Labyrinth of reflections lor-1

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  1

  The drive takes quite long, Deep-Transit connects to “Polyana” company through quite a bunch of intermediate hosts. My computer is not powerful enough to support appropriately the whole house where I rent an apartment from myself, so “Polyana” is hosted by someone’s rental server, somewhere in Byelorussia I suppose. It’s not too expensive and I ain’t gonna change this order even when I buy a real machine instead of my current Pentium.

  On my way I have fun making the world around drawn and real in turns. Now I succeed in this without effort. Even more – I can change the space perception in fragments. A drawn car passes our real one. A real girl walks along the drawn street. Two guys stand chatting: one is real, another one – cartoony.

  Even if it’s insanity, I really like it.

  I make the Volvo I’m riding in drawn and pull my hand through the window. A slight pressure on my skin – and the hand feels the wind outside.

  Fantastic!

  The world around belongs to foreign servers, I’m just passing here, maybe it’s even impossible to get here by an ordinary means… while at any moment I can exit, fall from the speeding car. Something have shifted, messed up. I don’t dive into the Deep anymore, I really live in here!

  In a block from my house I ask the driver to stop. I know this neighborhood very well, it belongs to the couple of big Russian banks, not officially of course. Financiers don’t see any real use of such ‘investments’, but the programmers working for the banks had set a dwelling here on their companies’ expense. What boss from ‘New Russians’ would ever find out that his computers don’t only make debit to meet credit, but also support a part of Deeptown’s territory?

  It’s the best place to test the newly acquired abilities.

  Lots of people hovers about here: it’s the downtown, both living quarters and entertainment centers are pretty close. I walk along the street looking for more or less quiet corner.

  This one looks okay: a tiny park with small fountain and a couple of benches, attached to a blind wall of the highrise, made simply but with taste. Ignoring the sign “No dogs allowed!”, a red haired girl walks on the grass with a kitten in the lead. Hm, well, pretty logical – the ban is not for them. The kitten is obviously pissed by the nasty lead, he stops from time to time and tries to tear it off with a paw. I smile in return to the strict girl’s look and make her drawn in a moment effort. The kitten stays real, he’s sunny-red, just as his mistress, quick and fidgety.

  Virtual pets is one of the most profitable businesses in Deeptown, the second after computer games of course. The Japanese love to keep those – maybe because it’s impossible to keep the real ones in their pencil-box apartments? Also those pets are being bought by those poor ones who love cats and dogs but suffer from allergies…

  I sit on the bench, by the couple that softly whispers to each other, examine the blind wall listening to the purling of water in the fountain. If I’m not mistaken, there are computers of a very well known bank behind it. Should I give it a try?

  Ah, what the hell, I’m already charged for millions in damages, one wouldn’t be sorry about the hair when his head is taken off…

  Calming myself with the splinters from the people’s wisdom treasury, I still can’t make up my mind. The couple is nuzzling not paying any attention to me. I hope they are lovers divided by thousands of kilometers, not just seekers of safe adventures.

  The kids run back and forth along the wall: a girl and two boys, holding color chalks in their hands and excitedly covering the wall with graffiti. I can hear cheerful shouts: “Hey Janka, Andryushka’s monster was scarier!” … “Sevka, come on, give me the red chalk, will you?”. Looks like somebody have brought their offspring for a virtual walk. Finally the kids calm down and start drawing. The girl draws the samurai with a sword, the sword is almost real. Chubby glasses bearer Seva runs along the wall picturing something like a snake that swallowed an elephant. But the snake gets a barrel and I understand that it’s just a tank. Skinny and swarthy Andrei diligently wheezes drawing an impossible monster. Maybe intentionally, maybe he wanted to draw a man…

  I stand up and pad towards the kids.

  – Hey guys, could you draw a door? – I ask all three.

  The question have definitely puzzled them, but after a short debate they start working on the requested together. The door is being drawn with excitement, mutual taking of chalks away and arguments about whether they should draw a keyhole. I wait patiently. Finally the drawing is finished and the young talents look at me with demand: will I appreciate their work or not?

