Labyrinth of reflections

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, the cost is the same. Now I managed to stop the car much quicker, or it was just the time running faster? I jumped into the rattling 'Volga' and shouted cheerfully:

– Whip it up to Maniac!

A pair of very big and round eyes gazed at me.

– Get out, – said the driver in the same brief manner.

When stopping the next volunteer to earn easy money I kept reminding myself that I'm not in virtuality where patient Vika will turn the simple voice command into understandable address.

111

Maniac lives on Vasilievsky [Island] {a district of St.Petersburg }. Panting, I climbed to the fifth floor: at the time this house was built, elevators were yet a novelty, and rang at the door. One, two, three… pause.. one, two. Even if Maniac is in the Deep, the computer connected to all apartment wiring will submit to the code ring at the door and eject Maniac from virtuality.

The steps sounded in the depth of the apartment, I closed the peephole with a finger quickly.

– Who? – asked Maniac gloomily.

– Racket requested?

Pause. Obviously Maniac is just from the deep and has a little mood for humor.

– Who?!

– Shit, it's me, me! – I removed the finger.

Maniac rattled with locks opening the door.. I entered. He was dressed in virtual suit right on the naked body, with a shotgun in his hand. The gun was huge, with it the slim and narrow shouldered hacker looked like a kid playing war game.

– Wow, – I just said.

– Yeah… I was fumbling in one guy's comp… hardly managed to get my ass outta there. – Maniac was brief, he locked the door, glanced at the canister and asked sympathetically, – Dire straits again?

– No, not really.

– I have a couple of bottles of 'Baltic'…

– I's 'Guinness' here, – I declared proudly. Maniac looked at the canister thoughtfully and hurled:

– You pervert…

I followed him to the small neat kitchen and asked cautiously:

– Where's… yours…?

– With her folks.

– Quarreled again?

– Why quarreled? – said Maniac indignantly, – Does the wife's not being at home immediately mean that we quarreled? She have just… decided to visit Mommy… well okay, we have quarreled a little..

– Why so?

– Ah… I've passed the red light…

I nodded: it's very difficult to live in the deep and be married. What the hell betrayal is in visiting the virtual brothel? It's all unreal there!

But Maniac's spouse got hurt anyway…

We sat by the table, Maniac searched the fridge, got the pack of franks, a piece of cheese, then brought two huge clay glasses from his room. I filled them with beer solemnly.

– Gee, it's really 'Guinness'… – admitted Maniac drawing the letter 'M' on the thick foam.

– For the Love, Shurka.

– Um-gm… – Maniac said gloomily and drained his glass, – Yeah. Love. Shit, the devil tempted me! I had to flee… a couple of lamers was on my tail… So I decided to visit 'Strawberry Fields'…

– What the hell for?

– Don't you really know what security systems those brothels have? – Maniac was surprised, – This is where senators, Duma deputies, businessmen … other money sacks always are. Security will cut you off from your pursuers at once!

I shook my head, didn't know that. It's a shame to confess but I never visited those 'establishments' before.

– So well… I decided to wait for half an hour, – went Maniac on with his story, – But you wouldn't just hang there alone like stupid, right? So I called for one girl… we were just sitting, drinking beer… 'Guinness'! – confessed Maniac in a sudden frank manner, – Well, and… somehow it happened… and in the very interesting moment – THWAP! a hit on my mug! The girl kisses me but I feel freaking pain… and then… unprogrammed exit from the deep… Gal'ka ripped the helmet out of the port..

He poured himself more beer. I nodded sympathetically: unprogrammed exit is a very unpleasant thing.

For not-diver, that is.

– It'll be fine, – I said, – Not for the first time, not for the last one either…

– She said, it WAS the last time, – informed Maniac gloomily. – I haven't visited these brothels for a year! My suit is even without sex stimulator!

– Well, mine's with it, – I said, – I just never visit these.

– Too bad for you. Have your fun while young.

In fact, Maniac is two years younger than me but he's a cool hacker while I'm just an ordinary 'newbie', and also he's married, and for the second time.

– Okay, relax. You'll make peace tomorrow.

– We will, – agreed Maniac, – So at least today I'll have to have the most fun possible…

We exchanged understanding smiles and sipped more beer.

– Buy the woman's suit for Gal'ka, – I suggested, – Drag her into the Abyss… and no problem! { same in Russian original }

– Yeah, thanks a lot…– growled Maniac with evident caution in his voice, – Have you ever seen the women who have tried the virtual sex? Their psyche is… different. No normal male will ever satisfy them!

