Sergey Lukjanenko. Labyrinth of reflections
* Yuri Kalmykov. Translators notes *
About the Author:
Sergey Lukjanenko, 30, is one of the today's most popular Russian
Sci-Fi writers. His first works were published in 1988. Currently his
bibliography includes more than 40 titles of novels and short stories. The
Author defines his genre as the "hard action science fiction", but all his
works also have a very well defined philosophical aspect. The novel offered
to your attention was written in 1997 and became the real 'cult book' of the
Russian Internet.
Sergey is married, he lives in Moscow.
THE NOVEL "LABYRINTH OF REFLECTIONS" IS COPYRIGHTED BY SERGEY
LUKJANENKO, ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR. ANY COMMERCIAL USE OF THE
NOVEL'S TEXT IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
Several notes for the reader:
1). My English sucks. So it was obviously way too presumptuous of me to
try to make a translation like this. It was my love to this book only that
made me to venture into this adventure. ;-) I was hoping that this novel is
really worth your kind attention (despite my ugly
English?).
2). Some opinions expressed in this book by the main or other
characters, as well as some words/terms used, might be considered offensive
to some Western readers. In fact, one such situation was even showed closer
to the end of the novel itself. The concept of "PC" (aka 'Political
Correctness') does not really exist in Russia which fact IMHO makes the life
much easier and slightly reduces the amount of stupidity that inevitably
presents in this life. Despite that, I definitely had to use the 'softened'
terms in my translation in order not to outrage the people (not too much at
least). But of course, something might have still leaked out. Please
consider yourselves warned.
3). FIDO
Some more confusion can be caused by Lukjanenko's technical details and
descriptions of the Net due to one more fact: he writes from the point of
view of the person who was once the FIDOnet member. Also it seems that
Sergey himself was mostly affiliated with FIDO at the time of this book's
writing. The principles of FIDO's system organization differ from the ones
of the Internet. I never was FIDO member, so I know very little. In general,
it's free, amateurs' network that allows its members to exchange emails and
files. FIDO uses its own proprietary protocol. Special gateways are used to
exchange emails with the Internet. Look at www.fidonet.org for more
details... But be prepared to get back not the homepage, but some HTML code.
{G} The guys have forgot to put the {HTML} tag into the code of their main
page... OOPS.
4). The names.
The same name in Russian usually can have several forms, reflecting the
attitude of the one who pronounces the name to the one named. The number of
these forms is as far as I can judge, much bigger than in English. That's
why in my translation I preferred to retain the original rules of forming
such names and to provide this note. Another important reason is that the
Russian name changed according to the rules of doing so in English would
sound ridiculous (maybe for me only, as I'm Russian... ;-) ), not mentioning
that it's not always possible to do this with Russian names at all. Example:
John - Johnny. Now try to do the same with, say, my name: Yuri. Yup... My
point exactly. Below is the example of how the first name of the main
character can be 'bent'. The same often happens to other names in the book.
For inexperienced reader it might be confusing, so I apologize... Russia
*is* confusing by definition, so bear with it. :-)
Leonid - the complete name.
Lenia (should be read roughly as Lyo-nee-aa; don't pronounce 'double
lettered' sounds as too long ones though) - this is slightly diminutive,
friendly form used by relatives and friends.
Lenechka (Lyo-nee-chka) - a "pet-name" form, sometimes also used with
sarcasm, depending on the context.
Lenchik - "pet-name"/unceremonious address.
Len'ka ( here ' means softening of the previous sound, 'n' in this name
sounds like 'n' in the word 'change') - Unceremonious address, a bit
slighting. Often used by close friends without any offensive context.
... and so on. No more forms are used in the book, so I'd better not
confuse you any more.
Another trick is how the names are formed n general. In particular, the
concept of the middle name in Russia. It is not 'given', but rather is the
father's name. To be used as a middle name, special endings are attached:
-ovich, -evich for man's middle name (yeah, they are gender specific!),
-ovna, evna for female's middle name.
Examples: Petrovich Alekseevich - men's
Petrovna Alekseevna - women's.
Also, the last names of the Russian origin are gender specific too. To
women's form the ending -a is usually attached: Kalmykov for me becomes
Kalmykova for my Mother, as opposed to her maiden name which is Cellarius -
not originally Russian one and as such not gender specific.
There's much more about Russian 'naming system', but I think it's
enough said here in order to a). totally confuse an unaccustomed Western
reader, and b). to explain the names in the novel for those who managed to
overcome the confusion. {G}
And the last thing:
5). Any feedback will be greatly appreciated! Any questions/opinions
are welcome to mohatu@ameritech.net. Hate mail/flames will be ignored. Thank
you!
"Labyrinth of Reflections" by Sergey Lukjanenko
* PART 1. The Diver *
0
I want to close my eyes. This is normal: a colorful kaleidoscope, a
whirlwind of bright sparks - it looks beautiful, but I know what is behind
this beauty.
The Deep. It is called so in English but it seems to me that the
Russian word {glubina} sounds better. Having broader meaning, it changes an
attractive label into the warning: THE Deep! Sharks and octopuses live here.
It's quiet, and presses, presses, presses by the endless space which doesn't
really exist.
In general the deep is kind, in its own way of course. It accepts
everybody. It requires just a little strength to dive, but so much more - to
reach the bottom and to return. The first thing to remember: the deep is
dead without us. One must believe and not believe in it at the same time.
Otherwise one day you'll not be able to surface.
1
The first movements are the most difficult. The small room, the table
in the middle of it, computer wires from the UPS go to the computer, the
thinner wire plugged into the phone jack. The sofa stands by the wall, under
the luxury carpet, the small fridge is by the opened door to the balcony.
The necessary minimum. Five minutes ago I checked what's in the fridge, so
I'm not threatened by hunger for today.
I turn my head, to the left, to the right - the light darkens in my
eyes for the moment, but it's only a moment. Nevermind, it happens.
- Are you okay, Lenia?
The speakers are set for the full volume, I frown and say:
- Yes.. Lower the volume.
- Lower the volume... lower... lower... - agrees Windows-Home .
- Enough, Vika. {complete form: Victoria, never used in the novel}
Good program, docile, quick-witted and friendly one. Not without too
much self confidence, as any Microsoft product, but I have to put up with
it.
- Good luck, - says the program, - When should I expect you back?
I look at the screen: the woman's face is floating there, framed by
orange sparks, the young and cute face but nothing special. I'm tired of the
model beauty.
- I don't know.
- I'd like to have 10 minutes for self adjustment..
- Okay, but not more. I'll need all resources in 10 minutes.
The face on the screen frowns: the program extracts the keywords.
- Only 10 minutes, - says Windows-Home obediently, - But I must draw
your attention one more time to the fact that the level of the tasks you set
for me does not always correspond to the volume of my RAM. The desired
extension is...
- Shut up. - I rise. "Shut up" is a definite order, the program doesn't
dare to argue after that. I pad to the fridge and get a can of Sprite. The
liquid cools the throat. It's almost a ritual - the deep always dries the
throat. With the can in my hand I come out on the balcony, into the warm
summer evening.
It's almost always evening in Deeptown. The streets are lit by the
bright light of neon signs, cars softly growl scudding along the streets,
and people move in neverending stream. Twenty-five million of permanent
inhabitants: the biggest megapolis in the world. Faces can't be seen from
the height of eleventh floor. I finish my Sprite and throw the can down
returning into the room.
- Not ethical... - mutters the computer. Ignoring it I leave the room,
put on my shoes and open the door. The staircase is empty and brightly lit,
very-very clean. While I deal with the lock, the tiny bug tries to fly in
through the half opened door. Oh well, lamers are having their fun. With
irony I watch the persistent insect - the steady flow of air blows from the
apartment pushing the bug back out... Finally the door is closed, the bug
knocks against it in the last effort, a short flash - and it falls on the
floor.
- Should I file the complaint to the landlord? - asks Windows-Home. Now
the voice comes from silver clips on my shirt's collar.
- Go ahead - I agree. I always forget to explain to the program that
the landlord is myself.
The elevator waits for me. Usually I use the stairs... peeking inside
other apartments along the way. Nobody lives there anyway... but now I'm in
hurry. The elevator goes down - very fast. I pad out into the street, look
around, maybe the insect lover is still near? But there's nobody suspicious
nearby, everybody mind their own business. The bug was a passer by
obviously, a serial work. These are being crushed on the streets,
exterminated in the apartments but they keep coming.
I was having this fun too in my time, it was extremely seldom when
those bugs managed to bring any interesting info.
- Lenia, the complaint from tenant #1 was received by the "Polyana"
company.
I mumble, - Ignore it, - watching the man that walks along the street.
Gee, this is something! The mixture of younger Arnold Shwarzenegger and
older Clint Eastwood. Very funny. The man notices my sarcastic look and
walks faster.
I raise my hand and the yellow limo stops by the sidewalk in an
instant.
- Lenia, your complaint was ignored!
- Nevermind...
This can go forever, but I have no time for games now... I get into the
car, the driver, a smiling guy with the perfect hairdo dressed in starched
shirt, turns to me. I prefer this type of drivers: well trained and brief
ones.
- Deep-Transit Company is glad to welcome you!
He doesn't say the name - the program stopped the taxi anonymously.
- How will you pay?
- Like this, - I say getting the revolver out of my pocket and hit the
guy on the temple really hard. He tries to block me but it's too late. I
look at his pale face, shook him by the collar and order:
- Al-Kabar block.
- This address doesn't exist - says the driver. He's knocked out and
conquered.
- Al-Kabar. 8-7-7-3-8. - the simple code opens the access to
Deep-Transit's service addresses. I could manage without hitting the driver
but in this case information about the ride would remain in the company's
files.
- You've got it, - the driver is cheerful and helpful again.
The car is off. I look into the window: residence blocks fly by, packed
with skyscrapers inhabited by Deeptown's small fry and huge luxury corporate
offices. Long gray IBM buildings, splendid Microsoft's palaces, tracery
towers of AOL, a bit more modest offices of other leaders of computer
industry.
There are plenty of others of course: furniture, grub, real estate
sales firms, travel agencies, transportation companies, hospitals... even
the least alive and kicking company tends to open its office in Deeptown.
It's this abundance that Deep-Transit flourishes on. Traveling on foot
across the city is a long fun. We fly along the freeways, stop on
intersections, enter tunnels and cross road junctions. I'm waiting. I could
order the driver to go the shortest way but in this case he would need to
contact dispatching office and I would leave the trace...
The city ends abruptly - like the wall of palaces and skyscrapers was
cut off by the huge knife. The city loop road and the forest across it, the
thick and wild forest... that separates from the fuss those who doesn't want
to make a show of themselves.
- Slow down, - I order when we pass the mango growth and approach quite
a type of the mid-Russian thicket, - Stop by that next path.
- It's still a long drive to Al-Kabar...
- I said - stop!
The car stops. I open the door and make a couple of steps from the
limo. The driver waits obediently. I wait too - for the break in the
traffic. Why would we want witnesses? Ah, finally...
I aim to the car and shoot. The revolver is not very loud, the kick is
slight, but the car takes fire in an instant. The driver sits inside looking
forward. Several seconds, and Deep-Transit has one cab less.
Good. Let everything look like drunk punks having fun... I enter the
forest.
- Not ethical... - mumbles Windows-Home from the clips.
- Have you optimized yourself already?
- Yes.
- Okay, now I need help. Look for the cache, access code: "Ivan".
- The glowing tree, - says the program.
I look around. Bingo. Here it is, the huge oak tree, glimmering with
the magic blue light. Glimmering for me only. I approach it, put my hand
into the hollow and grab the big heavy package. Then I change into white
linen shirt and pants, tie a patterned belt around, hang a short sword in a
sheath on it, put several little things in pockets. I made this cache
several days ago, illegally using one of the computers belonging to the
Transcaucasian Railroad's transportation department. The programmers are
weak there, they will not notice this little invasion for a long time.
- Where's the stream? - I ask.
- To the right.
I bend over running water and look at my reflection, hit it with my
hand several times, then start moving my finger over it, erasing. Now the
blond stately robust fellow looks back at me from the troubled mirror. The
face is good natured looking and plain to aversion.
- Thanks, - I say to the program and rise. Standing still I enjoy the
forest, hell knows for how long didn't I get here out of the city's
stench...