  – Cool, – I say honestly, – Thanks a lot!

  The door looks in fact good. It is drawn right between the elephant’s trunk… errr… the tank’s barrel and the samurai’s sword. It has a keyhole, and a handle, and even hinges.

  – You have really helped me out! – I confess.

  The kids wait stubbornly.

  Then I make the street around drawn, make a deep breath, relax and turn the door into the real one.

  It’s just an illusion, not more than an illusion of course…

  I stretch my hand and pull the door towards me, once and again.

  No effect. What was I expecting after all?

  In anger, I kick the real door in the drawn wall and it sweeps open.

  It opens to the inside… Wow, it worked!

  The kids scream from behind, not scared or surprised but cheered mostly. Followed by these screams I enter the impenetrable wall.

  And get into the bathhouse.

  The ancient Romans who were real experts in this, along with the thrifty Finnish and heated Russians would burst with envy: it’s a huge marble hall, the glass dome above is slightly covered with snow, cold winter sun beaming through it. A round pool is in the center of the hall, a dozen of men cools down in it. The mountains and a steep slope can be seen through the windows, several more guys, the boldest ones run down the slope raising fountains of snow dust. The heavy wooden door swings open and a skinny guy runs out of the sweating-room with a scream, dives into the pool and starts jumping on one place raising waves. The bald fat man wrapped in the sheet drinks beer by the bar, glancing at the pool with condescension.

  The urge to drop the pants and join the company is big: what a guys these bank programmers are, what a cool ones! They had set themselves quite well… I just wonder, don’t they get wet in sweat in reality while polishing themselves in the sweating-room with birch besoms?

  And gosh, I’ve really entered!

  The columns around the pool still cover myself from the others’ looks, but it won’t be for too long. The dressed guy in the bathhouse is a weird sight. I turn around – the door is gone.

  Ah well, I don’t care.

  I enter the wall. The bathhouse is good but I’m interested in something else. Something that doesn’t have any analogies in virtuality at all…

  But it looks I’ve got into the wrong place again: a gloomy desolate quarters, a row of tanks is in the center of it, the water noisily splashes in them. Along the row a conveyor band is crawling, something looking like detergent powder spills into the tanks from the holes in the ceiling. All this looks like some terrible automated laundry from an old sci-fi novel. I’m about to move further when one tank turns over and spills its contents on the conveyor band.

  Lots of dirty water and a couple of kilograms of money.

  I’m so shocked that jump out of virtuality even without reciting my usual rhyme.

  The numbers were on the helmet’s screens, accurate columns of numbers, tables, vague phrases. I took the helmet off. Sure, why would anyone graphically picture the process of money transfer or, even more, their laundering? But my smart subconsciousness being used to the pictures, did it’s best!

  The head was aching badly. Was at a result of a multiple-time deep program? Or just a consequence of that overstrain that I experience now? What’s the difference?

  I took an open pack of Analgin from the table, looked into the
fridge. One can of Cola was still there. Choking, I chewed the tablets, washed it down with soda. Bear with it just a little more my poor organism, the main part is still ahead. Before returning to the laundry I glanced to the watch: a quarter before two. I should munch on something…

  Blades hollowly bang in tanks, laundering money. Dollars, Deutsche marks and roubles crawl along the belt conveyor, I watch this endless flow that has either someone’s sweat or blood behind it. What happens if I take a couple of millions from there? For some reason I’m sure they will appear on my account. Maybe I’ll plug to the isolated bank network and will type in the order for money transfer, even not knowing about that. Maybe the bank’s computers will do all operations themselves, submitting to my will only.

  I’m not just a thief resistant to the deep’s hypnosis anymore, I’m the deep itself, a part of it…

  I lean over and pick up a 100 dollar note. It is even possible to remember it’s serial number. It’s possible to do so that it never appeared here at all according to the bank’s documents.

  Everything is possible now – or almost everything.

  I throw the piece of paper back on the conveyor belt and pad to the wall. One step – and the world fades, falls down, turns into the flat scheme under my feet. A huge sheet rolled out into the void, I soar above, looking at the threads of the streets.

