer. You read it - this is a real way to convey a secret message to a person with a Telecom chip - a Dreamland brand.

     - And what is the answer?

     Let's reopen the deal on the same terms.

     "I've never seen such a brazen bastard!"

     Tom seemed to be really furious, almost foaming at the mouth. He pressed the knife into Denis's eye, but did not have time to move on to more decisive actions.

     "It's time to go," Vovan boomed again. “Come on, either let the poison in, or sharpen the flies in another place.

     Tom turned to him, like a compressed spring, for a second it seemed that he would now begin to slash his own subordinate.

     - Okay, load this puke, let's go to the market with Kolyan. We don't have to do anything tonight.

     They twisted Denis's hands, handcuffed him and threw him into a van. It was extremely uncomfortable to lie face down on the floor, all the more so right in front of Tom's vomited boots. Vovan and Taras pulled off their masks and settled down on the seat opposite.

     “Listen, brigadier,” Denis said. - Give me some water to drink.

     - Shut your mouth.

     Tom stepped on Denis's head with a mocking grin, pressing him into the dirty floor.

     Not a bad idea, - the Valkyrie settled down at ease on the seat next to Tom. - But, as you understand, this is just a delay until they start shaking your huckster.

     Can you handle poison?

     “No, at the moment I’m just a piece of your brain. But a swarm can do just about anything.

     - What is a swarm?

     - Combat information system of the latest generation. In short, a swarm is a swarm. When you see it, you will immediately understand everything.

     Vovan and Taras looked at each other and Vovan, having taken out a tape, tried to seal Denis's mouth.

     Did someone ask you to climb? Tom snapped.

     “Well, this is really annoying.

     “I don’t care what makes you nervous. Let the market. Who are you hanging out with, my friend?

     I have an invisible friend, what's the problem. I wanted to discuss the situation with him.

     - What kind of swarm?

     Roy is a swarm. Mosquitoes, bees there all sorts.

     "I wouldn't be fooling around if I were you." You behave very ugly, do not keep promises, constantly lie. The fact that we have become enemies is entirely your fault. But as long as you're alive, there may be a chance to improve.

     “I don't think I'll be alive.

     Well, if you try really hard, who knows.

     “Now, I’ll just consult with an invisible friend.

     “By the way, you don’t have to annoy these nice guys. After all, I live in your head and can read minds perfectly,” Sonya Dimon said innocently.

     "Can't you tell right away?"

     "Why? It was pretty funny."

     "Have fun, then."

     “What now, cry? Blows of fate are met with a smile.

     “Could you get out of my head?”

     “If you find me a new body, then with joy. Your Lena will do just fine. She has a beautiful body, doesn't she?

     "Do not even think".

     “Okay, look for someone else,” the Valkyrie agreed outwardly indifferently. “Preferably a young woman, of course.”

     "What are you anyway?"

     "Are you sure you don't remember anything? We have had small talk for many years on various topics in your dreams.

     “Yes, now I remember them. But it's still just a dream. I hardly remember what we discussed there.”

     "It's strange, it shouldn't be like that. Your memory should have been fully recovered. I feel like we know a lot less than we should."

     "Probably something else went wrong."

    “I am a transneuronal entity. I can live on any biological carriers that support higher nervous activity. Now you have to rent part of your gray matter. When we find a swarm, I can choose any other person or several, but for now, we are in the same boat, you die, I die too.

    "Great, but who am I?"

    “You are the blood and flesh of the empire, its true beginning…”

    “Don’t fill it up here, okay. Answer normally.

    “Actually, this is the best answer. You are not such a simple phenomenon. But if you want, you're a class zero agent."

    “And what, now I have to save Mother Russia? Defeat all the Martians?

    "You must destroy the true enemy and rebuild the Empire of a Thousand Planets."

    What is your role in this operation? Numb in my head so that I do not forget about the great mission?

    "I run the swarm."

    "So you'll be in charge of everything"?

    “You will give orders, I need to help. I am the mind of the swarm, which will plan its reproduction and development. I will free you from a million routine operations. You're not going to study how the swarm works and how it functions?

     Why? Ready to broaden my horizons.

     “I am a mind specially designed for these tasks, I have the memory of thousands of specialists who developed these weapons. Your job is to fight the true enemy."

     "Why don't you fight him yourself?"

     “If I fight and win victories, then it will be the Sonya Daimon Empire, not the Human Empire. Is not it so"?

     "Maybe. In general, you do everything I say?

    "Yes, as long as you are loyal to the Empire, I will only be an obedient instrument."

     “Okay, we will return to this conversation if we live. What does this swarm even look like? What should be looked for?

    “Most likely, a railway or truck container, they were hidden in the warehouses of the State Reserve. Inside boxes with food or ammunition for disguise. One or more boxes is the highest biosecurity package for the swarm nest. Anyone other than Class Zero who opens the package will be infected and subsequently terminated."

    “And what, these containers were just gathering dust for thirty years in some abandoned warehouse”?

    “Well, part of it. I know approximate places and signs by which to look for them. Stay with us for a couple of days ... ".

    “Our only, ghostly chance is to somehow lure Tom to such a container. Do you know anything nearby?

    “In Moscow, no, a very dangerous place to store. 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 lair. And the end looks like it 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, what if he comes over to our side or at least becomes interested?

    "No, he's the enemy."

     Is he my true enemy now? Of course, he’s still that bastard, but I’m not in the situation to get hung up on some kind of existential enmity.”

     “He is not a true enemy. He is the same servant, just a higher rank. Your true enemy is the lord of shadows."

     "Max"?!

     "Well, if he's the master of shadows, then yes."

     “Great, that is, I will be cut into shreds due to the fact that I did not want to hand over my true enemy to his servants? The puzzle doesn't fit at all."

    "Happens".

    “What the hell is this about a shadow world? Who is Tom? What do you know about him and about Arumov?

    "I can't tell, I'm only sure he's the enemy."

    “This is not the time to get dark or play games. It's like we're in the same boat!"

    “I don’t darken. Without a swarm, my functions and memory are extremely limited, only fragmentary information and activation codes. But judging by your memory, Arumov may have access to the secrets of the empire."

    “Yeah, he was talking about a container that he kind of ate during his wild youth.”

    "Let's try to find him."

    “Yeah, no problem, as soon as we deal with Tom's handsome Tom's crew and his nanobots. I'll have a chat with Tom. Arumov, for sure, did not push this cart in vain, maybe we will agree.”

    "No, if the enemies gain control of the swarm, the Empire will lose."

    “Yeah, to hell with her. You know, I still thought about it and decided that I didn’t want to die painfully. ”

    "It is in my power to give us a quick death."

    "This is a threat"?

    “No, just a possibility. There's still time to think."

    The van stopped, apparently at some kind of traffic light. It was getting dark quickly outside. From time to time Denis could hear the distant horns of cars and the howling of sirens.

     “Something you quieted down, my friend,” Tom squeaked again. “By the way, we’re on our way. Do you want to admire the Rusakovskaya embankment for the last time? True, half of the lights in this hole do not work, you can’t see a damn thing. Kolyan has, you know, a great basement in an area where almost no one lives, and we have a long night ahead of us. Maybe you'd better talk like that. Why all this dirt, snot, severed fingers?

     “No problem, what are we talking about?”

     - How sociable you immediately became. Don't be so afraid, we usually don't start with fingers. Of course, you lied about Kolyan. I know this motherfucker, he would never dare to use me to deal with you and get away with it. Yes, he shits with fear just when he sees me. Rather, he would see through somewhere.

     - And what makes you think that he is sitting waiting for us?

     “I told him not to flinch. I bet a million that he is there, because you are lying and he has nothing to be afraid of. He will return our grandmother - and let him live.

    Taras climbed into the driver's seat, turning off the autopilot. The car started and rolled, bouncing slightly on the broken road.

     - Share for a start, with whom did you market there? Do you still have a neurochip?

     - I was fooling around, I wanted to mow down.

     - Lies again. You will soon regret it.

     “You won't achieve anything. I can die on my own, so let's negotiate.

     - Really?

     “There are devices that are activated by a mental code. We used to bring them from Siberia.

     "Okay, let's check it out," Tom shrugged. I'm not that interested in your chatter. Are you brave enough to kill yourself?