- Waiting for me, aren't we, Mr Nice Guy? - the question from behind
the back. I turn around - the huge wolf, up to my chest in height, emerges
from the bush.
- Maybe for you, - I answer admiring the wolf. Hell, he's awesome! He's
really gray, and not simply gray but of exact blackish/grayish wolfs' color.
The fur is felted here and there, a burdock is stuck to the right forepaw.
- Shouldn't I eat you, Mr Nice Guy? - asks the wolf and bares his
teeth, his fangs are yellow like smoker's, one is missing totally.
I improvise mockingly, - Why would thou brag emptily, run thouself onto
my mighty sword? Better serve me well!
The wolf smiles and sits down, - And what the payment will be, the
mighty warrior?
- Three grands each, - I inform him.
The wolf nods, satisfied, rubs his muzzle with a paw and asks, -
Al-Kabar?
- Good guess.
- Mission?
- Theft.
- Who's the customer?
I just shrug. The answer is as rhetoric as the question. The customers
don't like to disclose themselves.
- Let's give it a try, - decides the wolf, - Are you ready?
- Quite.
- Let's go.
I scramble onto the wolf's back and he runs through the forest in
relaxed pace. I instinctively duck the tree branches, the wolf snickers. Let
him have some fun.
In a couple of minutes we leave the forest. The yellow sand is under
the feet now. It's very hot, and wind blows make me to narrow my eyes. The
chasm nearly 100 meters wide is ahead, and the Eastern styled city can be
seen on the opposite side. Minarets, domes, everything in
orange-yellow-green colors. Pretty nice. Not far away from us there's a...
well, let's call it the "bridge" across the chasm: the thread, thin as a
string. One its end is on the city wall, the other is being held in the hand
of the ugly stone statue around 10 meters high. The statue's face is quite
terrifying.
- Looks like a tough piece of work... - notes the wolf, - don't you
think you've sold yourself too cheap, Ivan The Prince?
- God knows... - I answer examining the statue, - I was warned about
the bridge...
- What are you gonna steal?
- Ripe apples...
- Oh, so this is the reason for all this masquerade... - snickers the
wolf again, - And what is inside the apples? {here is a reference to the
Russian fairy tales of course...}
- I dunno, - I spring down from his back, keeping my hand on his fur, -
Okay, gimme a second, I'll grab some soda and will be right back...
- Go ahead, - agrees the wolf gazing around.
I half close my eyes.
Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours... let me go, abyss...
I shivered slightly and stood up; tiny screens before my eyes, the
desert, the chasm, the statue and the city in the distance is on them, very
nice drawing. Al-Kabar has good designers.
The virtual helmet is heavy, one of the most sophisticated models by
Sony: with excellent color screens, great speakers and built-in microphone,
with air conditioner producing the air of the necessary temperature. Now
it's a desert heat... I took off the helmet and put it on the table, by the
keyboard. The familiar woman's face appeared on the monitor.
- Lenia, are you interrupting the immersion? - came out of the
speakers.
- No. Hold on.
In the real world my room is the same as in the virtual space. The
difference is though: it's not a warm Deeptown's summer evening behind the
windows but the rainy St. Peterburgh autumn. It's drizzling outside, the car
honks in the distance. I opened the fridge and took a can of Sprite. Let's
really drink... I couldn't resist the urge to look from the balcony. Of
course, the empty can that I threw out into the street in virtuality, is not
there. Well, let's eliminate the differences.
My hair were damp with perspiration, I wiped them with a shirt that was
scattered on the chair, sat by the computer, checked the cable of the
virtual suit that connects it with the computer's deep-board. The suit was
working, slightly slowing down my movements as if I was walking on the sand.
The left leg was slowed down a bit more than the right one: the program
glitches again. Ah well, I'll fix it later.
Putting the helmet on is the same as to enter the hot oven. Those
Al-Kabar's fouls surrounded themselves with the most uncomfortable
conditions...
Again I was looking at the virtual world, but it is yet too much like a
cheap cartoon: a grainy image, a nice but rough drawing. Computers can't
handle anything better.
And that's okay. What is the deep without the human after all?
I blinked once, relaxed trying to enter virtuality by my own and failed
of course. I'm not in the desert, I'm at home, by the keyboard. I had to
type the command:
deep
[Enter]
The multicolor whirlwind flashes out above the desert image. For one
more second I could see the screens, the soft cushion inside the helmet,
then the consciousness began to drift. The brain tried to resist, but no
use, the deep program affects everybody.
But there are some people - one out of 300.000 - those who don't lose
the link with reality completely. Those who can surface from the deep on
their own. The divers.
People like me, for instance.
The wolf smirks to me, - Got your whistle wet a little?
- Yup.
I examine myself: is everything fine? My body in virtuality - the
simple drawing, translated to one or another point of Deeptown or its
suburbs by the computer, but the sword on the belt and little things in the
bag are not just simple pictures. These are shortcuts, program launchers
which I'll need soon.
- Here is the plan, - I decide. - I'll cross the bridge alone. Then
I'll bring out the trophies and we take to our heels.
- The decision is yours, - agrees the wolf.
I walk on the sand, the hot wind doesn't calm down, it even seems that
the grains of sand sting the eyes. This is not the helmet's merit anymore
but my brain feels what I should have been feeling in the real desert..
The statue steadily comes closer and becomes more and more real. The
horned head with grinning mug, the hands bulging with stone muscles. Some
kind of evil genie possibly, I'm too weak in Arabic mythology. The thin
thread is held by the monster's left hand.
The horsehair bridge.
I start climbing up the monster's leg. How ridiculous must my body look
like now in the empty apartment - shaking, pulling up by the air.... don't
loose concentration!
The last meter is the most difficult. I lean against the thorny stone
knee, try to reach its hand - and fail. Definitely, lawful Al-Kabar's
visitors have some other way....
As for me, I have to climb the granite phallus of the monster first. I
can hear the wolf snickering below. Shit. Isn't it really funny?!
I'm on the palm finally, trying the thread with my foot - it shakes
slightly. Very-very far below - the cliffs and blue band of the river.
- Use some courage, hero! - shouts the wolf.
Common virtuality inhabitants can't cross this bridge... something's
wrong here.
The hand I'm standing on starts shaking and closing into a fist slowly,
the thread bridge shivers, ready to tear. The awoken monster's grinning
muzzle is over me.
- Who are you? - he roars so loud that my ears ache. In Russian by the
way!
- A visitor! - I shout trying to free my feet from the grip of the
granite fingers.
- No visitor comes with the forbidden! - laughs the monster.
His forefinger flies towards me as if to crush me flat. I duck
forcefully, but the monster just points at the sword.
Yeah, right, this is not Deep-Transit's simple and defenseless driver
program, this is an excellent security system with pseudo intellect, one
degree higher than Windows-Home. How did it determine my native language?
- The visitor doesn't come uninvited!
- I was invited!
- By whom?
I have to stake my all...
- You don't have the right to know this name!
- I have the right for everything, - informs the monster.
And the fingers clench.
Now the exit into reality is expected, as a result of the 'deadly
impact', otherwise the brains can imagine the real pain shock, with all its
consequences. Only those suicidal would turn off safety locks of the deep
program.
Or the diver.
My battered body is scattered on the monster's palm, the skull is
crushed, one eye looks into the hot dusty sky, another one - at the stony
nail. The genie laughs loudly, satisfied and shouts:
- You who came as a wolf, remember his fate!
Bingo. This is how he figured out our language: he just heard us
talking.
Though, he wasn't smart enough to understand whom is he dealing with...
The monster turns into stone again. I wait for one more second, then
stand up. The body assembles back together slowly. The ordinary user would
now wake up in reality by the reproachfully chirping computer.
Does the security program consider the existence of divers?
The monster is motionless. I'm dead, long time dead.. I step on the
hair bridge carefully...
- Who are you?!
Oh my, again... Looks like it reacts to the touch of the bridge. Even
worse.
- The one who is not at your mercy! - I reply.
- But whose mercy you're at?
Something new.
- Allah's, - I answer randomly.
This time the monster just slams me with the free hand, so that I
partially flow over the palm's edge and utters instructively:
- It's not for you to mention the name of the Almighty, you thief.
The wolf rolls on the sand laughing maniacally. I can see it with the
eye that stayed intact.
Well, the program's humor seems to be more American than Arabic... I
lie in thought, then stand up again. The monster is yet still.
- Any detour, Vika?
- This is the only external channel, - informs me my computer
immediately.
The voice is drifting and lifeless... I really need to upgrade the
RAM... - All other Al-Kabar's lines open by the order from inside only.
- Force solution? - I touch the sword's handle. The local virus is
tiny, I even don't need to download it from home. To unsheathe the sword, to
make one blow and...
- The channel will be destroyed.
Oh sure. Not for nothing does the monster hold the bridge in his hand.
If the security program is destroyed - the hair above the chasm would break.
- Fuck.
- I can't understand...
- Shut up....
I examine the monster. The stone eyelids half closed, little drool
stalactite hangs from its mouth. Just a fake, entourage for nervous
virtuality people. Just an ordinary security program on the server gateway.
Somewhere inside the hair is the communication channel with Al-Kabar block.
The signals circulate along, ordering to let pass or to crash the uncalled
guest...
- Hey, Ivan The Prince, I'm in hurry! - shouts the wolf.
Right, it's high time to act. So far the program hurled me back
independently, but the next time the real Al-Kabar's programmers might take
over, both 'virtualists' and conservative ones...
- Animate the Shadow, - I order.
The dark silhouette on the palm stirs, gains the volume, stands up,
fills with color. I make an ugly face to my copy, it grimaces in return.
- Move the Shadow. Look for the password, - I order again.
One second - the computer 'moves' its HD, loading everything known
about Al-Kabar into the shadow's memory. Then the copy steps on the bridge.
Of course, it'll yield nothing, except some time.
- Who are you?! - roars the monster, grabbing the shadow. I hardly
manage to avoid its moving fingers, crawl along the clenched fist, jump on
the thread...
- And who are YOU? - I hear from behind. Then the right hand's blow
knocks me down to the monster's feet. I break into tiny pieces, lie supine
looking up at my twin that wallows on the palm.
Yeah right... Great job.
- Who are you? - asks the monster again.
- The one not on your mercy, - the twin keeps distracting the guard.
- Whose mercy you're on then?
- Only mine.
Interesting, how many more different deaths did the monster save for
the thieves? Just look at his teeth... horns.. well, even the phallus might
do too..
- Why did you come here?
- To find the power over myself.
- Go ahead and find it.
The palm opens, the monster turns into stone. The twin stands on the
edge of the palm motionless.
- Vika, where were the shadow's answers taken from?
- From the open Al-Kabar's file: "Virtual job request procedure".
The wolf pads closer, whispers, - What happened?
I explain.
- Hey, Ivan The Prince, aren't you Ivan The Stupid by chance too? {yet
another folklore hero ;-) }
I can't beat that. Of course I HAD to look through ALL files, not just
through the stolen data about the inside organization of the block.
- Vika, merge.
I'm kinda being pulled into the shadow, now this body is the main one.
The one already allowed to step on the bridge.
The victory is Pyrrhic though. The guard reported about the visitor
that tries to cross the bridge. This means I'll be warmly welcomed there.
The single that tries to fight the crowd is doomed, in any space, even
virtual one.
Well, nothing else to do. It's time to go... along the hair bridge.
Honestly, this procedure is almost impossible, even for the
professional rope-walker. This bridge is just that: the thread above the
chasm. The towers of Al-Kabar are alluring and unreachable in the distance.
Abyss-abyss... I'm not yours...
I closed and opened back my eyes. The picture is before me: the chasm,
the thread, the buildings in the distance. Just funny... Looking where I
step, I started to shift my feet along the thread carefully.
It's just a picture. It's no gravity there, the drawn body can't have a
center of gravity. Just step on the thread and everything will be okay...
Funny thing, as it turned out, the bottom of the chasm is not drawn at all,
meaning that it was me, my mind which added the mountain river down there.
Somebody else could see trees or lava flowing.
Now, when my subconsciousness doesn't take part in the game, the
distance is covered fast. Half a minute - and I'm over there.