I nodded, even if I couldn't really imagine women went crazy about virtual sex. I could imagine the men though, many got crazy over that, that's why I didn't hurry to try it. Experiments with adventure thirsty girls is one thing, but the professionals from virtual brothels is a very different case.

– For the health, – I offered.

We drank and filled the glasses for the third time. The canister was halved and we felt much better.

– For the hub 5-0-83,207… – said Maniac, – For old good 'Fido'…

We drank in silence and without touching glasses, like we would for the dead.

– Everything changes, Shurka, – I said quietly. – It was a 'network of friends', the chat about just anything, envy at the Internet, profanity towards Microsoft. But now there's neither Internet nor Fidonet, only virtuality, and Windoze is the best program for it.

– They're hack-workers, – proclaimed Maniac stubbornly, – You what, still use Windows-Home?

– Yep.

– Maybe you're right, – sighed Maniac drearily, – A pleasant voice, advices about amount of 'brains' and hardware quality… Pah!. No need to think at all, just drag the arrow along the screen and gaze at the piccies.

– And what about you? Still fooling with 'poluos' '? { OS/2: 'half-os' }

– Why 'fooling'?!, – said Maniac with indignation, – It's the best OS if not to count UNIX! I've installed the new version 2 days ago, it rocks!

– I hear this every time I visit you, – I said, – "Have installed… new version… fucked up my brains for three days until managed to tune it up…" While I have Windows-Home for two years already.

– Everybody gets what suits them best… – admitted Maniac, and asked suddenly, – Hey Lenia, how did you manage to burglarize Al-Kabar using Windoze by the way?

I looked aside.

– There were rumors on the Net that two divers have swindled Al-Kabar,

– said Maniac insinuatingly.

I made the last attempt to deviate:

– Why two? One diver and one…. assistant.

Maniac laughed softly:

– Don't consider me a lamer Lenia, otherwise you'll receive such a nice 'hello' in the mail that you'll have to reinstall whole freakin' HD from scratch… Divers never pick an ordinary guys to assist them.

I kept silence looking at Maniac.

– I see, – he said. – Well, for the luck. For the rich fools and smart hackers.

We touched the glasses.

– What was there Len'ka?

– Runny nose reliever.

– Really? Cool…

We chewed a couple franks each and I was drearily thinking that my anonymity was broken after all. Yesterday there were three attempts to catch me.

Today I was just 'calculated'.

– Lenia, I don't know a single diver personally, – said Maniac, – And I ain't gonna hunt for them. I don't have any complexes… especially towards my friends.

– Thanks, – I said.

– But you know… Just one question.

Sure, any hacker always has just one question. They think that it's possible to ask something after which all divers' mysteries become clear.

– Well?

-What does the diver do when he decides to exit virtuality, just thinks like 'I want to return to reality' or what?

– I heard that one diver… – I looked aside, – Mutters the stupid rhyme.

– Which one?

– Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours.

– And that's it?

– Sometimes he adds: "Abyss, let me go."

– And that's it? – asked Maniac dolefully.

– Yes.

– My, how simple…

Maniac searched in his pockets, took out the pack of 'Lucky Strike', lit the cigarette, then said with a slight resentment:

– It was so much simpler before. There are hackers, honest 'newbies' and lamers. The first ones can do everything, the second ones are learning. The third ones are stupid, it's not a sin to scoff at them. Just look at yourself: as you were a 'newbie' always, you're still the one.

I agreed.

– But then the deep emerged… it seemed that all our dreams come true.

– Maniac laughed bitterly – But in reality-hell no! I, the cool hacker, – he declared with a challenge, – am just one of the millions in the Abyss… well, just a little smarter possibly, I have some experience after all. But sometimes… such shit happens anyway…

He kept silence for some time, twiddling the frank in his hands, then informed:

– I ate a mouse a couple of days ago.

– What?!

– A computer mouse.. Well, not the mouse itself, it's too hard… just bit off the wire.

– Why? – I asked numbly.

– It was an accident… I was in the deep.. We were sitting in "Rainbow" with some guys, drinking beer with smoked fish… Well, I ran out of fish and took some from Max's plate..

– But Max doesn't drink beer!

– He drank 'Fiesta'. { orange soda }

– 'Fiesta'?! With smoked fish?