    Tom jerked Denis into a sitting position and shoved a tablet with an antenna under his nose.

     You want to see the source of your troubles. That little red dot is you. Here I choose it, here are its properties. I can kill you immediately, I can gradually, I can turn off bit by bit: arms, legs, eyesight. Very convenient, bloodless and most importantly no one will understand what happened.

    From his favorite descriptions of cruel punishments and massacres, Tom was distracted by a call on the network.

     — What do you mean jumped out at a traffic light?! he snapped.

     “I don’t give a damn that you two morons can’t keep track of a woman.”

     - No she will return, the boss said to bring. Search by tracker.

    Tom still for some time sanded negligent subordinates.

     - Any problems? Denis inquired politely.

     “Compared to yours, they are nothing. By the way, you did a great job setting up your girlfriend.

     - How is it?

     The boss doesn't like it when someone lays eyes on his property.

     - After I deal with you, we will discuss with Arumov who owns whose property.

     "An empty threat," Tom grinned. “But I will write to the chief that there is another good way to split you. And then you were going to die.

     Lena has nothing to do with it, leave her alone.

     “Of course, of course, buddy, don’t worry.

    Denis realized that he was aggravating the situation and shut up.

    "Can you at least contact someone"?

    “I repeat, I am just a piece of your brain. And who do you want to contact?

    "With Semyon, for the replicant to try to help Lena out."

    “I found something to worry about. If you want to help her, keep quiet and think about how to escape from Tom and find the container.

    “Maybe I really just got crazy? There is no sense in this voice in my head.

    "Find the swarm and you'll see how good I am."

    "I can't find anything anymore."

    Denis mentally gave up on everything and tried to get comfortable. And then he received an invigorating kick from Tom.

     - Hey, don't relax. We've almost arrived.

    In the next couple of minutes, Denis thought only about how to keep his limbs intact, dangling around the van jumping on his native potholes.

     “Sho something at Kolyan’s retinue is not on fire,” Taras noticed, parking on the side of the road. - Can we go from the other side?

     - I beg you. You think he's waiting for us with a gun at the ready.

     - Well, who knows.

     - Take armor and go first.

    Denis was pushed out of the car. It was dark and quiet, the familiar "Computers, Hardware" sign was off, and neither were the lights along the road. In general, in the whole house, two windows were burning from above, closer to the end. While the puffing Taras fiddled with his vest in the dark, Denis inhaled the cool evening air with pleasure and turned his head around. My knees didn’t tremble much, but smart thoughts didn’t appear in my head, and Tom standing behind him was ready to wring his hands with any careless movement. Tom himself pulled a semi-automatic shotgun from under the seat, and the henchmen limited themselves to pistols.

    "It's time to say goodbye, Sonya Dimon."

    "No, it can't all end so easily."

    There were no lights inside the store either. The door was not locked and two militants neatly rushed inside.

     — Kolyan, what kind of tricks?! Tom barked into the darkness, sitting down by the door and putting Denis on the floor.

     “The shield burned down,” a muffled voice called from the basement. - Get down.

     "You're completely out of your mind, get up."

     I can't, I'm stuck.

     "Where the fuck are you stuck in there?"

     - At the shield, where there is a hole in the floor. I keep the keys there, and set a trap against thieves inside and forgot about it myself ... Please help.

     - Why did not you call?

     - There is no network in the basement.

     “Does he have a signal in the basement?” Vovan hissed in the darkness.

     “I think I remember,” Tom hissed back. “Listen, Deniska, don’t you know what’s going on? It's time to start cooperation, you will be credited.

     - No idea. Take off the handcuffs, I'll go take a look.

     - Yeah, he ran away.

     - Tom, please! Help, I can’t feel my hand anymore,” Kolyan’s plaintive voice rang out again. — Clamped so that the kapets is simple!

     "All right, Taras, go and have a look," ordered Tom. - Turn on the flashlight there, inspect everything carefully.

     “I will be an excellent target with a cym candle.”

     - Is it the first time? I'll write out an award if Although you wait, really, Vovan, drive to the car for a thermal imager.

     - You yourself said not to take too much: business for a maximum of an hour, just take the body.

     - Hands would not fall off, thanks for taking the trunks at least. Come on, Taras, let's go.

     - We're going down! yelled Tom into the darkness.

    “I wonder what's going on down there,” Denis thought frantically. “Maybe it was Semyon who decided to help. Could his telepathic cats see what was happening, or should you definitely fall asleep in an embrace with Adik? Well, there's nothing to lose."

     - He's alone! - that was urine yelled Denis.

    And then he received a powerful blow to the back of the neck from which circles swam before his eyes.

     “I told him to seal his mouth,” Vovan hissed.

     - Now I'll glue it.

    From the basement there was a terrible roar, crackling and obscene cries.

     - What's happening?! shouted Tom.

     — That after setting up all sorts of shit!

     - Is it clean?

     - Yes, I'm surprised, there's no one here. And like some idiot managed to get in there.

    Kolyan's heart-rending squeal followed.

     - I won't pull it out.

     - Don't let him sit for now. What's with the shield?

     - All black. Looks like it burned down.

     “Sure, we’re going down too. Kindergarten, damn it. Vovan come first.

    Vovan turned on the flashlight and went behind the counter. Tom picked up the staggering prisoner and pushed him in the right direction.

     - Move your hooves.

    Tom still did not turn on the flashlight and held the shotgun over Denis's shoulder, hiding behind him. After a short descent, they found themselves in front of rows of shelving that went into the basement. Behind the rightmost row, against the wall, Taras' flashlight flickered. In front of the entrance to the opening between the wall and the shelves lay broken shelves and a bunch of rubbish scattered from them. Apparently Taras did not want to pretend to be a target until the very end and tried to make his way to the touch.

     - Vovan, shine more carefully all the passages.

    Tom slung his shotgun over his shoulder and stepped into the opening against the wall. He made Denis sit next to the fallen rack. Kolyan in an unnatural pose, falling on one knee, crouched a little further. His right hand really was hiding somewhere in a hefty hole.

     “Well, Taras, bring the saw, we will free our comrade,” Tom commented on the situation.

     - Yes, you sho, you can shoot right away, Schaub did not suffer.

     “Well, it happened by chance, why are you laughing,” Kolyan’s offended voice rang out.

    The flashlight's beam snatched out of the darkness his pale, narrow face with wide, shifting eyes and a hefty bruise on his forehead.

     - And when did you manage to break the lobeshnik?

     “Yes, right here, I fell,” Kolyan answered in a nervous, breaking voice.

    Tom incredulously pulled a shotgun from his shoulder and immediately there was a sound of objects falling to the floor, especially clearly audible in a closed room.

     — Tse grenades! - Taras yelled doomedly. At the same time, one of the racks fell on the militants, there was a soft bang, followed by a deafening roar of Tom's shotgun, knocking out a cloud of rubbish from the falling rack.

    Denis, with all his strength, pushed off with his feet, trying to at least jump over the fallen rack. But jumping from a sitting position, with his hands cuffed behind him, was not very convenient, and he plopped right on a mountain of shelves and computer junk face down, almost breaking his head. An explosion and a flash caught up with him at the same moment. Denis dazedly shook his head, trying to at least understand what parts of the body were still with him. He was obviously moving, someone's strong hand was dragging him along the wall by the barn.

     “Don’t move, they were flash drives,” the voice of an unexpected savior yelled into his ear, blocking the ringing in his ears.

    The shotgun barked again. The stream of shot went somewhere completely to the side, but the man behind him disciplinedly fell to the floor.

     “Hey, ghouls, I said surrender, I said drop weapons. We see you.

    The voice broke through the ringing in his ears and seemed familiar to Denis. Vague thoughts began to appear in his buzzing head.

     “Who the hell are you?! Do you know who you ran into? Taras, do you see anything? Break through to the exit!

    Taras let out an incoherent roar and trotted forward like a wounded bull. There was a crash of long-suffering racks falling, a beam of a flashlight flashed, and then two claps were heard. The flashlight went out, and Taras's body crashed into the next row of computer junk with a roar.

     - Ah, bitches! shouted half-blinded and half-deafened Tom, and began to fire his shotgun, apparently at random. Immediately there was the sound of a falling grenade. Denis immediately rolled over, burying his nose on the floor, closed his eyes and opened his mouth. The next flash silenced the shotgun.