The thread ends at the crest of the city wall. The crest is wide and
there's already a couple of people, obviously waiting for me. They're drawn
pretty well - kind of pot-bellied robust guys with swords on their belts,
one in the turban, and the other just bald. Stepping on the wall "bricks" I
whisper:
- Vika, turn the deep on.
Fiery sparks before my eyes. Yes, do I abuse turning the
subconsciousness on-off today. Severe headache, heartbeat and general
feel-down are guaranteed tomorrow. Nevermind. Good if I manage to live until
tomorrow at all.
And here are the welcomers - now in the normal human form.
- You reached us quick, guest, - says the bald one. He has a friendly
face of an Arabic guard from the production of "Sindbad The Sailor" done for
kids. The second one looks grotesquely Arabic too, but is much more
sinister, he flashes his eyes and holds the sword handle tightly. Oh great,
the only thing I ever missed is the battle virus in my computer.
- The others were slower?
- Nobody ever crossed this bridge before, - kindly informs me the bald
guard, - It's impossible for the human to keep balance on the horsehair.
- It means that the heaven stays empty, - I sigh. Looks like it's not
me who leads the events anymore but they lead me. I don't like this turn...
- Well, but the Hell does always have plenty of space for everybody.
Nice promise.
- Move it.
Nothing else to do but to obey. Let's be submissive and polite. When in
Rome, do what the Romans do.
The wide steep stairway leads down from the city wall. We descend. The
good-natured guard before me, the wheezing ill-wisher behind me. I ignore
him carefully, looking at the bald patch of the friendly one. He has a big
wart exactly on his cinciput. Interesting, is it really drawn or my
subconsciousness tricks me? It's not reasonable to leave the deep just to
check such a trifle though.
The Al-Kabar block is not big, not more than a square kilometer in
virtuality. It means nothing though. Some companies, like Microsoft for
instance offer whole palaces for their employees to work: it's cheap and
effective. Some others do with such puny little rooms that one can wonder -
what is virtuality here for at all.
Obviously Al-Kabar is one of those. I peek into the window of the low
stone building that we pass by.
Equipment... too unfamiliar one to identify, several people by the
tables. One of them holds a test-tube in his hands. Ha, chemical experiments
in virtuality! Something new. It's worthy only if they work on some very
poisonous substances... or bacterial environments. Okay, let's note this.
- Where are you taking me? - I ask the guard. The Bald Patch doesn't
turn around, but answers:
- To the Director of the corporation.
He doesn't name him, but it's said enough. Al-Kabar is an international
corporation that specializes on pharmaceuticals, telephone communications
and oil extraction if I'm not mistaken. Despite all Arabic entourage, it is
managed from Switzerland. Friedrich Urman, it's director is the person
important enough to not talk with just any visitor.
The warmest welcome is being prepared indeed...
We stop before the little wooden grape twined arbor, I'm pushed forward
from behind and enter. The guards stay outside.
The lodgement looks much more spacious from inside, the huge pavilion,
the pool in its center where shining sleepy fish floats slowly. The table
with two armchairs stands nearby, lots of flowers, I even start feeling
scents.
And nobody.
Well, let's wait; I sit down in the armchair.
A slight fog before my eyes, an expected one. My communication channel
is being examined. They try to determine where I came from, the volume of
data I can receive and transmit per second, the programs that I have with
me...
Go ahead, do your job... Six routers, rented for one single use that
transmit the signal, and each of them tough enough to break. And in the end
- the commercial Internet gate in Austria through which I entered
virtuality.
I'll leave the trace but it'll lead to nowhere.
They can break my connection at any moment, kick me out of the block,
but this will give them nothing... all thingies-programs that I have will be
invoked immediately. A little will remain for examination. But I'm very
interesting to them, no doubt...
- The first router is traced, - informs Windows-Home.
Pretty quick. I shake my head and at this moment the opposite armchair
is not empty anymore.
Mr Friedrich Urman neglects Arabic coloring, he wears blinders,
variegated shirt; an aged, lean and serious man.
- Good afternoon... diver, - he says. In Russian. The voice sounds
unnatural, filtered through the interpreter program.
So this is the reason for such an honor.
- I'm afraid that you're mistaken, Mr Director.
- When we created the bridge half a year ago, we pursued the single
goal, Mr Diver: to detect you. The person being in virtuality could never
cross it, - Urman smiles sparingly, - For the first time in my life I can
see the real diver.
One-zero... not in my favor.
- Well, for the first time in my life I can see the real billionaire.
- So you see, our meeting is fruitful already.
Windows-Home whispers,
- The second router was traced...
Urman frowns - looks like he's informed about something too. Then
inquires:
- Excuse me, how many servers did you pass through to come here?
- Unfortunately, I don't remember.
Urman shrugs.
- How may I refer to you?
- Ivan The Prince.
Brief pause, then he smiles, Somebody have explained him.
- Oh, the Russian tales' hero! Are you Russian yourself?
- Does it really matter?
- You're absolutely right... Well, Mr Diver, as far as I understand,
you penetrated our block illegally...
- Oh really?! - I'm in shock. - To be honest, I just was looking for a
job. I saw your ad, crossed the bridge... obeyed those strange guards...
One-one.
Friedrich Urman clasps his hands:
- Oh, sure! We have no complaints whatsoever, Mr Diver. Except maybe...
those odd things that you have with you.
Slowly, demonstratively I empty my pockets: a comb, a handkerchief, a
small mirror.
- Here. Do you want me to give you my sword?
Urman waves his hands:
- Geez, what for? We surely aren't gonna fight, are we? Let's just
talk...
- Third router was traced.
- It's such a pity that less and less time remains for our talk, - I
sigh.
- Yes, it's never enough time. Well, Mr Diver, I have the reasons to
suspect that some persons would like to obtain some of our technologies, and
even managed to hire a diver... in order to reap where they have not sown.
- The apples, - I add.
- Exactly. We have a good Russian programmer working for us, he created
a nice design for data storage... - Urman claps his hands and the air dims
between us, becoming dense. One moment - and the small tree appears, all
sown with the fruit. - I suppose that the most interesting thing among these
is that small green apple on the lower branch.
I look at the desired fruit. It's small, not ripe and wormy.
- How do you think diver, how much could our competitors pay for this
file?
- Around ten grands, - I raise the price somehow.
Urman looks at me surprised, makes it more exact:
- Ten thousand dollars?
- Yes.
- To be honest, even 100 thousand would be not enough... Okay. Let's
assume that I offer 150.000 to the person that tries to steal the file, on
the condition that he agrees to work for us... for the regular, very good
salary.
- What is that, cure for cancer? - I ask.
- No. In that case it would be priceless. It's just a cold reliever,
but very, very effective. We're about to start its production but only after
the less effective medicines are sold out. So, what do you think about my
offer?
- I'd hate to let you down, - I say trying hard not to think about the
offered amount, - But the divers' code explicitly forbids agreements like
this one.
- Very well, - Urman rises, - I expected such an answer, and I respect
your position.
He pads to the tree and plucks the apple with some effort. His lips are
moving: he
obviously says the password. - Take it.
The apple is in my hand. It's very heavy: two Megs at least. It's
useless to try to copy it, the only way is to bring it out with me. I put it
in the pocket - I mean, attach it to my virtual 'shell', then look at Urman.
- I stake all, - says Urman seriously. - I sacrifice an extemely
perspective technology. You can give it to Mr Shellerbach and convey my
personal kind regards to him. There's one single thing I'm asking for -
please, return here after that and let's discuss the permanent cooperation.
I wouldn't hide from you the fact that right now we are in a desperate need
of diver's services.
- Fourth router is traced... fifth router is traced... alarm! Alarm!!
Alarm!!!
- Okay, - I rise too. So sudden.. I never suspected that the serious
businessmen are able to make such generous gestures. - I promise to come.
But if you'll excuse me now...
- No Mr Diver, now YOU please excuse me. You'll easily leave our
territory, but not before your real address is determined, in order to
guarantee the validity of the promise just given.
The trellised pavilion's walls darken like being covered by thick
cloth. I make a step - it's really difficult. Urman starts moving jerkily,
everything flows in my eyes, the apple in the pocket draws me to the floor
with great force, Windows-Home's voice dims and loses any tones:
- Al...a...rm... a...l...rm...
So that's how it goes. Billionaires are good players. Meaning, their
servants - to which number they try to add me.
- Vika, drop the details! - I whisper trying to reach the table. I wish
the program would understand and obey without more questions...
The pavilion changes. Ornaments are gone, the flowers lose buds and
some small leafs, the texture of Urman's shirt becomes rough. But I manage
to reach my toys on the table and grab the handkerchief. These personal
hygiene thingies are very useful.
One wave of the handkerchief, slow as if underwater, and the shiny
plane of light cuts through the falling asleep pavilion's little world. Some
people call this program "the sticker", others - "the road". Both
definitions are true. The program searches for someone else's communication
channels and starts using them for its own benefit.
Very-very new, rare and almost faultless program.
A part of the wall ruins, opening the exit out to the street.
Obviously, I utilized Urman's personal channel. I grab the comb and the
mirror and run.
The sharp ragged spears start to emerge from the wall: Al-Kabar's
security program. I jump forward in a desperate attempt to pass between the
spears.
Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours...
The air conditioner blows icy air out. A slowly moving strip is on the
screens - percentage of transmitted data, and the gap, contracting rapacitly
under it - the comm channel being tightened. This is how the beauty of the
most intense virtual fights looks like in reality. Stripes, characters,
digits. The battle of the programs, modems, bytes of data.
Hell no! It's too disgusting and dull.
- Deep! - I ordered.
The head responds with pain - I don't care. I storm between the spears,
fall on the floor. The shiny band flows along the street crashing everything
on its way. The buildings crumble, the wall blows up with a thunder-like
sound. The band flies across the chasm. Now full speed forward!
Those two guards run to intercept me, both with swords, but I've
unsheathed my own already. Whose virus is faster and more agile?
Mine.
This is the gift from Maniac, my friend a computer virus specialist.
The deadly gift - the air under my sword takes fire and hits the guards with
a dragon belch. They burn in an instant turning into charcoal black
carcasses.
Maniac really does love cool effects. Now the guards' computers are
completely busy with an extremely important task of calculation of PI number
with a million digits precision. They even have no resources left to eject
the operators from virtuality. Very good, let them lie in the deep for a
while instead of changing the computers.
- Not ethical... - mutters Windows-Home dolefully.
I rush along the band. The channel is excellent, I'm above the wall in
a couple of seconds. The band under my feet pushes me forward. I laugh
loudly and look back.
Wow!
Just look what's going on in Al-Kabar! The streets are flooded with
people, the other guards already run along the band, and something huge,
snaky and unpleasant crawls out from one of the buildings. It's better not
to look longer.
Faster...
The band jumps over the monster genie and sets itself against the
ground. The guard is alive again, it shakes, outstretches his paws up so
that the hair bridge breaks but can't reach me. Neither can he move from his
position: it's fixed firmly on its comm channel.
On the last meters the band starts shaking suddenly and tries to kick
me back: Al-Kabar's programmers have restored the control.
But it's too late, I'm on the ground already and the Wolf rushes to me:
- Jump on me NOW Ivan, time to scarper!
I leap on the wolf in an instant, look back for the last time. The
guards jump down from the band and the winged shadow soars above the chasm.
- Sux!!! - I mutter the favorite virtual folks' curse. 'Sux' means a
'frozen' computer, a glitching program, an acescent beer, a trolleybus that
had left the stop just at the moment you arrived... In this case - such an
intense pursuit. We don't have time to copy the data from the apple
comfortably and to dissolve in the thin air afterwards. We must run and
tangle our traces.
My partner in the wolf's hide can do it perfectly.
We rush across the desert, then turn into the forest. The blurry
shadows run behind - the guards sacrifice their scary images for speed.
- Is the pursuit close, Ivan The Prince? - asks the wolf .
- Very close! - I confess.
- Gee, I'll never get you outta here Ivan! - roars the wolf .
I take the comb and throw it behind my back. A deafening crackle, the
comb's teeth scatter around, fall on the ground and start growing turning
into huge trees. Guards' movements between them become slow as if they're
falling asleep - the space is overfilled with the unexpected objects and the
enemies' computers are jammed by the mass of junk data.
Unfortunately, this is an old trick and there's plenty of methods to
fight it. Most guards manage to narrow the field of vision or to drop image
details, passing the dangerous place successfully. To be exact, not the
guards themselves did that but their deep-programs. Those stopped were
mostly enthusiastic amateurs pursuing us just for fun.