– Well, just for a company.. – Maniac sighed, – And well, possibly it was too far to get to his plate, so… looks like I jerked a bit in reality. When I exited – gee, the mouse's wire is bitten off! And, like… some wire is missing…

– Does your stomach ache?

– No, nothing so far…

We filled our glasses.

– Or this, – Maniac went on, – Do you know "Labyrinth of Death"?

– Yes, – I sobered up in an instant.

– I decided to have some fun not long ago, and entered the 17th level directly. They added so many stuff there recently! It's a nightmare of a game… well, in brief, I was stuck.

– What do you mean?

– I couldn't pass to the next level, but without passing it the exit menu doesn't pop up.

– And?…

– And I was sitting there for thirty-six hours, – said Maniac with rage, – The whole company of us idiots gathered there. We were shot dead at least ten times each, then we just blocked ourselves out in some basement, sang the songs, firing back at the monsters… until our timers went up.

– You have thirty-six hours limit of continuous being in the deep?

– Twenty-four now.

– What about Gal'ka?

– Ah, she was… at mother-in-law's place… Len'ka, what time limit do you have?

– I removed the limit, – I confessed.

– I see… diver… – Shurka laughed forcefully. – Shit, I never completely believed in you, even if suspected.

– Whom, me?

– Sure. Why the hell would the 'newbie' need battle viruses and antidotes?

I feel a little sad. Something have changed in our relations, and too sharply. Maybe it'll pass in some time…

– Shurka, I can't do anything – except to exit virtuality, any program for me is just a heap of senseless symbols and a launching file.

Maniac nodded.

– I understand. But just tell me, would you like to change places with me? What is more interesting: to create the deep or to rule it?

I'm silent.

– Pour me some beer, – sighed Maniac.

1000

I was at Maniac's place until late night, 'Guinness' was followed by 'Baltic #6', and for the dessert Shurka dug out the Christmas 'Kronenburg'. Neither Irish nor Petersburg nor French beer failed.

In the depth of my soul I was glad that I had opened to somebody. My hacker friends are divided into two groups: the first one keeps secrets until after the first bottle of beer, the other one kinda forgets all secrets by that point. Shurka belongs to the second one.

At least now he'll know what for do I need all this various virus soft which I drag out of him by all cunning means.

– How much simpler would it be if the deep wouldn't be so strong of an addiction, – I was thinking in the cab on my way home. – How much more right and simple… There wouldn't be a division into the lucky and the unfortunate ones which can't be overcome. There wouldn't be that ridiculous situation: excellent programmers not being able to cross the border between reality and illusion, and clumsy guys like myself who don't even notice this barrier.

There wouldn't ever be envy to each other and eternal hunt.

But is it my fault? I don't know why it happens myself, what flaw of consciousness makes one a diver, and it is of course a flaw since we are such a minority. It'd be stupid not to use this ability but too dreadful to offer it for everyone's study.

That's how it goes: somebody can do long jumps of eight meters, somebody writes poems, somebody is not dependent on virtuality. But why, why it's so few of us, so few that one should count not even in percent but by person?

– Here? – asked the driver.

– Yes, thanks.

I paid him, got out of the car and went towards my house feeling inflated like a balloon. Now I have to either fall asleep submitting myself to the morning hangover or to submerge into the deep: it cures hangover well.

On the second floor of the staircase where the light is on always for some reason, five teens were sitting, playing cards right on the floor, talking about something in dimmed voices… No, not talking, it'd be better to say growling to each other. I knew two of them, other three were unfamiliar. A little pack of smaller carnivores. They'd eagerly rip the loner apart in a dark corner but here I'm safe: carnivores don't hunt near their den.

– Hi, – said the guy who lives in the apartment above mine, in the same type of studio, together with his parents and older sister who often comes back only by the morning. Walls and ceilings in this house are thin enough for me to be well posted on all their troubles and quarrels.

– Hi, – I said.

– Lenia, do you have cigarettes?

I'm at least 15 years older than him, but these guys keep me as almost one of their age, maybe because I'm not married and empty beer cans prevail in my garbage.

– Hold on.

I'm not smoking myself, but there's always a pack or two of cigarettes at home for

visiting hackers. Smoking is their professional trait. The guy waited by the door patiently while I put the canister on the floor and was searching in the closet.

– Here.

He nodded gratefully opening the pack, I waved my hand-keep it-and closed the door. The carnivores should be fed. A little. So they wouldn't become too impudent and would retain an idea of me being a 'nice guy' even in their alcohol intoxicated minds.