     - Enough naughty, you promised to talk and that's it! Kolyan screamed heart-rendingly.

     - Who you are! Who the hell are you!? I'll blow Kolyan's head off right now!

     - Do not shoot! Kolyan croaked from the darkness.

     “The god of death will take everyone!” came the gruff voice again, in which now there was clearly a completely inappropriate amusement.

     "Stop, Fyodor," said the man lying next to him. We really promised. Come on, Tom, drop your weapons, let's go to the market. Do you hear! Drop your weapons!

     “This is the feeble-minded Fyodor and his frostbitten friend Timur, right in the eye,” Kolyan croaked distinctly in the silence that followed.

    A shotgun was fired into the aisle.

     - Come on, let's go to the market.

     “The god of death is disappointed.

    All the joy in his voice evaporated.

     “His disappointment will be short-lived, fool. I've been trying for a long time to have you two extradited, you showed off too much before. But now there is no need to ask anyone, I will hang you and your entire battalion by the balls.

     “An empty threat,” Denis hissed. “You won’t hang anyone anymore.

     “You don’t know much, Deniska.

     - Throw the keys to the handcuffs and the tablet. Timur, take the tablet from him.

     - What kind of tablet?

    Tom was fumbling in the dark and Denis was seriously frightened.

     “Get him quickly before he gets cold!”

    Thank God, Timur stopped asking questions, he jumped to the last row of racks and dumped one of the remaining ones outside. Another shadow followed. There were thumps and Tom's hiss.

    A powerful lamp was lit, which illuminated the ruined half of the basement. Taras was lying on his stomach on a fallen, blood-stained rack. The momentum of his massive torso pushed the rack forward, and the computer junk fanned out down the aisle. Taras had a huge hole in his skull. Vovan was lying on his back closer to the exit, his legs bent absurdly, with the same hole in place of his eye.

    The lamp also illuminated two unexpected saviors of Denis, with whom he was well acquainted from his trips to Siberia. In Timur's family there were many taiga hunters, either Yakuts or Buryats by nationality. From his ancestors, he inherited narrow eyes, a low stocky figure and unsurpassed hunting skills. In disguise, surveillance and sniping, he had no equal. He could lie in the snow for days, waiting for the beast and always hit him right in the eye. It was his signature style and a source of special pride over which many secretly laughed. But few dared to openly make fun of Timur - when hunting two-legged game, he was not so scrupulous. When Denis heard about him for the last time, Timur was appointed commander of a platoon in the Zarya battalion, which occupied the relatively intact town of Tavda under the ruins of Tyumen.

    The big guy Fedor, on the other hand, was a clear example of why you should think twice before entering the service of the Eastern Bloc. The entire left half of his skull was replaced with a titanium prosthesis, as was his left arm and both legs below the knee. Yes, and with his head, after fleeing from the local "lord of death" he was not all right. No, he also shot great and was even better at handling equipment, he could deal with almost any complex crap without a manual. Apparently the metal parts of the body made him related to any iron. But it was not easy for living beings to get along with him. When communicating with people, he was guided by some principles known to him alone and could, without saying a word, cripple or kill anyone whom the inner “god of death” pointed to. And otherwise, he didn’t differ in particular adequacy, he could get stuck for a couple of hours, looking at beautiful flowers, or in the midst of a battle, fall into unrestrained, almost uncontrollable fun.

    Both were dressed in armored suits with a passive exoskeleton and universal helmets with visors already raised. And in the hands of the Siberian brothers were brand new vampires. Fyodor also had an AK-85 with a grenade launcher and a combined sight dangling behind him.

    Timur laid a familiar green tablet in a metal case on the floor.

     - This?

     Yes, he is the one.

    Timur went behind Denis and removed the handcuffs from him, and then threw them to Fyodor so that he chained Tom. Denis got up with difficulty, pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to calm the blood from his broken nose after the fall. There was practically no ringing in my ears, apparently the flash drives were not very powerful.

     - No water, drink?

     - Hold on. Why do you need a tablet?

     - This freak injected me with poisonous robots that are controlled from this tablet. I hope he didn't send some message from the neurochip to get me killed by another of their freaks.

     — Hope, hope, Deniska.

     He won't send anything. We are not fools either, Fedor took a jammer with him, it automatically scans the range, so there should be no problems. Look, is there a signal?

     - No, I think.

     Well, as long as you're safe.

     “Very briefly, the robots will automatically release the poison in two hours if there is no signal. How did you get here?

     - So passing. Are you glad to see us?

     “I've never been so glad to see someone in my life. But still, why did you come?

     “Find out how an old friend is doing. First, Kolyan made a crazy order for a mountain of weapons on your behalf, and then these ghouls wrote to the battalion commander and abruptly canceled everything. So I decided to check what kind of business, since we were not far. And Kolyan is Kolyan, it is not so difficult to get cooperation from him, especially for Fedor.

     - What, your half-fool hit you on the head for a long time. Is this, seriously, your personal initiative? Tom growled again.

     “Not exactly, of course. The battalion commander asked me to convey that we want to revise the terms of cooperation.

     - We will review them with the new battalion commander in the direction of deterioration. Unless, of course, you're lying and you didn't come up with it yourself. Although, however, if the battalion commander cannot control his people, why the hell do we need him like that.

    Timur came close to Tom, who was crumpled on the floor, and sat down to look him straight in the eyes.

     - I knew it. I will pass everything on. You know, I'm tired of seeing my brothers die and crawl on all fours in front of ghouls like you. And Denis is also my brother. We walked the wastelands together, we went to see this "death lord" from the Eastern Bloc together. It was very scary in their dungeons. But are you afraid, Dan? No, you weren't scared, and I'm not a mangy dog ​​who is afraid of anyone who barks loudly and makes scary faces either. Maybe I'm not so formidable and I don't have a collection of cut off ears. I just put notches on my rifle, and God knows, I sent a lot of formidable and dangerous to the land of eternal hunting. I know that any animal can be hunted down and killed, you just need to find a way. And who is lazy and does not want to try, he chooses his fate.

     - Come on, scratch your tongue, you all talk a lot, and you all tell stories about yourself. But before you die, sing the same way.

     - All right, Fedya, finish with him, it's time to set sail.

     - Wait!

    Denis jumped up to Fyodor and took the barrel of his rifle aside.

     - How to disable nanobots ?!

     - This is a quest, Deniska, try to pass it.

     "He won't tell, Dan," Timur shook his head. - Breaking it is useless, only wasting time.

     “The god of death has come for you.

     “I have seen your god of death many times.

    Tom showed no fear or confusion as he stared down the muzzle of a pointed rifle.

    Fedor pulled the trigger and Tom's brains adorned the basement wall.

     - Fucking scumbags! I will never do business with you again,” Kolyan said in a cracked falsetto. “Get me out of here at last.

     “The huckster has no one else to deal with, he is now an enemy of the ghouls,” Fyodor said, not the least embarrassed.

    He inserted a long key into the hole, there was a click, after which Kolyan pulled his hand away and hurriedly crawled away from the corpse, and then began to rub the injured limb.

     “Is my ears bleeding?” It looks like I've been shell-shocked! Is there at least a cotton pad or a bandage?

     Everything is fine with your ears, calm down. Timur grumbled.

     - Do you think it's beautiful? Fyodor asked, sitting down next to Kolyan.

     - What? Brains on the wall?

     "Do you think it's disgusting?" Fyodor clarified with a strange absent-minded intonation.

    Kolyan turned even more pale.

     - Uh-uh ... no, it's beautiful, of course ...

     “Are you really seeing her, or are you lying to me?”

     “Fyodor, leave it alone, no one but you sees the beauty of death,” Timur came to the rescue.

     No, I don't see either. I'm trying hard, but I don't have enough faith.

    Fyodor looked at the corpse for some time, now moving away, now moving closer. He even tried to sniff.

     - Well, what's next? Denis asked. - Did you have any plan?

     The plan was simple: find out what happened to you. And now it's even easier: we're going home and preparing for war.

     "You know very well that you can't win!" Kolyan wailed again. Have you learned anything from previous attempts?

     - The situation has changed, now the fight will go on an equal footing. Come on, we'll pick you up too. Here you are the walking dead. Fedor, help him get ready.

