Labyrinth of reflections lor-1

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  – 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!