- Oh Ivan, my strength is exhausted! - screams the wolf. I can't
understand whether he's really worried or plays the fairy tale so
recklessly.
It's the mirror's turn now. When I throw it back, my usually restrained
Windows-Home screams:
- NOT ETHICAL!
Sure it's not! This is not an innocent prank with quick growing baobabs
anymore, and even not the local virus sword but a logical bomb of extreme
power.
Where the mirror fell, the lake appears and starts widening. Some
guards run into it and 'drown', disappear without a trace. Others stop on
the bank helplessly. All comm channels are blocked completely in this area
of virtuality. It'll be impossible to pass here for at least two more hours,
then the lake will dry.
- Where have you got these thingies? - asks the wolf.
- From Maria The Skillful, - I answer after a second of hesitation.
Honestly, it was that nickname that gave me an idea of today's masquerade.
The wolf won't betray, he might need the similar programs too one day.
- I'll note that, - says the wolf gratefully, glances back quickly and
asks, - What is your third entree, the mighty warrior?
The dragon flies after us - the battle interceptor program of the
highest grade. The dragon has three heads - obviously three human operators
plus the usual weaponry: claws, teeth and flame. A hundred of various
viruses and tough protection. It slows down just a little above the lake.
- The third was used the first, - I confess.
- Couldn't you take more?! Play fairy tales too much, just three items
and that's it? - growls the wolf. He isn't right of course, one can't carry
too many viruses, but we both start losing the nerve.
The wolf decides something and turns aside sharply, running even
faster. Then he stops by the big mossy stump, so suddenly that I fly on the
ground over his head, examines me intently and jumps over the stump.
I prefer to use the water to change my image: a stream, a river or at
least a pot full of water. The werewolves are conservative though.
The wolf capsizes and turns into human: a young man in modest gray suit
and patent-leather shoes. My diver friend is as elegant as always. As soon
as landed, he stands, jumps again and turns into my exact copy.
- Vika, the stream, - I order getting his idea. But the former wolf
already grabs me by my shoulders and throws over the stump shouting, - No
time for this bull!
It's a small pleasure to be affected by the foreign morphing program. I
just have time to say: "Vika, freeze" to prevent the careful Windows-Home to
resist the change.
For a long time wasn't I in the wolf's hide, since when virtuality just
appeared and everybody had fun with morphing. Luckily, I don't have to stand
on all fours, I change only visually. I take off the sword, give it to the
new Ivan The Prince, he grabs the weapon and jumps onto my shoulders.
- Come on, you lazy sack of bones! - he shouts hitting my sides with
his heels. I dash forward, and just in time: the dragon appears above the
trees. It swoops on us and releases three flame streams. The fire flares up
right on our way.
- Run! - screams my partner and adds in a whisper, - See you tonight,
at the usual place...
I jerk sharply, throw him down from my back and flee, hurled by curses.
The dragon circles above for little longer, then lands by the fairy
tale hero. The cowardly partner doesn't interest him. Just as expected.
I run away, whispering:
- Vika, copy new files!
The fight rages behind me. Not for long though, the werewolf just has
time to hit the dragon with his sword once, but the virus is harmless to the
armor of the interceptor program. The white snowy cloud arises around the
werewolf and he ceases to move.
Freezing. It's over. My friend have left the game - he's at home
already, takes off his virtual helmet, and his exact copy stands before the
dragon - with all stolen programs... in case he had any, of course.
The dragon hits him with his paw gently and it scatters down in icy
fragments. All three heads bow down to him, searching for the stolen apple.
I'm running away.
The apple in my pocket becomes lighter and lighter - the data flows
into my computer. I dodge between the trees, then stop so that it'd be
easier for Windows-Home to download the file. The dragon's roar reaches me,
it haven't found the apple and understood what happened. Who is faster?
The dragon flies up again. It will find me easily - movements in
virtuality leave traces. I just stand still and wait.
- File transfer completed.
Yes! I won!
- Exit, - I order.
- Really? - asks Windows-Home.
- Yes.
- Exit from virtuality, - informs the computer. The colorful sparks
flash before my eyes, the world loses its bright dyes, turns into the pale
and flat picture.
- You successfully exited virtuality! - cheerfully informs
Windows-Home. The voice from the headphones is sharp and too loud. The deep
blue color with a small figure of flying or better to say, falling man is on
the helmet's screens, the well known emblem of the Deep, the Abyss, the
virtual world.
After taking off the helmet I looked at the monitor, blinked several
times. The same picture there.
- Vika, thanks.
- No problems, Lenia, - answered Windows-Home. I taught it this small
courtesy a week ago, it's always nice when the program looks more humanized
than it really is.
- Terminal.
The blue changed into the terminal's panel. I manually connected to the
sixth router, the last one to remain intact and canceled my access. Then I
canceled my temporary address in Austria.
The main threads are broken. Try to find me now Al-Kabar guys, filter
all files in search for Ivan The Prince. The diver have broke free from the
trap.
Not using the voice control anymore, I shut Windows-Home down, entered
3D Norton's table, opened disk D: where all my virtual trophies are stored
together with a small viruses collection. Here it is, my apple: 1.5 Meg
file. Looks like the simple file for Advanced-Word. A couple of smaller
files are attached to it though... security programs? I launched the
scanner, especially developed for these types of surprises.
Yup, just as I thought: identification programs which are supposed to
destroy the file if it gets to somebody else's computer.
We know this far too well... And are insured against it for a long time
already: identification programs simply can't see my computer. It's these
dangerous things that I always store on D: disk. The scanner located some
surprise inside the text file itself too - a tiny program, supposedly
starting in response to an attempt to read the file. Just as should have
been expected. I copied the file to the magnetic diskette, then to the
optical one and started to disembowel the fruit of Al-Kabar's orchards.
It turned out to be impossible to kill the security programs without
destroying the file. I had to just knock them out, disable them. Then I got
busy with the inner surprise. I cut the file into twenty pieces, extracted
the guard program. It turned out to be an absolutely unfamiliar polymorph
virus which (and it was most unpleasant) have managed to stick to my
computer. After two hours of intensive work, interrupted only twice - to
take an aspirin tablet and to visit bathroom, I became convinced that I'll
not be able to disable the virus.
It was late evening, the time when hackers just start working. I packed
the virus with a text fragment and called Maniac.
I had to wait a couple of minutes until he picked up the phone. I was
lucky: he easily could hang about in virtuality, indifferent to any calls,
fires, floods and other annoying trifles of life.
- Yes?
- Maniac, it's me.
Hacker's voice softened a little.
- Hi Lenia, what's up?
- The new virus for your collection.
- Toss it here! - said Maniac, hanging up instantly.
I started the modem and sent Al-Kabar's surprise to greedy hands of the
virus creator, then opened the fridge, took out bread and sausage and moved
to the kitchen to set the teapot on the stove. It'll take Maniac at least
half an hour to examine the virus. For the first ten minutes he'll break it,
then for 20 minutes more he'll admire its structure, will laugh looking at
unsuccessful solutions and frown finding some ideas he missed himself. Right
since the Moscow Convention that resigned with the inevitable and legalized
the production of nonfatal viruses, he specializes in making them. His
viruses are excellent, capable of freezing any computer, but never
destroying the data.
But Maniac called in three minutes.
- Visited Al-Kabar, huh? - asked he in a honey sweet voice.
- Yes. - it made no sense to lie, - You managed it so fast?
- I didn't manage it. This is my virus, buddy.
I couldn't find anything better than to mumble, "Well... sorry about
that..."
Maniac, in the real life just Sasha {Alexander}, was deadly serious:
- You what, have stolen a program from them?
- Not exactly... But in general yes, this was hidden in the file...
- Have you contacted anybody via modem? I mean, since you received the
file.
- No.
- Lucky you, - informed Maniac, - You see, this is not just an ordinary
virus, it's a postcard.
I didn't understand and Maniac explained:
- A postcard with return address. If the virus detects the
communication hardware on the computer, it attaches the second letter to any
of yours: a tiny, invisible one... a postcard. Without any text but with
your return address. The letters leave together but later, already from the
other computer, the postcard is forwarded directly to Al-Kabar's security
department.
I froze inside.
- I've killed the virus on the computer...
- You've killed not the virus itself, but its false 'reflections'
created by it especially for distraction. Commonly used programs don't
detect the postcard yet, it's still too rare.
- What should I do?
- Treat me with beer, - smirked Maniac, - Now you'll receive a special
'cure' from me, the special antivirus. There's no hints in it, you just
start the .BAT file and it checks your machine. Note that it'll work for
long, this is not a commercial product, just ... my personal insurance from
my own virus.
- Thanks.
- Um-hm.. Lenia, you've nearly got into really big trouble.
- Too many hackers were bred, - I growled out, - Shit, why haven't you
ever tell me about this thing?
- But how could I know you are so deep in computer burglary? -
reasonably objected Maniac, - Next time let me know when you are about to
break into cool places. Okay, start your modem.
In a couple of minutes I launched antivirus.. It was really slow,
informing that a postcard is detected every minute. The polymorph have
plagued the whole computer.
It was really close.
Glancing at the screen, I've built a huge sandwich, poured a hot tea
into the cup and came out to the balcony. It was already dark outside and
raining slightly, the air was damp and cold.
It's overconfidence that kills divers. We don't fear the virtual
world's dangers and this lulls our vigilance.
But the most annoying thing is that we are all amateurs. For some
reason, no divers shape out of hackers - they percept the virtual world as
the real one.
Though it was me, the so-so computer artist from the small computer
games company that went broke three years ago and who got an old computer as
a dismissal pay, who DID become a diver. One of the hundred on this planet.
I was lucky.
Possibly, I was just lucky.
10
Not more than five years ago the virtual world was nothing more but the
sci-fi writers' creation. Computer networks, virtual helmets and suits
already existed, but all this was only profanation. Hundreds of games were
created where one could move in the spacious and colorful cyberspace but
virtuality even couldn't be mentioned.
The world created by computers is too primitive, it can't be compared
even with cartoons, not to mention movies. Thus, the real world is
completely out of question. One could run around in the drawn labyrinths and
castles, fight with monsters or with his own friends who sit by the
computers as well. But even in the worst feverish ravings it was impossible
to confuse reality and illusion.
Computer networks allowed people all over the world to communicate, but
it was nothing more than exchanging character lines on the screen... in the
best case - the drawn face of your interlocutor could be on the screen too.
The real virtuality required too powerful computers, extremely high
quality communication lines, titanic work of millions of programmers. It
would take several dozens of years to build the city like Deeptown.
Everything had changed dramatically when Dmitry Dibenko, the former
hacker from Moscow (now the wealthy US citizen) invented The Deep: a tiny
program influencing human subconsciousness. They say he was crazy about
Castaneda's books, liked to meditate and smoked grass. I surely believe in
it. His former friends confess that he was cynical and lazy, a sloven and
very so-so professional. In this I do believe too.
But it was him who gave rise to the deep. Ten second clip displayed on
the screen is harmless by itself. If shown on TV (I heard it was dared to be
done in some countries), the TV watcher won't feel anything and will not
become a movie character. Dmitry himself just wanted to create a pleasant
meditation background for his computer, and he did, let it circulate along
the Net and didn't suspect anything for two more weeks.
But then, one day some Ukranian guy looked at the colorful plays of the
Deep program, shrugged and launched his favorite game - Doom: drawn
corridors and buildings, terrible monsters and brave hero with a shotgun in
his hand. A simple 3D game, the whole era of 3D games was started with it.
And he 'fell' into the game.
An empty floor of the Patenting Bureau (it was a late evening) where
the guy worked, disappeared. He couldn't see his computer anymore. His
fingers were hitting the keys making the drawn figure to move, to turn, to
shoot, but it seemed to him that it's HIM running along the corridors,
ducking the fiery balls and snarling monsters' mugs. He understood that this
is just a game, but he didn't know why it became real and how to exit it.
The only thing he could do in this situation was to go until the very
end. And he did it despite the fact that it turned out to be much more
difficult now.