  Here’s my house.

  I dive down to it, pierce the plane of the scheme, feel asphalt beneath my feet. No more efforts, no more rhymes and begs to the deep. I don’t ask my body to breathe after all, do I?

  Vika and Unfortunate stand by the entrance, talking. Then Vika notices me and silences in confusion. I wave my hand, walk towards them and Vika runs to meet me.

  10

  I shut the door of the entrance and mingle with the lock for some time. Vika still holds my hand, and it’s quite difficult to start security systems using one hand only. Finally I just order the door to shut. The lock clicks and the light of the alarm system starts blinking. Unfortunate raises his head – looks like he felt something.

  – What did he do to you? – asks Vika. Only now, when we’re isolated from the outer world she relaxes a little. Probably I wasn’t right not hurrying to her at once.

  – The deep program, – I find the simple reason, explaining to her what happened. – The cycling deep program, the endless dive.

  Vika frowns, she understands.

  – It was impossible to surface.

  – But you…

  – … Found a detour, – I say glancing at Unfortunate askance. – Vika, how did it look like from aside?

  – Dibenko threw something at you… – she knits her brow, remembering,

  – Like a handkerchief of some kind… and you fell into it. It looked like a very powerful virus.

  – What about Romka?

  Vika looks at me in surprise.

  – The wolf. It’s Romka, the werewolf diver, my friend.

  – He burned him, down to ashes. He just grabbed his throat and he blazed up.

  I stay silent, what can I say? Visual effects of the virus might be different, the most important thing is how did it influence Romka’s machine. I was always thinking he has a weak computer, like mine, maybe even without magnetooptics. If Man Without Face had used a brute-force weapon, Romka will have to reinstall all soft from scratch.

  – Lenia…

  I nod. It’s not the time to express sympathy about others’ troubles.

  It’s never enough time for that though…

  – Let’s go, – I nod to her and Unfortunate. – I live on 11th floor.

  – Who else lives here?

  – Nobody. Now – nobody. – I say squeezing into the elevator cabin. I push the button, a jerk and we crawl up. Vika frowns, she really fears heights… even of this type.

  – Did anyone live here before?

  – Well… in some sense, – I evade her question. The doors open and we exit to the stairs. Unfortunate looks around curiously.

  – Here’s my palace… welcome… – I say unlocking the apartment, then add for Unfortunate only, – Returning the visit?

  He nods.

  Vika enters first, she delays by the threshold as if thinking whether she should take off her shoes or not. Sure not and she understands that. { When entering an apartment, Russians usually leave shoes worn outside by the entrance. Special slippers are used inside apartments. }

  – The bathroom-toilet and the kitchen are to the right. The room and the balcony are to the left. – I inform politely.

  Vika looks into the room carefully, her look slides across the faded wallpaper, stops for a second on the computer table, sofa, fridge and dresser. She’s possibly disappointed. Sure!

  – It’s strange… – says Vika and I feel that she exits the deep for a second and looks at my living place from reality.

  Go ahead… I just don’t want to be in your sight at this moment.

  – Let’s go, – I pull Unfortunate’s hand. – Want me to teach you how to brew coffee?

  Unfortunate walks into the kitchen instead of an answer, quickly chooses the most expensive and at the same time the best coffee from the number of packages, takes the biggest coffee pot and the salt dispenser.

  – A-ha, – I just say.

  – Hundreds of servers have cooking recipes, – notes Unfortunate, – A girl from Rostov have added one more 5 minutes ago, quite interesting one. Should we risk to try it?

  It would be strange to hope that I can teach him anything. Except maybe the ability to shoot at people.

  But I doubt this is an ability he’d appreciate.

  – Be at home, – I just answer returning to the room. Vika sits on the sofa examining the bookshelf.

  – I’m back, – I inform her and Vika closes her eyes, just for a moment, to return into the deep.

  – It’s strange, – she repeats. – Lenia, for some reason I’ve been expecting…

  – … To see the palace?

  – No, not necessarily the palace, but at least something…

  – Something like your hut?