     - You don't need to help me! I'll get myself together.

    Kolyan immediately began to fuss and run around the shelves with his favorite junk.

     “You yourself will dig for half an hour. Let's move, the god of death does not like to wait, - Timur grinned.

     “You shouldn’t have killed him right away,” Denis entered into the conversation. - If the tablet is password-protected, I'm done. Kolyan, where are the keys to your shack.

     — Why do you?

    Fyodor's titanium hand grabbed Kolyan by the clothes, stopping his senseless running around.

     “Keys and two minutes, only the essentials.

    Luckily for Denis, the tablet unlocked with a fingerprint, Tom's dead hand solved the problem. Having received the keys, he turned to Timur.

     - Where is the muffler? I need to drive to the shielded room, I'll try to add a few hours of life to myself.

     - I'm with you. Fedor, finish and go to the wheelbarrow.

    Timur pulled off part of the wall, which immediately faded and turned into a chameleon cape. From the opened niche, he took a rather massive electronic device with many whip antennas.

     - Do you think the tablet will work directly without a base station? he asked as they closed in the shielded room. — I turn off the muffler.

     “Now let’s check, turn it off,” Denis answered, digging into the tablet settings with slightly trembling hands.

    Waking up crazy voices in my head almost immediately subsided, apparently this meant that the tablet worked directly. Digging through the settings, Denis discovered the modes of functioning of nanorobots. He was very afraid that he would need to enter some other password to confirm the operations. But it seems to have worked out. The only green dot displayed turned gray after the nanobots were put into sleep mode.

     - Timur, can I drag this damn thing? I am now without it, like a diabetic without insulin.

     “Remember, diabetic, the battery will last another ten hours. Then you need a normal outlet, the one that will not work in a wheelbarrow. Everyone, let's go.

     - Wait, I need to make a couple of calls from Kolyanovsky's laptop.

     Even a couple? No time.

     - Do you think the militants will be missed so quickly?

     - I think we've had enough. What's more, they can themselves show up for our souls.

     “I mean, who are you?” Tom lies in the basement with a shot through the head.

     I'll explain everything along the way.

     — Where are we going?

     - First to the Lower. We have a support center and a medical center there.

     And what will your doctors do? Tom said the poison was unique.

     “Look, Dan, our guys have been hooked on this before. This is an ordinary FOV, no one will synthesize some special poison every time. In Nizhny Novgorod we have a good specialist who will perform a complete blood transfusion. He'll be fine.

     Would a transfusion help? Are your guys who got caught alive?

     - In different ways, but then we had no idea about such tricks.

     Still, it's too dangerous. And then, what am I going to do?

     “You will swear allegiance to the battalion and fight like the rest. Such is the fate of a soldier.

     — I have another option, Timur. Help me, you said you were my brother. Help, and if I stay alive, I will help you win the war with Arumov.

     “A 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 one container with biological weapons from Arumov.

     - Biological weapons won't solve anything in principle, and you can die from poison. You are well respected in the wastelands and I will need any voice to support my version of this mess.

     - Your version?

    Denis stared suspiciously into Timur's sly eyes.

     Yes, my version. Don't be a fool, Dan, we can't just show up at the council of commanders and announce that we killed Arumov's ghouls without trial or investigation.

     - Sorry, of course, but then Kolyan should be collected on his last journey, and not dragged with us. He is too unstable comrade.

     “I'll hand him over to safe hands on the way, don't worry. He is a valuable source of information.

     “Okay, anyway, help me find the container. He will solve the problem with poison and many others.

     - How?

     — Timur, please, it is difficult to explain and there is no time.

     — Well, where is this container?

     Now I'll try to find out.

     - Keep in mind, the longer we drag around Moscow, the sooner they will find us. I will agree to this only on the condition that at the council of commanders you say everything that I ask.

     “What exactly am I supposed to say?”

     “Sorry, there’s no time to explain now. You will say whatever I ask.

    Denis stared at his interlocutor for five long seconds. But in Timur's sly, slanting eyes, only sympathetic expectation was read.

     I hope I don't regret it.

     “I'm sure you'll keep your word. Call.

    At first, Denis tried to talk to Semyon, but he did not answer. I had to leave him a message with a brief description of the situation, without mentioning the specific names of the "liberators" and asking him to find out if there was a commotion in Arumov's house. But Lapin, despite the late hour, answered immediately.

     — Great, boss, this is Denis Kaisanov. Did you say you need help disposing of some container?

     — Oh, Dan, it's you, cool. I've been trying to reach you for three hours. Look, I'm sorry about what happened to the boss. I hope everything is ok?

     - Everything is fine.

     "Dan, could you help me out again?" There is a problem with this container in general, we can’t figure it out in any way.

    Judging by the ingratiating tone, Lapin tried once again to cover his ass with someone else's help.

     - Why?

     - Yes, you just need a visa of some representative from INKIS. Too late already, no one agrees, and the authorities demand to finish today. You couldn’t jump to Balashikha, you don’t live very far ...

     - What's in the container?

     - Yes, nothing special ... Some kind of waste from experiments, all garbage ... biological. This whole thing must be destroyed.

     What's the problem with destroying it?

     “We need another representative. Can you come or not?

     Is it just trash? Or maybe some dangerous bacteria, viruses?

     - What viruses, where did you get it from? There is nothing dangerous there,” Lapin immediately became worried. - It's just rubbish.

    "Hey Sonya Dimon, are you out of my head yet"?

    Valkyrie immediately materialized and sat down on the table, cheekily putting forward her feet in boots.

    "Don't even hope, I'm not a glitch and not the nonsense of a madman."

    “Any glitch would claim the same thing. What do you think about Lapin?

    "Decide youself. Nothing can be said until we are close to the nest."

     - Okay, I'll be there in XNUMX minutes.

     "Great, you'll help me out a lot, really," Lapin began to frequent with relief. - This is in Balashikha next to the Gorenka platform, a new recycling plant. I'll tell you to get a pass.

    Denis thought that it would be nice to tell Max somehow about the embarrassment with the note. But then again, the formidable shadow of the telecom security service was not very conducive to frank nightly conversations, and Denis decided that if something worked out with the swarm, he would just immediately go to Korolev and get ahead of Arumov, and if he didn’t burn out, then to hell with him: let Max deal with his own problems. Before the trip, Denis jumped into the basement, grabbed a shotgun and one of the pistols, and then took his things from the militants' car. It was dark and quiet outside. The police sirens did not howl, the boots of Arumov's subordinates did not trample the broken asphalt. If the sounds of the massacre reached any of the neighboring residents, they were clearly in no hurry to tell where they should be.

    An old UAZ, parked in a neighboring yard, took off as soon as they climbed inside. Despite the rumpled and filthy appearance, the hybrid gas turbine engine worked almost silently. Kolyan whined louder about their long absence and the prospects of falling straight into the clutches of the death squadron, which had already definitely left for their souls, especially if they were still half the night shying away from fucking Balashikha.

     “Kolyan, shut up already,” Denis asked irritably. - I should not have talked about my order, I would have been sitting calmly now, going through my swag. Timur, you promised to tell what was wrong with Arumov's militants.

     "You don't seem to know anything about it, do you?"

     - Well, after Jan and I closed the shop, I dropped out of the game. I heard, of course, that the Siberian battalions are now working with Arumov's people in approximately the same way.

     - They work. Just before that, there was a small war. After all, we had our own channels to Europe, and somewhere else. And no one was going to share with some alien assholes. It is clear that most of the battalion commanders, also cowardly assholes, will burn a little, they are ready to lie under anyone. But these ghouls began to chip away such tricks when the batch began, that mother do not worry. Even the Eastern Bloc is afraid of them. Nanorobots - what is the main focus, you know what?

     — In what? Do they rise from the dead? Nonsense.

     - Imagine this. The fact is that they cannot be killed. You fill up the whole gang, and in a week they show up again.

     - You tell stories. There are no such systems, even among the Martians. They say that highly advanced combat cyborgs have all sorts of pumps, aerators there that can save their brains for a couple of hours. Well, like shoot only in the head, burn the bodies to the extreme.