I undressed quickly, threw the clothes on the bed and came to the bathroom, stood under cold shower for a while.

No sleeping tonight, the deep is waiting.

For all day long I tried not to think about Man Without Face and the Medal of Complete Licence lying in the warehouse but now, in the darkness when virtuality was coming close I couldn't help not to think about that.

The Man and the Medal.

The whip and the cookie.

What so strange could happen in "Labyrinth" that even two divers couldn't manage, the professionals who work if anonymously but as permanent contractors nevertheless? Those who know "Labyrinth" as palms of their hands…

Something having no analogies?

Very odd.

I dried myself, threw the towel into the bowl with laundry, returned to the room, turned the computer on and started to pull on the virtual suit.

– Good evening Lenia, – said Vika.

– Hi old girl.

Female face is smiling on the screen. No, possibly I'm wrong, I need to set the different reaction to 'old girl' – slight resentment, pouting, a look cast slightly aside.

– Any mail?

– Seven letters.

– Read.

There was nothing interesting in the mail: invitations to visit two new clubs, price lists of some small trading company, the letter from Maniac sent in the morning…

– Delete everything, – I said sitting by the computer. I plugged the suit in and put on the helmet. – Vika, connect to Deeptown… through the spare channel. Person number seven.

I didn't use this connection for at least three months, as well as the 'person number seven': steel colored suit, black shirt, a necktie, high leather boots, slim agile body, swarthy narrow face, hair long to the shoulders, low and powerful voice.

– Spare channel, person number seven, – confirmed Vika.

The rainbow before my eyes, greedy flaming of the fiery wave, the deep.

I'm sitting in the tiny room: the bed, the table with the computer on it, not mine but absolutely abstract one, the door. "Journey Start" Hotel. Those Deeptown inhabitants who just occasionally visit the Deep rent rooms here for cheap.

– Is everything okay, Lenia?

– Yes.

I open the door and leave. There's the long corridor with doors outside, by one of those stands Sylvester Stallone looking at his hands with admiration.

– Hi Sly, – I say passing by. Almost for sure the guy is Russian, and what's definitely-he's a newbie.

– Do I really look like him? – asks the guy with hope.

– Yeah… – I stop. The beer makes my mood benevolent, – Are you new in the deep?

– In what? Ah yes.. new.

– It's a bad form to put on appearances of famous people, and also the sign of newbie. Try to construct your own personality… use 'Bioconstructor' for instance and work a little.

– 'Bioconstructor'? – asks the guy confused.

– Yes. A very simple program with Russian interface, it is scattered around on all servers in the novice directories.

– Thanks… – 'Stallone' drags himself along behind me. I notice that he started to stoop as if being ashamed of his appearance: a good sign.

We enter elevator together and descend to the first floor. The lobby is pretty spacious, four porters and two guards are always watching there.

– Come to any of them, – I advise, – And ask for consultation: where to go for the start, how to act…

– It's embarrassing…

– It's embarrassing to be a fool. These guys are here just for that: to help you. When in the streets ask for advice the people with an open hand sign on the sleeve, they are volunteer helpers, or policemen. Have you set your timer?

– Yes, sure! For two hours!

– Very good. Spend 15 minutes to talk to the porter and you'll save much more. Happy sailing!

– Happy sailing! – says admired novice behind me. It's so nice to be an old-timer…

I wink to the porter and nod towards 'Stallone' in case he'll be too shy to ask for help himself and leave the hotel. I raise my hand and the cab stops immediately: this is not reality…

– Deep-Transit is glad to welcome you, Gunslinger! – says the driver.

– To "Labyrinth of Death", administrative building, – I reply.

1001

There exist the games and The Games.

The difference is in longevity.

Computer industry releases up to 1000 games every year, both intended for the Deep and for ordinary users.

The game usually 'lives' actively for around half a year. It is distributed legally and through the pirate channels, is being discussed, all its intended and random tricks are being caught. And then it dies… kept only by a couple of hundreds of fans.

Sometimes exceptions happen – and then the game lives for years. Many new, much more perfect and beautiful games appear but the old one retains crowds of fans too.

And there are three exceptions that are alive since the pre-virtual

era: 'Doom', 'C&C' and 'Mortal Combat'. They have changed dozens of times of course but these were more cosmetics than real changes.