  She nods silently. I can quite understand her confusion: she was definitely sure I’m a spatial designer. But she saw a pathetic apartment instead, even if well drawn but definitely not deserving an honor to be immortalized in virtuality.

  – Follow me, – I say, – Unfortunate, we’ll leave for a minute! If something happens, we’re in the stairwell somewhere.

  Vika follows me obediently. It’s clean and quiet in the stairs. I put my finger to my lips:

  – Hush… Don’t disturb anyone…

  – But you’ve said there’s nobody else in the house… – whispers Vika.

  – But what if not? – I answer mysteriously, pad to the door opposite to mine and take a piece of bent wire from my pocket. It’s just like I imagine a picklock. Vika waits, already intrigued.

  I pick at the wire in the lock and of course it opens. Sure, it was planned this way… Then we enter.

  It’s a big three room apartment { ‘two bedroom’ according to American standards }. Some clothes – jackets and cloaks hang on hooks by the door. A kid’s bicycle is leaned against the wall. Footwear is scattered along the wall. I give slippers to Vika, change myself and say:

  – It’s a habit to change footwear inside here. The family is big, four kids, they would take too much dirt from outside… and the floors are cold. { Floors are almost never carpeted in Russia, they are either painted wood or vinyl covered. Some rugs and carpets are common but these never cover the floor completely. } Vika stays silent, she have accepted the rules of the game.

  We look into the kitchen – an old Polish kitchen furniture is there, yet from the Soviet times, lots of spices’ jars, some sorts of pickled veggies and jams in big cans. The pot with hot borsch is on the stove top together with a pan of meat rissoles. A quiet green street can be seen outside the window and Vika glues to it instantly. Kids shout outside on the playground, a woman walks with an old slow poodle jus
t by the doorway.

  – Who lives here? – asks Vika.

  – I know only their names – Viktor Pavlovich and Anna Petrovna. Their older daughter Lida finishes high school, and they also have three boys: Oleg, Kostya, Igor’.

  After some hesitation I add:

  – The poodle is named Gerda. In general I don’t like when pets are named by human names, but they wanted so.

  – What city is this?

  – Vitebsk. I think it’s Vitebsk.

  Vika turns her back to me and says strictly:

  – Don’t come into my view.

  For a minute or so she examines the kitchen after exiting virtuality. Then, having dived back, she turns to me and asks:

  – Is it everywhere like this?

  I nod.

  – Masters are absent but their apartments live, – whispers Vika, – A shirt on the back of the chair, toys scattered on the floor, a leaking faucet and trash swept under the sofa by the single… Right?

  I keep silence.

  – Len’ka, are you normal at all? – asks Vika quietly, – I was building mountains where is no people, where shouldn’t be any people… it’s strange too maybe. I just don’t like people too much.

  – Don’t lie, – I ask her.

  – … And you have built the house in which nobody will ever live… No, the house which is almost inhabited: a smoking pipe in the ashtray and the hot teapot on the stove… Modular ‘Maria Celesta’ { kitchen furniture }. Lenia, what for?

  – I didn’t have right to lodge them really, to think out characters and faces, griefs and joys. Let it be like this… the things only. They also can tell a lot.

  I still think she doesn’t understand, can’t understand completely and I say hurriedly:

  – A guy lives one floor below, a music lover. He’s from Podol’sk. Sometimes he’s too carried away and cranks his tape player so loud that it’s necessary to knock into his wall. But he’s a nice guy, he makes the volume lower at once. He has a great collection, cassettes, vinyl, CDs, a little of everything. Vinyl mostly, it costs peanuts now, nobody needs it, and he has a Vega turntable, an old one but it works fine. On the sixth floor a weird type lives, I think he’s an engineer, works on a plant in Tula, they were making weapons before, now – some consumer trinkets. He dreams of writing ‘love mysteries’, he invented this sort of a genre… So he writes them, types on a typewriter in the evenings, but never shows to anybody. He understands himself that it comes out bad, he’s a rare type of ‘graphomaniac’, a harmless one. I took his writings sometimes, looked through, it’s really rubbish, but so kind and naive one, he should have been born in the XVIIIth century…