     “They cut off their heads, burned them in the crematorium, they tried everything. This Tom was killed three times, in very sophisticated ways. Anyway, he reappears. Moreover, this ghoul remembers everything that happened until the very moment of death. So many good people got burned by this. And worse, we couldn't even find the lair they crawl out of. They seem to be teleporting straight from hellish hell.

     - Timur, you do not divorce me for an hour?

     - You don’t believe me, ask Fedya, they won’t let you lie.

     - Ghouls don't die. Fedor confirmed. “It is against all laws, it is my duty to return to death what is hers.”

     Maybe they are some sort of robots?

     - Maybe. Very cunning robots, which can not be distinguished from people. Which can be burned in a tightly shielded dungeon, and the ashes scattered into the wind, and anyway, he will come later and point his finger at the one who did it. Kolyan will also confirm.

     "I didn't kill anyone!" Kolyan was outraged. - But the rumors, of course, dumb walk.

     - In short, the battalion commanders scored, it's easier to accept their conditions.

     — And what has changed? Is it really just because I'm your brother? And you decided brotherly to help me out.

     - When the agreement was concluded between Arumov and the council of commanders, there was a separate fad on your account. The battalion commander of Zarya and the battalion commander of Kharza insisted that they personally leave you alone and even wanted you to remain in business as our overseer. Arumov, of course, sent them, along with their miserable attempts to look for something there, but he promised to leave you alone. In principle, he directly violated the contract.

     - And the battalion commanders decided to unleash a war because of this? Did any of them approve this rescue operation?

     They told me to go and sort out the problem. Here, as usual, if a shitty card falls out, then they will write off everything for amateur performance and send us to the expense. But, there are a lot of dissatisfied in the battalions and this can be the last straw.

     “Do you hope the army will vote for war?” Trying to ride the mood of the army is not always the best way to solve something. You will only be given one try.

     “You don’t need to teach me, I myself saw how it happens. But I'm sure there are still guys with eggs in Siberia who remember that we never give up. There must be a way to kill ghouls.

     "And you know him?"

     “I know a lot of things, my friend, Denis,” Timur answered vaguely and fell silent.

    

    The newly built white building of the recycling plant was hidden in the depths of a neglected forest park near the railway. True, a slight cadaverous stench and smoke from the chimneys did a great job of unmasking his position.

    “Great place for a swarm,” commented Sonia Dimon. “Animal carcasses are great for maturing nests.”

    "Yes, the place is what you need."

    UAZ with headlights off carefully rolled up to the turn, which opened a view of the illuminated lattice gates.

     “So, one old fart in the booth,” Fedor commented, looking at the disposition through the combined sight. "Come quietly, I'll knock him out." Or we'll climb over the fence, but maybe there's a signal there?

     “You don’t have to go anywhere,” Denis replied. - I'll just go in. I should have a pass.

     — With a jammer in your backpack? Timur asked. - And if he makes you show what's inside?

     - I will say that the equipment is for work. He will not dig, not a strategic object.

     - Will you go alone?

     - Yes, first I'll see what my chubby boss brought there. If this is left-handed crap, then I immediately dump and drive to the Lower. And if that's what you need, I hope your help will not be required.

     - Well, see for yourself. Take a walkie-talkie just in case, it is in the VHF band, the jammer does not crush it.

    Timur, in addition to the walkie-talkie, also took out a spacious gray cape and a balaclava made of metallized fabric with indicators built into the transparent sections and handed the set to Kolyan.

     — Why is that? Kolyan was outraged. - Don't hang any collars on me, I'm not your dog.

     “Come on, don't be silly, they're just blocking the chip's wireless interface. There are no bad surprises there.

     — Who do you think I'm going to call, Arumov's people or what?

     - You never know who else you're friends with. We are not allowed to shine in front of anyone - the order of the command, I'm sorry.

    Kolyan, continuing to grumble, pulled on his raincoat and balaclava and turned away to the window with an offended look.

    Denis gathered his backpack, checked the cartridge in the barrel and slipped the pistol into his belt. After getting out of the car, he hesitated for a while, looking at the brightly lit patch in front of the gate. “Well, I will either find a swarm there and become the Empire's last hope, or, more likely, I will find a container of dead lab mice and die of poison myself. One consolation: you can solve the bastard Lapin in the end.

     - How long will you have to wait?

    Timur also got out of the car and lit a cigarette, covering the flame with his palm out of habit.

     “Twenty or thirty minutes, I think.

     - Long, well, okay ... Come on, don't be stupid, either go already, or let's go.

     - I'm going, give me a cigarette.

    There were no problems at the entrance. Anton Novikov immediately jumped there and impatiently dragged Denis inside.

     - And you're here? Denis was surprised. "Can't you sign the papers?"

     “It’s not easy to sign there,” Anton answered evasively. - Without you, it’s no shorter, let’s go faster, everyone is already waiting.

     - Who's everyone?

    To the entrance to the building, they walked along a high wall, from behind which came the steady amber of decay. The plant worked in a semi-automatic mode, they did not meet people along the way. Only occasionally forklifts scurried around. Anton pulled out a respirator from somewhere, naturally, forgetting to offer a similar device to a friend. Inside, the workshop building was also divided in half by a wall with pressure gates. Apparently, animal corpses and other rubbish remained in the other half, but this one was relatively clean. Anton, maneuvering between working crushers, tanks and conveyor belts, led them to the far corner of the workshop near the dividing wall. Denis was even more surprised to find a whole crowd of INKIS representatives there: the twins Kid and Dick, Lapin himself and a gloomy, bald type from the supply named Oleg. A little to the side, with his arms crossed over his chest, stood a tall, thin man in protective overalls, with gray hair and an independent, slightly haughty expression. He was introduced as Pal Palych, a factory engineer. An inconspicuous little man in the same overalls and a respirator mask shifted to his forehead was located against the wall, leaning against it. The peasant had a red drunken nose and an absent expression, typical of a hard worker, around whom a crowd of bosses gathered, deciding for an hour what the hard worker needs to do.

    This whole crowd of commanding subjects walked in circles around the container, about a meter high, which was covered all over with very formidable biohazard signs.

    Denis with difficulty suppressed an attack of rage rising to his throat and, pulling the most joyful and unnatural smile on his face, asked:

     - Where to sign?

     “Here, Dan, such a thing ... We need to endorse our documents, but it just has to be done by a person who personally controlled the process ... In principle, nothing like that, just help a friend from the factory ...

     So, let's not talk too much. - Pal Palych resolutely pushed aside the mumbling Lapin and called the bored Mikhalych. - Go with our employee, he will give you overalls. And please, please, hurry up, I really don't want to be stuck here all night, you know.

     - What should be done?

     - Like what? Like what! What are you doing in your INKIS! - the gray-haired engineer almost broke into a cry. “We need to open the already fucking container in the containment area, sterilize the inner packaging and then burn the contents.

     - Open it right? There is also a biological weapon, - Denis asked with the most innocent look.

    And for about ten seconds he enjoyed the sight of how Pal Palych's face gradually stretched out of surprise, how he began to gasp for air, bulge his eyes, turn purple and finally vomit an inarticulate curse in the direction of the frightened Lapin. Anton immediately got into a skirmish, trying to prove that there was simple biological waste and, making obscene gestures towards Denis, signaling that he had not overslept even after yesterday. Having thus occupied the whole company with an important matter, Denis turned to his inner demon.

    Is this the right container?

    “I don’t know, the outer packaging looks weird. Try to examine it from all sides.

    Sonya relentlessly followed Denis during the rounds.

    "See what's next"?

    “It should have a special engraving, like a factory number. I have all these numbers in my memory.

    “There are no numbers here. In general, it looks too new for an imperial-made product.

    “Try to feel it, suddenly the engraving has been erased.”

    “There is nothing more to do, feel the container with biological waste. They'll take me for an idiot."

    Denis cautiously ran his hand along the almost indistinguishable junction of the cover with the body and twitched as if from an electric shock.

    “What was that? Statics"?

    "No, it's him! exclaimed Sonya Dimon excitedly. “Look carefully.”

    Denis looked at the place where he had just passed his hand and saw a shimmering yellow line, like a thin tentacle, going under the lid.

    "Swarm alarm system, someone tried to tamper with nests, someone not cleared."

    "Arumov? And then I put the nests in another package and decided to destroy them.”

    "Maybe".