'C&C' is a strategic game, it's virtual space is the whole planet. On this humble target range those never-to-be Napoleons and Zhukovs eternally fight for the world's dominance commanding nonexistent armies in imaginary headquarters. Tank tracks are rattling there and missiles fly up to the skies, new terrible weapons are being developed, world's capitals are being burned to ashes by nuclear explosions. One doesn't need to be quick or keen in this game, strategic thinking is most important. They say that the Military watches this game very attentively and sometimes successful players get offers to join the army. Some people seem scared by that, the others are attracted on the contrary. I have played these 'adult tin soldiers' a little. In my opinion the game is harmless and quiet. Dressed in a beautiful uniform, you walk with a cup of coffee back and forth in the headquarters crowded with trained aides and say : 'Ummm.. what if we drop an H-bomb at Los Angeles?'

The game have changed a little last year, now one has to start it as a lieutenant being in command of a small regiment in tactic battles, submitting to somebody else's orders and to rise slowly up the hierarchy until he reaches the rank of the Chief Commander of his country. Now there's a possibility of coups, betrayal, guerilla war 'against everybody'… I don't know, the game have become more interesting possibly, but I liked the previous rules more.

'Mortal Combat' is even simpler. This is a scuffle in virtual space. One might put on one of hundreds of ready-to-use guises or build his own and to take part in a multiple day tournament for the right to fight the main villain that plots to conquer the Earth. This is the useful game, nowhere else can one steam out his sick emotions like on the gloomy arenas of 'Mortal Combat', hitting his enemy with the heel on his forehead of thrusting magic spells onto him. Good game, I visit it once or twice a month but some people never quit the duels. They say that if one doesn't abuse magic which unfortunately is not available in reality, it is possible to learn to fight pretty well. I doubt it though: the hit that one feels with the help of virtual suit is one thing but the real steel reinforcement that you'll be hit with in the street is absolutely different.

And of course there's 'Doom', that very game getting into which had ushered the beginning of the virtual era.

It's main area is called simply "Labyrinth of Death". This really is a labyrinth: 50 levels, some of them located in buildings and underground vaults, others-on the streets of the Twilight City, an imaginary megapolis captured by an alien civilization. It's the Deep within a Deep with its own laws and rules.

The game starts at the first level – the half ruined railway station where the player arrives by the section car, with a single gun as a weapon. The station building is crowded with monsters – former Twilight City inhabitants, and other players. It's difficult to say who is more dangerous: monsters are armed better but the players are smarter than machines obviously. One can find weapons, defense gear, first-aid sets and food in the station building. When one leaves the first level, he gets to the second one: the highway full of abandoned cars… and of course, of other players and monsters. In order to win one must reach the 50th level, the ancient cathedral in the downtown and to destroy the alien ruler. It's very hard. I did it before but since then "Labyrinth" have changed at least ten times: new buildings, weapons and monsters were added. And of course, new players have arrived: game addicts who can't imagine their lives without shooting on the streets of Twilight City.

It's an interesting game, mainly because it requires constant communication with other people, not just 'fighting to death' like in

'Mortal Combat', not diplomatic notes and threats exchange like in 'C&C' but direct communication: making unions, convincing others, some small worldly wisdoms…

But just what so unusual could happen in the "Labyrinth"'s space?

1010

"Labyrinth"'s administrative building is a two story house in Deeptown's suburbs, faced with rose colored coquina. It looks peacefully and neat, more like a residential building than an office. Maybe American middle class families use to live in houses like this. Labyrinth entrance is a bit further and obviously it looks much more impressive. I stand in the garden and examine the guard by the entrance. He's dressed into masking overalls, the standard players' uniform, with carbine in his hands. His muzzle has absolutely 'impenetrable' expression, he stands motionless like a statue. Is he a human or not? It's foolish to ask, at least because one can't distinguish well made program from a human at once. I pass the guard and find myself in a small hall. The bright sunlight beams through windows, small tables and soft armchairs stand along the walls. More solid table is in the center of the hall, a smiling girl sits by it: the secretary and most likely live one.

– Good afternoon, – I say.

The secretary's face changes a little.

– Good afternoon, – she replies. The voice is soft and nice, looks like I was switched to Russian employee.

– I need to meet with the management, – I begin without ceremonies.

– Please be more specific if possible.

The girl is the courtesy itself but it's not easier to break through her barrier than through the monster by Al-Kabar's bridge.

– I have a confidential information for "Labyrinth"'s management.