The slight wound now became not just the lowered percent of 'strength'
on the screen, but something the wound is supposed to be: pain, weakness,
fear. He realized that the bloody floor becomes slippery, that the stony
slab behind which the shells are hidden is really heavy, that ejected shells
are hot and rocket launcher's recoil nearly knocks him off his feet, that
the health potion is bitter and loathsome, that the armor turned out to be
made of thin metal plates and is pretty lightweight - but a little too baggy
and has uncomfortable ties on the back. In around three hours the shotgun
trigger started to jam, he had to hit it slowly and carefully, moving the
finger from side to side.
By 5 am he finished the game. The monsters were cast down. The game
menu had appeared on the stone wall before him and he pushed the shotgun's
barrel into it with a scream.
The illusion dissipated, he was sitting by the peacefully droning
computer, his eyes watered, the keyboard under his stiff fingers totally
ruined. The key he was using as a shotgun trigger was stuck.
The guy shut down the computer and fell asleep right by the table. The
employees that soon arrived noticed that his face and hands were badly
bruised.
He told about what happened and of course nobody believed him. Only by
the evening, thinking about what could happen, he remembered about Dibenko's
meditation program and suspected wrong.
The whole world was in fever a week later. All corporations except
computer and software ones suffered tremendous losses: everybody starting
from programmers and ending with secretaries and janitors, wanted to visit
the cyberspace personally.
With Dibenko's light touch the program was named 'Deep' and began its
march all over the world. The studies proving that around 7% of people are
not affected by the abyss were still ahead, as well as those proving that
being in virtuality for more than 10 hours a day might lead to nervous
disorders and pseudoschizoid syndrome. Just a month left until the first
death in virtuality when an aged man whose destroyer was burned in a space
war above the intellectual purple reptiles' planet, died of a heart attack
right by the keyboard.
It couldn't scare anyone anymore.
The world have immersed itself.
Deeptown was created by Microsoft and IBM on the Internet.
The main advantage of virtuality was simplicity. It wasn't necessary to
draw buildings and palaces, human faces and machines in all detail, just the
general outline and several small recognizable hints. The brown wall divided
into squares is a brick wall. The blue above is the sky. Blue pants - jeans.
The world submerged and wasn't going to surface back. It was so much
more interesting in the deep. Even if it was yet not available to everybody,
intellectual elite swore it's allegiance to the new Empire.
To the Deep.
11
It was midnight when I finally cleaned the computer up from the
postcard virus and packed the bagged file (in virtuality it'll look like the
ordinary diskette now). The head stopped aching and the sleepiness
disappeared completely. No Deeptown inhabitant sleeps at night, right?
- Vika, restart, - I commanded.
The thoughtful female face on the screen frowned:
- Really?
- Sure.
The screen dimmed slightly, the image blurred. Then the hard drive
started blinking indicating system restart. My machine is just Pentium, not
a 'serious' one but I still can't make up my mind to substitute it with a
newer computer. It's reliable enough.
- Good evening Lenia, - said Vika, - I'm ready for work.
- Thanks. Connect to Deeptown... use the regular channel.
Modem chirped dialing, I put the helmet on and sat down.
- 28800 connection, the channel is stable, - said Vika.
- Turn the Deep on.
- Done.
Light blue on the screen, flash, then - colorfulness.
How did you manage to create the deep program, Dima? With your
shattered mentality, basic knowledge in psychology, and no knowledge in
neurophysiology? What helped you?
Now, when you're rich and famous, what are you trying to do? To
understand how it dawned upon you or to invent something more amazing? Or
just lead your dissolute life and smoke the grass as much as you want? Or
wander along Deeptown's streets all around the clock looking at your
creation?
I wish I knew that, but - not to be in your shoes, because you're not
more than the ordinary virtuality inhabitant, even with all your millions
and Octium prototype as a home computer. The Deep holds you as tightly as
any provincial programmer from Russian remote who saves money for months
just to visit Deeptown once.
You're not the diver, Dima, and this is why I'm happier than you.
... The same room, but there are neon sign flashes and slight noise of
moving cars outside.
- Is everything okay Lenia?
I look around.
- Yes. I'll go for a walk, Vika.
I pick up the diskette and put it into my pocket. The portable CD
player lies on the shelf among several books and the pile of CDs. I insert
ELO's CD into it, put on headphones, push 'play'. 'Roll over Beethoven' -
just what I wanted. Accompanied by the cheerful music I leave the apartment
and shut the door.
No bugs this time. Standing on the sidewalk, I raise my hand and stop
the cab. This time the driver is an aged man, stout and very intelligent
looking.
- Deep-Transit is glad to welcome you Lenia.
I get inside and nod:
- To the 'Three Piglets' restaurant.
This address is well known to the driver. We move fast, a couple of
turns and we're before the odd building: partially stone one, partially
wooden, partially built of straw mats.
I enter the too familiar restaurant and look around. It is divided into three parts - Eastern
cuisine is served in the 'mat' one, European - in the stone one, and Russian
- in the wooden one obviously.
I'm not really hungry; virtual food subjectively satiates, and being in
dire straits I usually eat in 'Three piglets', but now I just have to wait
for my partner.
I walk directly to the bar, behind which the robust man is standing,
taking off the headphones as I walk.
- Hi Andrei.
Sometimes the owner serves his virtual customers himself, but today
it's obviously not the case. The bartender smiles but it's just an automatic
courtesy:
- Hi! What would you like to drink?
- Gin-Tonic with ice, as usual.
I watch bartender mixing the drink. Tonic is the real Shweppes, Gin is
the decent Beefeater. The liquor companies allow to use their trade marks
and products' images in virtuality for just a symbolic charge: it's a good
advertisement. Pepsi is free at all: it was their marketing trick. Coke
costs as much as in reality though.
And it has good sales.
I take the glass and sit by the empty table, watching the guests: it's
always interesting.
The number of men and women is approximately the same. Absolutely all
women are perfectly beautiful and of all types: from blond Scandinavians to
charcoal black Africans. Most men are terrible freaks. No, it's not true of
course, just my subconsciousness notes all follies in men's virtual shells -
disproportionately muscular figures and too recognizable physiognomies of
movie stars glued to body-builders' bodies.
Exception is made for the women though: they all are beautiful.
I take a sip of Gin and lean on the table relaxed: oh it feels good...
No real bar or restaurant can be compared with the virtual one. They
always cook great here. You never have to wait to be served. The huge dose
of alcohol won't cause hangover.
But having a real life experience, one really can feel drunk... and
subconsciousness dives into the alcohol drug cheerfully. They say that the
body's natural narcotics - endorphines start being produced then. True or
not, intoxication doesn't disappear instantly when one exits virtuality.
- Sorry, may I please?... - the young girl sits down by my side. Blond
hair, clean, slightly dim skin, a simple white suit, a little golden
medallion on her neck: most likely, a program of some sort. She's pretty
cute and thanks God, not recognizable: either she designed her face by
herself or used some rare seen painting as a model or found a cute but not
too familiar face in some movie.
- Sure, - I turn to her. The bartender already gives her a glass of
wine: 'Emperor', the Chilean one. This girl has a good taste.
- I see you here pretty often, - informs the girl.
DZZZ! the alarm signal in my head.
- Amazing, - I note, - I don't visit this place so often really.
- But I'm here almost always.
Lies.
I can exit virtuality right now and check a couple of dozens of control
photos stored in the computer: the visitors of the bar for the last two
months. It's always useful to remember new faces. But what for, I know well
enough that I never met her before...
- I was wearing different faces, - looks like the girl guesses my
thoughts, - while you always wear the same one.
- Changing faces is too expensive, - I begin my self-humiliation, -
It's stupid to botch up Schwartzenegger or Stallone from yourself, and I
can't afford hiring the image specialist.
- The Deep itself is expensive enough.
She calls virtuality with a Russian term and I like that...
...But not her overall behavior...
I shrug. What a strange talk.
- Excuse me... you're Russian, right? - asks the girl.
I nod. There are lots of Russians in virtuality: nowhere else in the
world the computer time usage is controlled as poorly as in our country.
- I'm sorry... - the girl bites her lips slightly, she is obviously
excited, - Of course I'm terribly tactless but... What is your name?
I understand.
- Not Dmitry Dibenko. This is what interests you, right?
The girl looks at my face intently and nods, then quickly drains her
glass dry.
- I'm not lying. Honest. - I say softly.
- I believe you, - the girl nods to bartender, then reaches her hand
out to me, - I'm Nadya.
I shake her hand and introduce myself:
- Leonid.
So now we know each other and can be less ceremonious. The deep is
casual: overly polite tone is offensive here.
The girl casts her hair back from her forehead, the natural and
graceful gesture, then gives her glass over to bartender; he refills it
quickly. She looks around the hall.
- How do you think, does he really visit virtuality?
- I don't know. Probably. Are you a journalist, Nadya?
- Yes, - she hesitates for a moment, then takes out a business card
from her purse and gives it to me, - Here...
The card is complete: not only Email, but also phone number, first and
last name. Nadezhda Mesherskaya, the 'Money' magazine, a reporter.
Windows-Home is silent, it means that the card is 'clean' - it's really just
a card, without any hidden surprises. I put it in my pocket and nod:
- Thanks.
Sorry, it'll be no return courtesy, but it doesn't look like Nadya
expects it.
- This deep is a strange thing, - she says sipping her wine, - I'm in
Moscow for instance, you are in Samara somewhere, that boy - in Penza...
'That boy', looking like the cute Mexican from a soap opera notices her
look and raises his chin proudly. Yes, one can't deny her power of
observation, he's really Russian...
- There's a crowd of Americoses, - she goes on without a glimpse of
respect, - that weirdo is a Japanese obviously... just look at the eyes he
drew for himself. Every nation has it's own complexes... And here are we,
playing the fool in nonexistent restaurant, having nonexistent drink,
hundreds of computers burn up energy, processors heat up in effort,
megabytes of senseless data are pumped over the phone lines back and
forth...
- Data is never senseless.
- Yes, maybe, - Nadya glances at me quickly, - Let's better call it not
topical one. And what, is this really a new era of the world's technology?
- But what did you expect? The file exchange and discussions of
processors' quality? We're humans after all.
Nadya frowns:
- We're people of the new era. Virtuality can change the world, but we
prefer to mask it to fit the old dogmas. Nanotechnology used to imitate a
drink is worse than a microscope used as a hammer...
- You're Alexandrian, - I make a guess.
- Yes! - she replies with a slight challenge in her voice.
Alexandrians are the followers of one Petersburg sci-fi writer. They
either proclaim the merge of the human with a computer or expect some sort
of fantastic blessings from virtuality, I'm not sure.
- What are you doing in this senseless place then? - I ask.
- I'm looking for Dibenko. I want to ask him, did he really imagine it
like this? Does he think that what's going on is right?
- I see. But don't you really like this place?
Nadya shrugs.
I stretch my hand and touch her face.
- The warmth of the hand, roughness of wine, coolness of the evening
breeze and flowers' scent, splashing of the warm waves and prickly sand
under your feet, don't you really like it?
- There's a real life for all that.
- But does it coincide in reality often enough? Here it's enough to
just open the door, - I point at the small door in the corner of the
'Japanese' part of the hall, - and all that will be there. Or, didn't you
ever wish to stand in the forest clearing in the chilly autumn morning, by
the steep river bank drinking hot mulled wine from the round goblet... and
with nobody around?...
- The owner of this restaurant must be a romantic person,- says Nadya.
- Of course.
- Leonid, all that you've mentioned is right. But the right place for
all these pleasures is in reality.
- Reality is not always affordable.
- Just as virtuality is, Lenia. I don't know where you get money from
that allows you to visit here so often, and it's none of my business anyway,
but billions of people never were in the deep.
- Millions of people never saw a TV set.
- Virtuality must NOT be an artificial substitution of reality, - says
Nadya with conviction.
- Yes, sure. Let's turn the paupers and miserable ones into information
storage, let's become impulses in the electronic network...
- Leonid, you know the teaching of Alexandrians through hearsay only. -
says Nadya with conviction, - Come visit our Church some time.
I shrug. Possibly I will some time, but there's plenty of interesting
places in the deep. The whole lifetime isn't enough to visit all of them.
- I have to go, - Nadya stands and throws a coin at the bar, - I have
half an hour more today and should visit a couple more places.
- In search of Dibenko? - I nod, - But maybe it's better to... you
know, a warm sand, a Hawaiian beach and some Chilean Red [wine]?