    “And why is he still alive? How did the creepy swarm get so screwed up, huh?

    “This is not an absolute weapon, like any other. We must assume the worst that he knows about the capabilities of the swarm and understands how to defend himself from it.

    “Yeah, or he just resurrected, according to Timur. By the way, do you know about resurrections? This is also an imperial invention unclaimed by the masses”?

    "Do not know".

    "Your favorite answer. Opening the package?

    "Certainly".

    “I hope this swarm will figure out that we are our own. I don't have any extra lives to spare."

    “He already figured it out, in case you didn’t understand. Touch again."

    Denis incredulously touched the metal side, reflexively trying to stay away from the yellow tentacle, but it itself rushed towards his hand.

    The bone-chilling winter wind threw a handful of ice needles in the face, threw it and subsided, leaving only a voice and an army lined up on a huge airfield. A voice, thunderous, crying and angry, rolled between the motionless rows of armored ghosts, the wind drove the snow samums across the endless concrete field and rinsed the high banner of the Empire in the piercing blue sky.

     “You are the soldiers of the empire, the ghosts of those who fell in a thousand years of war. Those who remained lying in the weeds of the wild field and in the snow-white fields near Moscow, who descended to the bottom of the oceans, who are buried in the crypt of space stations. Hear their voices! The souls of the soldiers who died for the Empire belong to it forever. And your souls are hers, and your names will forever thrill the hearts of her enemies. Weep and wail, apostates and enemies of the Empire, for soon he will be born - the great spirit of vengeance, the scourge and punishment of God of all races and peoples. He sees with a thousand eyes; he cannot be hidden from him in the depths of caves and on the tops of mountains. Ashes and ruins he will leave from 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 man, don’t touch him, you said it yourself.”

     Mikhalych, passing through Sonya, touched Denis's shoulder. Denis jerked his hand away, shaking his head in a dazed way, and the delusion subsided.

     - Oh, yes, I mixed it up with another container.

     - What? - Pal Palych, who had time to cool down a bit, immediately turned to them. Why are you composting my brains! In short, either you go right now and put on a jumpsuit, or vacate the room! It's already really pissed me off. Something else happened to the connection, they will kill me at home in general.

     “Yes, I say, there is nothing dangerous there,” Anton climbed in again. - He always confuses everything, lately it’s been so completely ... You need to drink less.

     “Why didn’t you go to the containment area yourself?” Pal Palych inquired incredulously. “Don’t stick around here for three hours.

     - Well, I can’t, I’m not supposed to by position.

     - Palych, since this is the case, it would be nice to increase the bonus of that ... a little.

     Mikhalych, with some delay, oriented himself in the situation and decided to wrap it in his favor.

     - Go to INKIS, they pay for this farce.

     Lapin let out a heavy sigh and handed Mikhalych a card with eurocoins, and then another one, seeing that he was not far behind.

     - What about my prize? - Denis turned to the chief in a simple way.

     Lapin made an apologetic gesture towards Pal Palych and mumbled something like: “I’ll forgive you, just a minute more,” and whispered to Denis in a penetrating tone:

     — Dan, such a mess is going on in general, you are the last hope. You see everything, how to put it mildly ...

     - Were you tired of opening the container?

     “Yes, you always called a spade a spade,” Lapin chuckled nervously. “You can’t rely on anyone, only you, honestly. This Novikov, just a little, immediately merges. I would have fired him a long time ago and appointed you, but Arumov does not allow it. Here, as I say in spirit, I respect you, Dan, you are not afraid of anything. Yes, there really is nothing to be afraid of, all these rumors about some kind of biological weapon, but it’s funny, the right word.

     Why are the signs stuck on then?

     - How do I know, Arumov's people stuck them for some reason. They do not understand, so they stuck it. And now what do I do with it?

     - Officially disposed of at some military plant.

     “Yes, what military men,” Lapin waved his hands. - There you will only coordinate two months. It’s business for five minutes, just help this Mikhalych remove the lid, and then he himself. You see, they can't put the entire container into an autoclave. There, all the biomaterials are still in the inner packaging, so that even theoretically nothing can happen. Dan, please, I'll get you a promotion, I swear. My vacation is on fire, tickets for tomorrow are bought.

     - Where are you going on vacation?

     - So, to the Maldives for a week, and then to the dacha, of course, a fishing trip, a bathhouse ...

    Lapin dreamily rolled his eyes.

     “Well then, of course, let’s deal with this damn container.

     "Seriously, can you help?"

    Lapin did not even hide his relief. He obviously had a lot of empty promises in store for an idiot who would informally agree to open a container of dubious biological waste in the middle of the night.

     “Dan, you’re so good, you’re helping me out this way, not the first time.

     - Yes, no problem, vacation is sacred.

    Anton, yawning at the top of his lungs, came to Denis, who was pulling on his overalls, and patronizingly patted him on the shoulder.

     “You are more of a hero, Dan. We are all mentally with you. Valery, can I go home already, why hang around here?

     “Go, of course,” Lapin waved his hand.

    “Hold him! said Sonia Daimon instantly. “No one should leave here until you release the swarm.”

    “But I didn’t guess,” Denis snapped.

     “Wait, Anton, are you leaving already?” I can't do it without your moral support.

     - Come on, Kid and Dick will support you. And I'm going to sleep now...

    Anton again opened his mouth so that he almost dislocated his jaw.

     "Chief, what's up?" Either we're all here together to the bitter end, or I don't fit in.

    Lapin sighed resignedly and reluctantly began to quarrel with Anton.

    "Need to do something"! Sonia Dimon panicked again.

     - Where you have a toilet?

    Pal Palych vaguely waved his hand somewhere to the side.

     - Of course, I'll find it myself.

    Stepping out of line of sight, Denis pulled out a walkie-talkie from his backpack.

     - Timur, welcome.

     — Welcome! What do you have?

     - Everything is fine, there is only one request. If you see a black beha leaving, sedan, number 140, stop her. This is my colleague, he wants to leave ahead of time.

     - How can I keep it for you?

     - Block the road, turn on the emergency gang.

     — Dan, what if he calls the cops? You took the jammer, and it’s time to spit with new chips, it’s enough to fold your fingers somehow cunningly and that’s it: dry the crackers.

     - Timur, detain him as you please.

     - Well, if anything, it's on your conscience.

     - On my. Hang up.

    By the time Denis returned, the container had already been loaded onto a piece of junk, and Mikhalych was turning the handle that locked the door to the containment area.

     - You can't carry a backpack!

    Pal Palych rushed to cut Denis.

     “I have valuables in there.

     - No one will touch them, let them lie here. Yes, you can’t with a backpack, which is incomprehensible! It will also need to be sterilized.

     - These are my problems.

     - It's not your problem! In short, with a backpack you will not enter.

     “All right, just put it here by the door.”

     “No one will touch him. Well, it will interfere, let everyone lie here.

    Entering, Denis found a gateway, at which the inner door moved sideways at the push of a button.

    “Listen, Sonya, I don’t like this. Surely there are cameras there, as if this Pal Palych stupidly did not lock us up.

    "There are other options"?

    "Of course, get the barrel and open the container from the outside."

    “Too many people, you can't control them. And we will have problems with extra corpses.”

    Denis reluctantly stepped onto the smooth, dense linoleum lining the containment area, about ten by ten meters in size. The walls were sheathed in white plastic without seams, and in the right wall there was a door to another airlock. The room contained three autoclaves, a gas oven, and several cabinets with tools.

     - Mikhalych, can the containment area be blocked from the outside?

     - Well, if you hold the pen, then you can. What for? - Mikhalych's voice was muffled because of the respirator.

     - Well, suddenly, what happens. Wouldn't want to be locked in here with some rubbish.

     - What are you, boy, no one will lock us up. Kina reviewed? There is a remote control, if suddenly there is some kind of accident, you turn on the hood at full power and stomp to the gateway. On the side, there is a button - turns on the shower from the disinfectant solution.

     - Do you have cameras?

     — Yes, but no one usually looks at them. Don't worry, we won't get sick. Did you tighten the mask well?

    Mikhalych rolled the container almost close to the autoclave, scattered thick napkins around and began to pour some liquid from the canister over them.

     “I’ll flood everything with disinfectant, just in case a fireman,” he explained. “But really, it’s not much.

