Labyrinth of reflections lor-1

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  – 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 b
ecomes 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 thr
ead, 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.