Nadya smiles:
- This won't be work anymore Lenia. The evening beach and the wine...
then I'll want continuation. But virtual sex is funny only if you're at
home, behind the tightly shut door. I connected from work: six computers in
one room and all are occupied. Just imagine how will I look like for my
colleagues.
She's absolutely sincere and clever. Good girl, I really hope she's
just as open and bright in reality too.
I nod, - Good luck then.
- Thanks, oh mysterious Anonymous, - Nadya bends to me and kisses my
cheek.
- Lenia, marker! - whisper the clips on my shoulders.
I take an antivirus handkerchief and wipe the lipstick print from my
cheek, wave a finger to Nadya with a warning:
- Girl, I DO prefer to stay mysterious.
Looks like she feels confused, but has enough nerve to shrug and walk
away without hurry.
Shit. She spoiled everything, stupid.
It was such a nice talk...
I toss off my glass and snap my fingers to call the bartender:
- Gin-Tonic, fifty-fifty.
Bartender frowns but mixes what was requested. Shit, should I order
Tequila with tomato juice, what face will he make, huh?
- Lenia?
I turn around. My Werewolf friend stands nearby: a white suit,
patent-leather shoes, a bit old fashioned tie, the face a bit strained.
- Hi Romka {Roman}. Have a sit.
- Who's the girl?
- Nothing interesting.
We divers are always paranoid slightly, it can't be helped.
Too many people want to know our real names.
The Werewolf draws in the air noisily and frowns:
- She tried to mark you!
- I know. Don't worry, she's just a journalist.
Romka sits and nods to the bartender who makes terribly ugly face but
gives him a full big glass of Absolut-Pepper. It makes me sick to even watch
Roman drinking. But he just
makes a wry face, wipes his lips and returns the glass. Maybe he's alcoholic in reality?
I Dunn.
We hide from each other not less than from our enemies. We're too
valuable merchandise: a depth fish, freaks shimmering with a magic glow, any
shark dreams to try our taste...
- Did you manage to get the apple out? - asks Roman.
- It's fine, - I fling my jacket open and flop on the shirt's pocket, -
the trade article's in place.
The Werewolf relaxes a little.
- What about the buyer?
I check my watch:
- In ten minutes. At the river bank nearby.
- Let's go? - Roman takes his glass.
I scoop mine and we exit the restaurant door that is hacked through the
stony wall. In the small lobby I say softly:
- Individual space for us both. Grant access to the person who tells
the password 'gray-gray-black'.
The ceiling replies, - Understood.
Now, regardless of how many visitors would like to walk in the virtual
space of 'Three Piglets', we'll never see them, only the buyer whom I told
the code.
There's a forest behind the second door, the Northern one, primeval and
pristine. The cold wind chills to the bone, I huddle up. My companion is
absolutely indifferent to the cold. Maybe his helmet is simpler, without air
conditioner?
Who knows...
He earns not less than me, but maybe he has a huge family? Or maybe
Roman really is alcoholic who squanders grands in just weeks?
There's a small stone hut behind us: this is how the restaurant looks
like from this side. We walk along the path slowly, sipping our drinks.
- Do you like pepper vodka? - I ask the Werewolf incidentally.
- Yes.
It's said dryly and without further comments. I wish I knew who you
really are, Roman.
But it's impossible: virtuality is cruel to the careless.
We come to the river bank: the steep covered with low thorny bushes.
The wind is strong and I narrow my eyes. The sky is covered by dark gray
clouds. The river is not exactly mountain one but with rapids and very fast.
The flock of some birds can be seen in a distance, I don't know what exactly
are they: they never fly closer. The table stands by the steep, there are
bottles of Gin, Tonic and Absolut-Pepper on it. Also, a big nickel plated
thermos full of mulled wine: a tasty one, with cinnamon, vanilla, pepper,
coriander and nutmeg. Three wattled chairs are by the table, we sit and look
at the river.
Beautiful.
The white foam on the rocks, the chilly wind, the full goblet in my
hand, bluish grey clouds swirling above. It'll be snowing tomorrow, if
'tomorrow' existed in virtuality.
I take a sip, - I wish I knew where this river was taken from.
- More beautiful place never have I seen in my life... - pronounces the
Werewolf in a strange voice.
Oh right, it's like this always. Everybody have their own associations
and analogies. Maybe this landscape means something to Roman. For me it's
not more than just a nice place.
- Have you been here before?
- In some sense.
Interesting.
- What are those birds, Roman?
- Harpies, - he answers without even looking. Whoops! and his glass is
empty again but he doesn't get drunk anyway.
My, how I hate the mystery covering us! We fear each other. We fear
everything.
- Well, but the weather is nice... - I toss in randomly.
- Yeah.. snowy is this summer... - says the Werewolf and looks at me
with irony. He recognizes this place, it does stir something up in his soul.
It's not for me to know what exactly.
I fill the heavy ceramic cup with mulled wine, sniff the aroma. The
snowy summer? Who cares! There's nothing better than a lousy weather.
- Lenia, do you smoke grass? - Roman holds me the cigar-case.
- No.
Maybe he really is alcoholic and drug addict...
- They say it's much more harmless than alcohol and tobacco.
- They also say chicken are being milked in Moscow...
Roman hesitates, but lights the cigarette anyway.
Shit. Nadya's arguments don't seem to me so crazy anymore.
I drink my mulled wine, Roman smokes anasha {marijuana}. In a couple of
minutes he throws unfinished cigarette down with a knock and says:
- Kiddies' fun. Lap me some wine.
- It's a mulled wine.
- What the hell is the difference...
Now we both sip the hot wine with spices. Roman nods:
- Rulez... {Note: the same word is in Russian original ;-) as well as
'Sux' in part 2 by the way}
I agree. 'Rulez' is something cool: a cold beer, a computer of seventh
generation, a beautiful girl, a virus killed successfully... a mulled wine.
We sit by the steep and feel good.
- What was in that apple?
- New cold reliever, a very effective one.
Roman frowns:
- This costs six grands?
- This costs a hundred.
- Ahhh... - Roman's jaw drops.
- Let's wait for the buyer.
The Werewolf nods:
- It's your operation, it's you to decide.
The buyer shows up in some ten minutes, when I start to worry already.
I knew him only under a nick 'Hardened', and he knows me as 'Gunslinger'.
The buyer is tidy and imperceptible, wearing a regular suit, having hard to
remember face: a young guy with a briefcase.
- Good evening, Gunslinger! - the voice is too even: Hardened
communicates through the interpreter program.
- Good morning, - I answer looking at my watch. Just a small mutual
game, to figure out the diver's time, to determine what time zone he's in is
not too little to know already.
- Oh, don't I really love your humor?.. - Hardened sits on the third
chair, looks at me questionably, - Have the crop ripened?
- Quite heavy did those apples turn out to be, - I take the diskette
out and put it on the table, - To be honest, I would expect these troubles
to be more appreciated...
- Didn't we have a deal? Six thousand dollars.
I pull my hands apart:
- According to you, it didn't worth more.
- Do you think otherwise?
- Well... You see Mr Shellerbach...
Hardened shudders.
- ... You got mistaken for at least an order. Of course the cold is a
trifle.. but who would like to lie flat in bed with high temperature and
runny nose, how do you think?
- Not me at least, - Shellerbach The Hardened's face changes. Now he's
an aged man with the resolute but nervous face. - But I assumed that the
diver's word is piously.
- I don't deny it. I'll give you the file, - with a slight knock I send
the diskette across the table, - But next time not a single diver will even
move a finger for you. You violate our ethics, Mr Shellerbach. Any job must
be paid according to it's complexity.
Shellerbach picks up the diskette ans freezes. I drink mulled wine
watching him. The Werewolf is silent: this is my operation.
At last Shellerbach have finished the download and his glance becomes
sensible again.
- Well? - I ask.
- Fifty, - says Hardened.
- To each of us?
He is silent, for very-very long time. This is Money, alive, real
money, not taxable, arrived from nowhere and went to nowhere.
- Your account?
I give him a piece of paper, an account number in Switzerland on it.
- Negative interest... you're very careful Mr Diver...
- I have no choice Peter..
He gives up. I know his real name while he doesn't know mine. The bank
will never give me away, even if the International Jury states that I'm a
man-eater and is guilty of genocide. That's what the negative interest is
paid for: for complete safety.
- Fifty to each of you. I make a gesture of a good will, Mr Diver!
- Excellent.
Several seconds - and a hundred of grands flow into my account. This is
much, very much! Many years of serene life in virtuality.
- Will you agree for the further cooperation?
I open my checkbook and look at the figure with pleasure, then I write
a check for 50000 and give it to the Werewolf.
- It's quite possible.
- What about a permanent contract?
- No.
- What are you afraid of, diver? - there's a curiosity in Shellerbach's
gaze.
What am I afraid of, hmm?
- I'm afraid of my name being known. The real freedom is in mystery
always.
- I understand, - Shellerbach agrees and looks at Roman askance, - Are
you the diver too? Or just a walking virus deposit?
- Diver, - says Roman.
- Well... Good luck gentlemen... - Shellerbach pads a step away, then
stops, - Tell me... how is it: to be a diver?
- It's very simple, - replies Roman, - One just needs to know that
everything around is just a game, a fantasy.
Shellerbach nods and pulls his hands apart:
- I can't, alas...
He walks away along the path, we watch him leaving. Then I fill our
goblets:
- For the luck!
Roman obviously haven't yet understood the scale of what have just
happened, he silently looks at the goblet in his hand:
- Tell me Lenia, are you happy?
- Sure.
- Big money... - he examines the check, then raises the goblet quickly,
- For the luck!
- Yeah, for it... - I agree.
- You won't disappear from the deep, will you?
- No.
Roman nods with obvious relief, makes a sip and says:
- You know, it's interesting to work with you. You're... unusual.
For one moment it seems to me that we're approaching that impossible
point when divers open to each other.
- Same here, Roma.
The Werewolf stands up, sharply and quickly:
- I gotta go, visitors...
He dissolves in the air, the goblet falls down and rolls away clinking
and bouncing.
- Good luck to you too Roman. - I say into the void.
Loneliness is the seamy side of the freedom.
I can't have friends.
- The bill! - I growl into the void angrily, - Now!
100
The most vexing is that I don't want to sleep at all: it was too lucky
day probably.
I return to the restaurant. Some guests have left, some new ones have
arrived, an American crowd still laughs at their jokes.
I need a walk.
I leave 'Three Piglets', hesitate for a moment: should I stop the cab?
- then decide to walk. I eventually leave the central streets and approach
Russian blocks. In my opinion, this is one of the most interesting places in
virtuality, the place where one can just chat.
About anything at all.
I see long rows of buildings, small squares and parks between them,
either crowded or empty. I study intricate plates. Some of them are obvious,
others are deliberately vague.
'Anecdotes'
'Talks about nothing'
'Sexual adventures'
'Strange place'
'Oats growing!'
'Books'
'Martial arts'
People come here to discuss the certain topics, this is the echo of
pre-virtual age. More serious clubs are located further, where one can get
an advice on technical questions, to argue about software or even buy
pirated programs cheap. All that is of a little interest for me.
I enter the little park with the plate 'Anecdotes' on the gates. This
place is always crowded, noisy and messy. This park looks very much like
'People's culture park' of the 60's. The little orchestra is playing in the
corner, obviously not a real one, the people are sitting on the benches
drinking beer and chatting. I sit a little aside.
The guy dressed in jeans and snow white shirt climbs on the small
wooden stage. He's absolutely featureless. The audience glances at him
lazily.
- Once Shtirlitz have left his house... - starts the guy.
{ A side note. Shtirlitz is the main character of very popular Russian
13 episode 1972 TV series about the Soviet spy in Nazi headquarters. The
story takes place in February-April 1945. Shtirlitz investigates the
attempts of the separate talks held between Allen Dalles and high-ranked
Nazis. This series was a real hit then (and still is!), and, as it always
happens with something much loved (or hated) in Russia, it gave rise to an
enormous amount of anecdotes, mostly hilariously stupid or one-liners based
on 'game of words'}
The girl nearby whistles loudly and throws a beer bottle at the guy. I
understand her perfectly: 90% of all anecdotes told here is an ancient junk.