    Then he turned the valve on the container and the outside air hissed in. When the hissing died down, Denis saw yellow tentacles crawling out from under the lid from all sides.

    Mikhalych held out a wrench.

     - Let's take the cover off, unscrew it from your side.

    The cover had to be pry off with screwdrivers to tear the sealing ring, which seized tightly with the metal. The piece of iron itself weighed, according to sensations, twenty or thirty kilograms, and, if desired, it could well be pulled by one. “Probably, Mikhalych is just scared to mess around alone,” thought Denis. Inside the container was filled with pieces of adsorbent. Mikhalych began to carefully pull it out and put it into the oven, not forgetting to pour water from the canister from time to time. The tentacles obviously did not like the disinfectant solution, they twitched, but did not show signs of fading, on the contrary, in front of Denis's inner gaze, they became brighter and more numerous. Their pieces, like a fringe, hung on Mikhalych's suit and spread throughout the room. After a couple of minutes, the nests themselves appeared - several green cylinders, about the size of a liter bottle, tightly inserted into the holders of the container. Denis counted fifteen pieces, they looked quite old, in some places the paint had peeled off on them, exposing the silvery metal. Two nests were tightly braided with a whole ball of yellow threads.

     “Yeah, boy, how old is this waste?”

     - I have no idea.

    Mikhalych looked at the green tubes incredulously for some time. But there was nothing to do, he pulled out another thick rubber gloves from the closet, doused them generously with disinfectant and transferred the first tube to the autoclave.

    “So, now listen carefully,” Sonya began to order. “When he turns away, you grab the nest, rip off the latches, quickly unscrew the lid and dump the spores on the floor.”

    "Not too much action in the three seconds he turned away"?

    "And then you take off his mask."

    “But what, without this, the great swarm will not cope with the miserable Mikhalych”?

    “It will take a couple of minutes for the swarm to gnaw through the protection. It is better to tear off the mask, and even better, let him inhale, then the effect will be instantaneous. Then, it is necessary to open the containment area as soon as possible and that's it - it's in the bag.

    "The door of the internal airlock is automatic."

    "Block her with something."

    Mikhalych bent over the container for the fourth cylinder.

    "What are you waiting for?! Until he fires up the autoclave?

    “Maybe it’s better to do that than to poison people with unknown imperial rubbish.”

    "You yourself will die from the poison."

    “Everyone will die someday. Swarm can definitely destroy the nanobots?

    “Exactly. You do not believe me"?

    “Of course I believe. How does Arumov know about the swarm? Who is he"?

    Mikhalych had already dragged more than half of the nests and leaned over for the next one.

    "Do you want to talk about it now?"

    “I think it's about 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 swarm"!

    Sonya Daimon yelled so hard that Denis's ears filled up. He swayed and grabbed the edge of the container. The taste of blood reappeared in my mouth.

     "Hey man, what are you doing?" You feel bad?

    Mikhalych bounced off the container as if scalded.

     - Yes, everything is fine, I went over a little yesterday. Went to bed only in the morning. Seriously, this is not an infection, you were carrying these nests.

     - What did you carry? Mikhalych asked in bewilderment.

    "Open up or it will be too late."

    "What a bitch you are, Sonya Dimon!"

    Denis grabbed one of the nests and tried to pull it out of the holder. It sat firmly. Denis jerked harder and with a loud screech, slightly moved the container from the rot. Then he grabbed the next flask. Mikhalych froze as if paralyzed, watching this scene. Wild, primal horror was written on his face. The latches flew off easily, but the lid went very badly. Denis made half a turn and felt that he was about to burst from the effort. Mikhalych finally rebooted and rushed to the airlock with all his might. They managed to knock him down at the door. Mikhalych floundered desperately, and when he felt that they were trying to pull off his mask, he yelled out loud.

     - Boy, what are you !!! Are you totally crazy?! Stop it! Let-and-and!

    Denis, in desperation, hit him on the back of the head with a flask, and then again, until Mikhalych fell silent. Immediately, from the side he was hit by a door trying to close. He crawled forward and was finally able to rip off the lid. Small balls fell from the flask, which burst on falling to the floor and released clouds of yellow dots.

    “Take off his mask and take it off yourself.”

    “And why should I?”

    "Idiot! Do you want to control the swarm or not?

    Mikhalych groaned and tried to get on all fours, but the approaching door stopped this weak attempt, knocking him to the floor again. But he clung to the mask with the despair of the doomed, he had to beat him with metal on his fingers. For a while he tried not to breathe, blushing comically and puffing out his cheeks. But, after a powerful kick in the stomach, he inhaled and immediately calmed down.

    "What about him"?

    “He will be under control in a few seconds. Open the outer door."

    As soon as Denis grabbed the handle and began to turn, the siren turned on. There was a growing noise of ventilation behind me.

    “We still had to close the inner door.”

    "Turn the handle, come on!"

    Someone obviously leaned on the handle from the other side. Denis pushed harder and suddenly realized that he was seeing himself from the outside. He saw Mikhalych rising behind him with a meaningless expression on his face, how the ventilation inside the containment zone was at full power, how small bugs cling to the walls and floor, but some still fly up the wide air ducts and get stuck in the filters. Other bugs, very small, crawl into the almost invisible joint between the jamb and the outer door and bite into the seal there. He got a thousand eyes and a thousand arms, he could crawl into any gap, into any device or into the head of any person, and time slowed down at his will. He saw himself through the eyes of Mikhalych, took a step forward, stumbled and fell without even putting his hands forward. The pain was only information, it was not his own. He thought it would be a good idea to check the cameras and immediately his eyes darted inside the devices, trying to figure out which circuits are responsible for what. It was not possible to immediately deal with the cameras, but the fluorescent lamps were arranged more simply. One move and the power is shorted out. There was a loud bang, sparks rained down from the ceiling, and the lights went out. Denis for some time froze in awe of the new opportunities and completely forgot about the pen. She jerked up and hit him painfully on the elbow.

    “What are you doing?! Sonya hissed, gathering herself into an image of yellow dots on the wall. “You still don’t know how to control the swarm!” Open the damn door already!”

    Mikhalych, moving like a zombie, approached from behind, the two of them fell on the handle, and Denis pushed the door away from him with all his might. It opened slightly, and bright dots poured into the resulting gap. The dumbfounded faces of INKIS representatives appeared, huddled at the door, and Pal Palych in a mask, trying with all his might to hold the door. He apparently noticed something flying out from inside, because he dropped the pen and backed away.

    Denis climbed out after him, ripping off his jumpsuit as he went.

     - What did you arrange? yelled Pal Palych, still backing away stupidly.

    Denis pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at the engineer.

     - What you need, then arranged. Take off your mask.

    Pal Palych shook his head in fright, turned around and ran away along the wall. Denis tried to take off after him, but got entangled in the trousers of his overalls and fell to his knees.

    "Shoot already!"

    He fired at the legs, but missed. The fugitive, like a hare, veered to the right.

    "Shoot in the back!"

    Denis saw a rather large red spot that moved with the movements of his hands. Pointing a spot at the running engineer, he pulled the trigger, and, this time, he fell. Denis got out of his jumpsuit and ran up to the fallen man. There was already a blood stain on his back. He turned his body over with difficulty and saw fixed eyes staring at the ceiling.

    "Ready".

    “Good hit,” Sonia Dimon shrugged.

    “A bad start to the struggle for a brighter future. What do we do? He probably has a family, they will look for him.”

    “Yes, it is a problem, but not fatal. Roy will take care of the family."

    “In a bad sense, take care? Why couldn't you just take him under control, like Mikhalych?

    “I repeat, the swarm is not an absolute weapon. A defensive person can run far enough to raise the alarm before being infected. Ideally, swarm operations should be supported by more conventional weapons.”

    "Tanks and planes or something"?

    “For starters, just people with machine guns will come up. Don't worry about it, the swarm will find some local private security company for this purpose."

    "You're going to infect the entire surrounding population"?

    “Keep under observation, at least. For you, the control system will visually highlight all infected people. Yellow color is a simple observation, such an infection is almost impossible to detect without special studies. Green color - complete control, can be detected during a detailed medical examination, for example, when installing a neurochip, especially if you know what to look for. The two colors, red and green, are genetically modified individuals or nest carriers, respectively, to be used with caution.