This club is most loved by the newbies in virtuality... who don't yet
realize the little fact that there's nothing new under the sky. One have to
spend not more than half an hour here to believe: Cain killed Abel only for
the latter's love to tell the old {'long bearded'} anecdotes...
Despite the whistles and shouts the guy finishes telling his anecdote
and runs from the stage looking around in a primed way. Lonely applause can
be heard: geez, who could imagine... I look around for the bar, it's in the
far corner of the park. The girl gives me a bottle of beer without a word.
- Thanks.. - I make a sip. The ice cold 'Heineken' raises my spirits
instantly.
One more guy ascends the stage, this time much more individual looking
one, reminding me the Baltic type. His face looks roguish and I prick up my
ears. The guy glances at the small booth in the corner of the stage askance.
- Gentlemen! - he shouts. Hm, he's really Baltic unless it was my
subconsciousness that made me hear the accent. - 'Lithocomp' company is
honored to offer you the lowest prices for the following...
A-haaa... no questions.
I look at the booth too: the moderator's hiding place. Every club has
the person who watches the talks to correspond to the declared topic. The
question is though: is moderator on duty now or will react later?
He's here.
The booth's door opens and the sturdy man emerges from inside lazily,
holding the pretty sinister looking device in his hands. The Baltic guy
notices him and starts chattering
really fast: - ... hard drives: 'Quantum Lighting', 'Western Digital'...
- Not on topic! - the moderator says lazily but with suppressed rage
and shoulders his weapon. The audience goes quiet enjoying the show.
The barrel recoils and the brightly shining red cross-like object flies
towards the merchant with a shrilling whistle. The Baltic tries to duck but
no use: moderators never miss. The fiery cross or 'plus' as it's usually
called, sticks to the merchant's shirt: three such 'pluses' in total - and
he'll be banned from 'Anecdotes' club forever.
The crowd laughs approvingly.
- Hey, maybe it was the way the anecdote was supposed to begin, huh? -
shouts somebody out from the audience. The moderator shakes his finger to
him with a warning, then aims at the Baltic again. The guy quits his
attempts to scrape the shiny plus off his shirt, jumps down from the stage
and flees.
- Wheee, crush 'im! - the crowd instigates the moderator but he's in
the kind mood today, he flings the plus-thrower behind his back and retires
into the portable toilet-looking booth.
- 'Lithocomp'... - says the girl nearby thoughtfully. - I should check
their prices, it's time to change the HD...
Well, at least some success was achieved by the merchant after all.
Another humor thirsty one ascends the stage.
- Once, Winnie the Pooh and Piglet.... {yet another mega popular
anecdote characters, taken NOT from Disney movies though, but from Russian
animated series produced in70's, FAR cooler one than Disney's IMHO}
I start feeling myself bored to death.
Just why Shtirlitz and Pooh anecdotes are so popular in virtuality?! Is
it some weird kind of psychologic aberration?...
- Thanks for the beer, - I say to the girl and walk out of the park.
My mood can't be called lousy, but it's odd. I toil myself along the
clubs' buildings. Through the barred windows of the Martial Arts club I can
see the fragile built Eastern looking guy demonstrating some complicated
moves. In the open air type cinema called 'Movies' the imposing man gestures
energetically standing before the screen. I peek inside and hear:
- Cheap stuff! This movie is a disgusting cheap stuff!
Boring-boring-boring, Ladies and Gentlemen...
Alexandrians are probably right: we have turned the virtual world into
the parody of the real one, but parodies are never better than the original,
their goal is different: to mock it, to show its awkwardness and stupidity.
But we can't change the world, and this parody makes no sense. It's not
a dash forward but just a step aside.
- Vika...
- Yes Lenia?
- Stop me a cab...
- Okay.
Maybe it's worthy to ride around the city, or to go to an entertainment
center.
The Deep-Transit's cab stops by me, I open the door and get inside. The
driver is of some absolutely new type, never seen before: the bearded man in
ripped T-shirt and tattoos on his shoulders. Does he imitate Punk or
something?
- The car will arrive shortly, - informs Windows-Home.
Now I realize that the driver haven't even told the traditional
greeting; that we're moving already even if I haven't told the address.
- It's only one road from here, - says the driver and turns to me with
a smirk. He has a scar on his cheek and decayed teeth. It's not a program
obviously, it's a real person.
- Stop the car.
- That's against the rules, - the driver grins steering carelessly.
{The whole scene hints to another Russian hit movie called "The Diamond
Hand", released in 1968. It's a great comedy about a modest aged Soviet
engineer who went to the sea cruise abroad for the first time and was
confused (and misplaced) with a jewelry smugglers' courier.}
Uh-oh.
- Vika, exit! - I command.
No answer.
- Your little program doesn't hear you, - informs the driver, - Stay
put, okie? It'll be the best.
I never heard about virtual abductions before.
- Who are you?
The Beard just smiles.
Of course there is a way out: unavailable to the ordinary Deeptown
citizen: to exit the Deep by myself and to break the connection.
The question is though: isn't it exactly what they expect from me?
Revealing myself as the diver, and to break the connection while I'm in the
'car', the transportation program which is probably capable of tracing the
telephone line?
Geez, just why did I connect from the main address today, now it's an
amateur's task to determine my personality!
- What do you want?
The driver ignores me, but watches nevertheless, examining me with
curiosity of the hunter who managed to shoot the firebird.
- Okay, you have asked for this, - I say trying not to panic and take
the revolver out.
Six bullets - six different viruses. It's a weak weapon but I rely on
the variety of loads, maybe the kidnapper's protection won't stand it.
Three bullets just go through him without 'seeing' the target. Good
antivirus, prevented the detection of its computer. One bullet flattens and
falls on the floor: the virus is killed. Other two shells don't fire at all:
viruses are neutralized right in the barrel.
That's all.
I hit the driver with the revolver's handle, also the weak virus that
knocks out the simple programs like Deep-Transit well, but now there's no
effect of course.
- Don't flutter, - advises the driver watching how I pull the door
locks. Everything is sealed completely and I submit myself. At any rate, no
information is unnecessary.
We move on, and again I try to contact Vika - without any success. My
voice communication channel is blocked.
Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours...
The car's interior is on the helmet's screens. Wow, drawn great: this
is well recognizable sporty 'Lancia'.
I laid my hands on the keyboard, typed in several commands, pressed
Enter.
It worked.
deep
Enter
I'm in the car again. The driver looks back at me cautiously. I spin
the revolver in my hand thoughtfully: it's loaded again, and the pocket is
weighed down by a grenade.
- The parcel was received? - asks the driver.
Now it's my turn to play the game of silence.
- I wonder how?
- You know my friend, if I run out of ammo, it's the definite order to
refill my supplies. - Smugness of a petty hacker is in my voice. Quite
plausible legend: the fact that my computer have loaded the new portion of
viruses into my revolver doesn't reveal the diver in me.
The driver thinks for a while.
- Let's delay shooting a little, okay?
I shrug indefinitely. The Beard says soothingly:
- We've arrived.
The car really stops by the unfamiliar building: the gray cube without
windows, with the only door, very wide like in the garage and heavily
armored as if in warning - it'll be tough to enter uninvited. Usually these
buildings hide either banal consumer goods warehouses or luxury apartments
inside.
- Let's go? - suggests the driver.
I keep silence.
The Beard hits accelerator without a word and the car jumps directly to
the door. In a moment before the impact the door flies open letting us in.
It's really a warehouse.
Lots of shelves along the walls, boxes with colorful labels of famous
manufacturers. Tons of good merchandise. This place is either an office of
the big dealer or the thieves' hiding, which seems to be more likely.
The doors are unblocked already, now the car's function is performed by
the walls of this building. I still have no connection to Vika.
- So? - I ask getting out of 'Lancia', - What the hell do you want?
The driver looks past me. It's stupid, but I turn around.
The man without face stands in the corner of the warehouse.
A black cloak length to the floor, a silver clip in the form of the
rose on his chest, curling hair of some odd ash color but pretty natural
looking but instead of his face - a gray haze like condensed fog. Such
tricks are forbidden in the city but one can do that at home, but what for?
If one wants not to be recognizable, it's possible to pick the standard face
from Windows-Home set: it's the hell of those there, while the missing face
with such unusual
dress is just stupid. But looks impressive nevertheless.
- Semen, leave us, - says Man Without Face.
The driver nods, turns around and leaves somewhere into the shelves
labyrinth. His steps fade slowly and I note that the echo is excellent here,
maybe to make it impossible to move around unnoticed.
- You are the diver, - says Man Without Face.
Oh sure. Today's tradition: somebody tries to catch me again, for the
third time already. God loves the Trinity...
- Maybe. And you're Bill Gates possibly. - I reply.
Even if he smiles, I can't see it for sure.
- Possibly.
Yeah right. The owner of Microsoft in pursue of divers along the Net.
Firstly, he makes money by more traditional means, secondly he doesn't speak
Russian himself. But... who knows how perfect interpreter programs might be?
Emotionless tones is the tradeoff of serial made and cheap ones.
- Let's not play the fool, - I say. - You decided that I'm the diver?
And dragged me here for interrogation. I'm afraid you'll be disappointed.
- This morning two hackers, one of those being the obvious diver, stole
the file with the technology of the new pharmaceutical product from
Al-Kabar. - Man Without Face is patient and strict, - I have no idea how
much did they promise to pay you for that, but luckily Mr Friedrich Urman
had informed the diver that the real price would be a hundred thousand. Some
psychological assumptions follow: like the one that the diver will get rid
of the hot file immediately. Like he'll demand exactly a hundred grands from
the buyer. Like he'll transfer the money to the very secure account.
No, that can't be... real professionals are working in banks. Nobody
could trace me.
- Let's assume also that two hackers divide the amount equally. And now
it becomes really interesting, my friend. Money transfers happen every
second in Deeptown, but the transfer of exactly 50 000... from one private
party to another... The account numbers stay secret, but the place where the
payment took place is much more easily determined. Do you follow my thought?
That's it. Very simple.
I was traced from the very 'Three Piglets'. Roman had left instantly,
while I decided to walk a little.
To find an adventure for my stupid ass.
Why the hell did I share equally with him?!
- Very interesting story. How does it relate to me I wonder?
Even if my interlocutor has no face I know for sure he's smiling.
- One has to lose with honor, Mr Diver.
I haven't lost yet, but he doesn't know that.
- Sure, impossibility of being caught is what makes divers what they
are. - says Man Without Face, - What are the program obstacles for you? All
you need to do is just to concentrate... and off you are, back home... to
disconnect manually.
Um-hm. Thanks for the tip. It'll be the moment of connection being
closed when I'll be traced...
- In 24 hours, when the safety timer snaps into action on my computer,
- I shout, - your perfect idea will crumble and you'll be sorry of your
stupidity! I'm an honest guy, I pay the taxes! I'll stir up all the Deeptown
police!
- Maybe, but unlikely, - says Man Without Face, - Well, if we are
convinced that you're the honest hacker, - the great amount of sarcasm is in
his last words, - then we'll have no grudges against you.
- You'll be caught! - I threaten him, - And then - excommunication
forever!
Excommunication is the most dreadful threat for any Deeptown citizen:
it's too hard to live without virtuality if one visited it even just once.
- I don't think it'll happen.
The man without face throws his cloak open with an experienced stripper
gesture. There's a rainbow disk on the inside: a swirling glowing spiral
surrounded by blue.
Oh my. He's from the police himself. At least commissar if he has a
rainbow badge.
- Oh great, go ahead... - I say in a cheerless voice, - I knew that all
cops are ass holes, but not to this extent..
- Just listen to me for the start.
- What else is left for me to do? - I shout, - What?!
I pull out the revolver and thrust all six bullets into the door. Six
ricochets. The boxes with software on the shelves start to blow up and burn.
The sprinkles on the ceiling come to life with a hissing sound and viruses
get terminated in a second.
- Stop being hysterical, - says Man Without Face, it seems to me that
there's a slight
doubt in his voice. I throw my revolver at him, it comes through and falls down under the
wall.
- Do you want me to calm you down?
His voice is ice cold and doesn't promise anything good.
I sit down on the floor, squeeze my head with hands and whisper:
- Assholes... Fucking assholes..
- We don't care about your pranks in the Deep, diver. The theft is bad,
but it was high time for Urman to get knocked on the nose.