    You probably already understood that the swarm is controlled by mental commands, therefore, from now on, learn to control your thoughts and emotions. For example, if someone steps on your foot and you think something like, "Damn you, you bastard," the swarm might take that as a command. When there is time, we will practice, set up code words and so on. I propose to set up a base here. The swarm will take control of the plant staff and will multiply, there is plenty of material to feed on.”

    Denis looked around. The INKIS representatives stood motionless, staring into the void, a green light swirling around each. Mikhalych dragged the nests out of the containment area and piled them up by the door. He was already moving quite normally, although an expression of slight bewilderment did not leave his face anyway.

    "So, here's the thing, Sonya, I forbid infecting people without my permission."

    “This is a very stupid order, cancel it. Unless you're going to sit here and personally control everything? Tomorrow the work shift will come, security guards, contractors, perhaps cops who will look for an engineer, and many others. For each, a decision will need to be made and quickly.

    “Okay, then I forbid you from infecting any people I know, without my consent. Such an order will suit?

    "He's more real, but I don't like him either."

    “But this is an order. Don't try to infect Timur or Fedor or Semyon."

    "The order has been accepted. But keep in mind that the swarm has a certain code and cannot be ignored indefinitely. For each strange order that increases the probability of defeat, the swarm gives you, let's say, demerit points. If a certain amount is exceeded, the swarm will issue a final warning and any next "invalid" order will be ignored, you will be killed, and the swarm will self-destruct or come 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 so far, this order clearly contradicts the code and leads to defeat. Roy is warning you."

    “Well, I’m 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 closed from the interface so that you do not try to manipulate it."

    "I see that the future savior of the great Empire is not very trusted."

    “You were given a weapon of great power and used the bare minimum of hypnoprogramming. Only basic settings preventing detection. This is the highest degree of trust for an agent. There must be some kind of control mechanism, you see?

    "Multiple agents have been created"?

    "Quite a few agents have been created, but their identities are secret."

    “So it turns out, you yourself kind of know which order leads to defeat, and which does not. Why do you need an agent who doesn’t understand a damn thing what’s going on?

    “You have already asked this question. The answer will be about the same, only in different words. I am able to make independent decisions and can learn, but I am not completely intelligent in the sense that I cannot go beyond the established limits. From this point of view, I am an algorithm that interacts with the environment in a very complex way. And no one can predict what this interaction will lead to. Perhaps the result will lose all value for people.

    “But a person is not an algorithm that interacts with the environment in a complicated way”?

    “A very philosophical question, the developers of the swarm could not answer it. In general, the simplest answer sounds like 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."

    Mikhalych approached, holding in his hands several plastic containers with a screw cap.

     — Why is that?

    “Put some of the nests in them and take them with you. Lapin will return the container with flasks to Arumov and say that the task is completed.

    "What about nanobots"?

    “They need to be removed from their bodies. Put on a respirator, move away. Take a knife and make an incision on the outside of the forearm on the left arm. The blood must flow strongly enough. The swarm will push the nanobots out, which is the safest option.”

    Denis took out a knife from his backpack and ignited it with a lighter.

    "Your methods are lousy."

    "Let's cut already. Cut harder, don't be afraid, the swarm won't let you die from a scratch."

    Blood trickled down his arm and onto the floor. Denis watched with growing concern as she gathered into a small puddle. "Is there anything going on at all, or did I just bleed myself"? he thought. And he imagined how myriads of microscopic spiders clung to the shiny spheres, gathering in large swarming balls. They tear off the spheres from the walls of the vessels and drag them along, screwing into the red stream. They are in a hurry, creating plugs at the entrance to smaller vessels, trying to fly out as quickly as possible, where the spheres open almost instantly, releasing the poison. But the balls interlock tightly, forming a strong shell that prevents the poison from spreading. Quite quickly, the clusters of swarming spiders dissolve, and other creatures rush to the incision site, which begin to connect the damaged tissues and blood vessels.

    Denis looked at his hand. Instead of a cut, it had a thin white line that looked like an old scar.

    "Not bad".

    “The swarm will give absolute health and accelerated regeneration even of very severe injuries. He is even able to move your consciousness into someone else's body. But I advise you not to use it unless absolutely necessary, there are serious side effects. And if your head is torn off, even a swarm will not save you.

    "Then I'll try not to lose my head."

    The green lights around the INKIS representatives stopped spinning and lit up in a steady, bright light.

    "I let them go"? Sonya asked.

    “Yes, but they should not tell Arumov anything about my participation in the event.”

    "By itself".

    "And Lapin shouldn't fly away on vacation tomorrow."

    "Accepted".

    “And I also want him to remember this vacation for a long time. Give him such diarrhea and scrofula that he will only shit and vomit for two weeks.

    “Oh, vindictiveness is a sure path to the dark side. Roy loves it. By the way, there is no Anton among your colleagues.

     “Your division,” Denis swore aloud. “Escaped all the same, you bastard.

     Are you talking about Anton? Excuse me, I got him whining, - Lapin spread his hands guiltily. “Listen Dan, thank you so much again. There are just no words for how you saved me ...

     - No problem. I have to go, I'll run.

     — Of course, Oleg and I will deal with the container ourselves.

     - Yes, understand.

    Denis took the backpack and carefully poured the spores from the five nests into plastic containers. On the way to the exit, he drew attention to the body of Pal Palych, twitching in convulsions.

    "What about him"?

    “Roy is shorting out the neurochip’s power supplies. Now it’s better to turn off the jammer, it also attracts attention.”

    A familiar green light burned next to the guard at the gate, he did not even pay attention to the person leaving. Denis started to run to the turn, worrying about the fate of Novikov. A black sedan was standing on the side of the road, Timur and Fedor were trampling nearby.

     - Well, where are you? Timur immediately pounced on him.

     - Where is Anton?

     — Your friend? Lying in a ditch by the road.

     - What have you done?!

     “We detained him, as you requested.

     - Did you kill him? I thought you'd just knock him out, at the very least.

     - We wanted to cut it down. Fedya poked him with a shocker, and he wheezed and foam went from his mouth. An unpleasant sight, to be honest. Kolyan is out, turned green in general, does not get out of the car.

     - What power did you hit him with?

     - Normal, to reliably cut down everything, along with emergency functions. Otherwise, what's the point? Your friend should have had a good chip, with protection, not a cheap Indian fake. Less chasing speed and memory would have remained alive.

     - Well, what a mess!

    Denis leaned back against the behe and slowly slid to the ground.

     - So, if you want to mourn this Anton, then you have two minutes. It's better to cry on the way.

     “I would like to eat something now and fall asleep.” The day was just crazy.

    "What are you limp about"? Sonya stepped in again.

    “I didn’t like this idea at all.”

    “What is the idea? You haven't done anything yet."

    “That's right, but I managed to kill two completely left-wing people. Anton, of course, is a bastard, but he did not deserve this.

    “Are you going to cry like a little girl? Roy will destroy the corpse of the engineer and Anton. In Anton's wheelbarrow, you need to break a few spores and throw it into the river, somewhere on the way to his house. If the local cops get involved, the swarm will deal with them. Ask your friends to take a wheelbarrow.

    “I will owe Timur the rest of my life for these requests.”

    "It's ridiculous, just let the swarm infect them."

    "No, we will negotiate with Timur."

    “Roy doesn't like it very much. You must not negotiate…”

    "What do you think I should do"?

    "Globally - to destroy the true enemy."

    “Then come on, shoot: what kind of enemy is this and how to fight it”?

    “The true enemy is associated with the project to create quantum supercomputers, which is periodically started by one or the other Martian corporation. Most likely, this is an artificial intelligence, which is either created, or it spontaneously arises in quantum matrices. This intelligence is capable of enslaving and destroying all of humanity. I do not know a specific way to destroy this superintelligence. Your task is to find such a way. Start by gathering information about past or current quantum projects.”

    “Max was involved in a quantum project and according to Tom, he failed.”

    “Yes, this information activated you. Find out as much as you can about what happened to Max after he left for Mars."

     - Timur, I'm sorry, I understand that I'm completely fucked up, but I have one more request: we need to drown Anton's car somewhere in the Frunzenskaya Embankment area. And I myself urgently need to go to Korolev.

Source: habr.com