I'm whining quietly, rocking from side to side.
Man Without Face ignores my performance.
- The crime always existed, it exists now and will exist. I'm not Jesus
and I don't pretend to complete innocence myself. I have my own goals.
- And I have my little legal business! What do you want?
- That's better. Mr Diver, have you heard about the Lost Point? Or
about the Invisible Boss?
What I was expecting the least were the ancient fables.
- 'Point' is the old term for the terminal network user?
- Yes, the user of Fidonet... this one existed some time ago.
- Maybe I've heard about that... Is it about the guy who was killed by
electric shock being in virtuality? And his consciousness somehow stayed
alive in the Net?
- Yes. The youth with a pale face and burned clothes who asks everybody
whom he meets to report to the 13th Moscow hub that the point 666 was
lost... And about the Invisible Boss?
- Give me the chair, - I rise from the cold concrete floor.
- Follow me.
We go to the right, behind the shelf with Mac software. Illiquid stuff,
only a few people now use these computers. There were humans and
Neanderthals, then IBM and Apple. Stub evolution branches aren't viable. The
small table piled with papers is behind the shelves, two chairs by it. We
sit down.
- Invisible Boss is the tale of the same times. - says Man Without
Face. - Boss was the higher step in Fidonet hierarchy. It was boss to whom
those who wanted to become points and join to virtuality addressed their
requests to... There was no virtuality back then though... The legend told
that sometimes the newbies managed to find a very good boss for themselves,
who provided the network access at any time, high transfer rate, connection
to any club... those were called echo-conferences at that time.
I nod automatically.
- And everything was fine usually, - looks like Man Without Face
haven't noticed my negligence, - until one of the points found out that the
phone number that he used to communicate with his boss doesn't exist, and
the boss himself was not seen or heard about by anybody. After that
Invisible Boss used to send the letter to all his point saying, "Why do you
pursue me?" and disappear.
- Undoubtedly rich the folklore was, - I agree. - I also remember about
the crazy moderator, and the echo-conference called 'Die here!'
- I started with Fidonet as well, - says Man Without Face.
I stay silent.
- Mr Diver, unlike Urman I'm not trying to ascertain your personality.
But you know what the funniest thing is? We both need you for the same
purpose.
- To capture the Lost Point?
Man Without Face laughs softly.
- This is just a fable... that was born in the junction of times when
Internet and Fidonet turned into the united virtuality. Very few people
remember them now. Just five years have passed, and look how much was
forgotten.
- Nothing was forgotten, it's buried under newer information, but is
still alive.
- All the same diver, the essence doesn't change.
- Well, but today the new legend was born.
- Which one?
- About Man Without Face.
My interlocutor shakes his head.
- Hardly will it be so intriguing as the youth dressed in smoking
clothes...
We both laugh quietly.
- So Mr Diver... have you ever played in the 'Labyrinth of Death'?
- Possibly.
- Do you know that two divers cooperate with them?
- I can assume that.
Even two? I was sure that 'Labyrinth' manages with only one rescuer..
- I can give you their addresses... either network or the real ones.
Wow!!!
- One of them is Ukranian, the other one is Canadian. The first one
lives...
- No, - I say with some effort.
- How interesting! I was sure that it's the common dream to determine
the diver's personality! Including the divers themselves!
- This dream is one of the worst and base crimes... according to our
code.
For the first time I admit that I'm diver. Hardly my interlocutor had
any doubt about that though.
- One problem have arose in "Labyrinth"... and those two can't manage
it... - Man Without Face bends across the table, takes a piece of paper and
writes the short address. He does right that doesn't try to give me the
business card, I'd never take a file from him. - These are my coordinates.
After you visit "Labyrinth", offer your service to the management and try to
solve the problem, contact me. Ask for... Man Without Face.
He doesn't want to make it clearer and as it seems he doesn't have even
a little doubt that I'll rush to "Labyrinth" at once.
- Why would I want to do that?
Man Without Face takes a small badge from the cloak pocket. It looks
pretty like the police badge but its background is white and there's not a
spiral in the center but a tiny sphere woven of the thinnest threads.
- That's why.
The badge is on the table between us. I look at it but don't dare to
touch.
What if it disappears?
When Lady Winter received the order from Cardinal Richelieu (SP???)
saying "Whatever is done by this person was done for the benefit of France",
it was a bit less cool.
The legendary Complete Licence Medal is before me: the right for just
anything that's possible to do in the deep.
Friedrich Urman would open the door and escort me to the bridge
personally if he saw this badge.
He probably would hire killers later though in order to settle the
scores with me but in the deep he would be extremely polite.
I've never seen the Medal with my own eyes before. I know that Dmitry
Dibenko received the same one in his time: for the creation of the deep
itself.
One must accomplish something vitally important for all virtual space
for any of his actions to be considered right from now on.
- It will wait for you on this table, - says Man Without Face, - You'll
get it... in case of your success.
I nod silently.
- Note that there'll be other aspirants, - informs Man Without Face, -
We're looking for divers everywhere in the deep, and will find many, and
will tell them the same I've told you.
- What's there, in "Labyrinth"? - I ask turning my gaze away from the
Medal.
- I have no idea. This is what worries me.
I allow myself to smirk, tell me that you don't know...
- Until now everything that was happening in virtuality had their
analogies in the real world. Entertainment, business, science,
communications...
Interesting that he ranked entertainment first...
- Now something have changed.... Good luck to you diver. You can go
now.
Man Without Face nods in the direction of the door.
- I'll leave by my own way.
- You decided to reveal yourself?
- Sure not.
At parting, I look in the foggy oval of his face.
Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours...
I took off the helmet and stretched my hand to the modem hesitatingly,
then pulled the phone wire from the jack.
- The line is broke! - informs Vika
- I know, girl.
That's it, mysterious anonymous. It's that simple. Not a standard exit
which is possible to trace but an instantly broken thread.
It's barbaric of course, but absolutely no data exchange between my
computer and the one where the warehouse is modeled.
- No dialtone, - says Vika, - Check the wiring.
- Shut down.
- Really?
- Yes.
The blue background with the white falling figure fills the screen.
- Now it's safe to turn off your computer, - whispers Vika sleepily.
Good night to you, the most loyal of my friends... I turned the power
switch and turned off the modem. I need a quiet night, let all mail wait
until the morning. It's already 3:30 am though... the sky becomes lighter.
And I want to sleep so much! The head is aching of excess information.
I pulled off the virtual suit. Man, does it stink of sweat, it requires
cleaning for a long time by now... Then I plopped down on the sofa. Good
that I didn't do the bed yesterday. How farsighted have I become...
For three years already, I suppose.
110
It was a quarter before one when I woke up. The TV set that turned on
at 10 was muttering quietly. Unpowered computer was reproachfully silent on
the table.
- Oh it feels good... - I whispered into the ceiling.
I need to change the apartment, to buy the normal one-bedroom in the
downtown, in a good brick house, with the view to the Neva river... not in
this proletarian district, rotten and blown through by all winds.
Then we'll move Vika into new 'apartments': I'll buy the new 'Septium'
brand name, with preloaded licensed software, with a couple of hundreds Megs
of RAM... with the 1000 Terabyte holographic HD, cordless modem and
super-sensitive Siemens microphone... with a color printer, Dunn what for,
but let it be, a decent scanner instead of the manual piece of shit, a
dedicated phone line... Geez, even 50 grands isn't enough!
On the other hand... why would I need two rooms in the apartment? Even
here the kitchen is empty anyway: I moved the fridge and microwave into the
room long time ago, and it's closer to get the water in the bathroom.
Okay, this is decided: let's celebrate the move for Vika. It'll not be
a shame to invite friends then.
I rose, padded to the fridge and took out a can of beer. I don't drink
before noon usually, but it's almost 1PM already. What a good time I woke up
at!
The light 'Schultheiss' seemed almost strong in the morning. It's over,
good bye 'Amsterdam-Navigator' and 'Bavaria-86', the good friends of poor
hackers. From now on - only 'Guinness', 'Heineken', 'Kilkenny'... and
instead of Belgian boiled sausage the decent Moscow 'servelat' {raw-smoked
hard sausage} and a real ham. And also... well, I'll buy the coffee maker.
Down with instant coffee!
When for the first time in two days I started to shave and cut myself
quite tangibly, New Russian's fantasy suggested me to get 'Shick-Protector'
also. Nothing else could come into my mind after that, just some messy ideas
about the second phone line and second modem - in order for Vika to be able
to download mail and do some other simple tasks while I'm traveling in the
deep.
It's a bit far too much though. Even Maniac doesn't have second phone
line.
By the way, I owe him beer, it looks very much like he saved my life
yesterday.
And it's better not to procrastinate with it: I've got the suspicion
that I'll be able to treat him with nothing more than just 'Navigator' in a
week... well, quite a beer too, a strong one, with original taste...
I turned the computer on, connected to the Internet and transferred
$5000 to my St. Petersburg account without any virtuality, just in 10
minutes. Then I checked my wardrobe, chose the decently fresh shirt and old
but clean jeans, put my passport and Visa card in the pocket. What else? Ah
yes... the beer.
The shabby 5 liter canister was standing sadly on the balcony. I
unscrewed the cap and sniffed inside: it smelled of soured 'Zhigulevskoe'
{classic Russian beer ;-) }. I had to wash the canister in cold water, then
in hot one, then in cold again. Then I've put it into the bag that stayed
here from previous apartment owners (I never have time to get rid of
garbage) and walked out.
My, how much cleaner and neater my staircase in virtuality is! And
unlike here, no eternal smell of flooded basement and stray cats!
Having left the side streets I stopped by the road and raised my hand;
I had to stand like that for quite a time. Finally one junky 'Lada'
condescended to stop.
- To the 'Kredo-Bank', - I said.
As strange as it seems, the driver knew the way.
In around 20 minutes, parted with the remains of my cash I was entering
the palace of hidden and evident capitals under glassy stares of security
guards.. In 20 minutes more, filled with various checkups, numerous phone
calls to the bank's main office and requests to specify the account number,
the bank clerks became kinder and finally gave me out $1000. In rouble
equivalent of course.
And in quarter of an hour more I entered the Irish pub 'Molly' on 36
Rubinstein Street. It's not too crowded in the daytime and this helped me.
The Big Mugs {security guards ;-) } by the entrance were relaxed and just
froze dumb when they saw my canister. I passed the cloak room solemnly and
entered the neat twilight of semi-basement, approached the bar and smiled to
the bartender.
Luckily, bartender in 'Molly' is British. Whatever one can say, but
they are far superior than we are in some aspects. He smiled and gazed at me
questionably.
- Good afternoon, Christian, - I said. - May I ask for 5 liters of
beer?
He definitely wasn't used to sell the beer by liters. But it took him
only five seconds to regain his smile.
- Which beer?
- 'Zhigulevskoye'.
The guards behind my back who for some reason decided to visit the hall
together with me, started to breathe heavily.
- Just kidding, - I explained, - 'Guinness' of course, - And I gave the
canister to Christian.
Self control seems to be one of the most important qualities of the
best European bartenders, and Christian is one of them. He picked the
canister up casually, weighted it in his hand as if to estimate it's volume
and started to fill it from the sparkling faucet.
Big Mugs behind me were silently going crazy, and it amused me lots.
- Please wait for the foam to settle, - said Christian with a strong
accent putting the canister on the bar. Wow, what a cool guy! I visit
'Molly' pretty seldom and never noticed him to be so proficient.
- Okay, then one more mug to drink here please, - I said and turned
around.
Big Mugs pretended to study the bottle rows behind Christian's back.
Okay. Until they are sure in my paying capacity, I won't be able to drink my
beer in peace.
I dragged out a pile of small notes from the right pocket of my jeans
and started to examine it. The guards' breathing became faster again.
Shit, do I really look that lousy?!
A thick pack of hundred thousand rouble notes emerged from the left
pocket. I put three notes on the bar, took the mug and turned around.
Have anybody really stood here? No, looks like I was imagining
things...
Having seated by the nearest table I silently enjoyed the best beer
invented in this sinful world. Then I took my canister from the merry
bartender (Europe! One can't affect him so easily), and after short
hesitation took the change too. He'll do without it: the beer isn't cheap
itself.
It's no difference in the Deep though: either 'Bavaria' in cans or
'Guinness' from the
barrel, th