– But still I'd like you to state the goal of your visit briefly.

Ah well…

– I'd like to relay to Mr Guillermo Aguirre that I'm informed about the small problem that have arisen recently and about the fact that divers cooperating with you had failed to solve it. I'm going to offer my services in solving this problem.

The secretary nods.

– One moment please.

She stands up without a hurry and enters one of the inner doors. I wait patiently. Everything is very cute and patriarchal: no computers, no monsters. It's not the office of the most expensive and dreadful ride in the history but a small toilet paper sales firm.

The girl is away for long, I get tired of standing and sit into one of armchairs, browse through newspapers scattered on the nearby table. It's quiet and peaceful, no other visitors except me, though they in fact are present most likely. We just can't see each other and they communicate with other company's employees.

– Mister…

– Gunslinger, – I say standing up. – Call me Gunslinger.

The girl nods.

– Mr Guillermo Aguirre will receive you.

Slight curiosity in her voice, it looks like she had no idea that any problems might arise in "Labyrinth".

I enter the door and freeze.

This is beautiful.

The hall is in the form of unequal sided triangle, one wall is completely transparent and one can see the city from the big height, lighted by red sunset light. Not Deeptown but Twilight City most likely. The table of "Labyrinth"'s security manager, Mr Guillermo is horseshoe-shaped, three monitors are installed on it, a keyboard and nothing else. Mr Guillermo himself already rises to meet me, he's aged, lean, very suntanned, dressed in blinders and T-shirt.

– Hello, – he says stretching his hand to me first. – So you are the Gunslinger, yes? Call me just Willy.

Okay, let it be Willy.

I shake his hand.

– You said so interesting things, yes? About problems, divers, help…

– Willy laughs and waves his hands, – Boom! Boom! That help?

Very interesting interpreter program, the strong accent, parasite words like Guillermo speaks Russian himself. One starts feel different towards the guy immediately.

– Let's be honest, okay? – I offer. Willy-Guillermo knits his brow and nods. – I'm diver.

– Yes?– inquires Willy politely – And what is that?

I smile in return and say:

– I think that your Ukranian and Canadian employees would explain that to you quicker. I mean the divers working on permanent contract with you.

Willy looks at me silently for a long time, then nods:

– I thought that Anatol is Russian. He's Ukranian?

Yeah, Man Without Face is informed much better than "Labyrinth"'s security manager.

– These are just details.

– Take a seat Gunslinger… – Willy moves an armchair to me then pads to the window looking at the city poured by blood colored blaze, – So, you're diver?

I nod.

– This is very interesting. Unusual! – Willy raises his forefinger, – Everybody look for divers, everybody have requests, business, questions… you came to us by yourself.

I stay silent.

Willy turns around and looks at me.

– You have a nice suit Gunslinger, – he says, – It'd be good to add… a small cap to it. A small gray cap.

I see. A simple test.

– Vika…

Willie smiles: it's the same little trick as was done by Man Without Face, I'm cut off from my operating system, I could expect that type of surprise.

Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours…

It turned out that my head is aching badly. Must be the beer…

I took off the helmet, grabbed the mouse, launched 'Bioconstructor', hastily opened the 'Clothing' window, then 'Headgear', found something looking like beret or cap. Then I filled it with steel gray color and hooked it on my figure, person number seven, Gunslinger…

deep Enter Beret is on my head. I'm not sure whether it's what Mr Aguirre wanted or not but he looks satisfied.

– We value the divers' work. – says Willy. – But our permanent employees quite manage it. We need time, small. We'll offer you interesting work, yes?

I shake my head, beret slides to the side.

– Mr Guillermo, – I say respectfully but resolutely, – I'm talking about one certain problem which I want to help "Labyrinth" to solve.

I see his eyebrows raised in surprise.

– Recently a strange accident have happened in "Labyrinth"…

I fall silent and wait for his reaction. Willy is obviously deep in thought.

– Accident? – he nods towards the window, – We have thousands of accidents here every day. War! Shooting! Cheerfulness!

Was Man Without Face really mistaken? I start feeling myself like an idiot.

– Your divers… – I start. – Did they manage their duties yesterday for instance?

This is the only thing I know: "Labyrinth"'s divers hadn't justified hopes.

– Ah! – Willy nods, – Ah! Unfortunate!

I nod just in case.

– Is it a problem? – Aguirre becomes serious.

– As far as I know, yes.

Pause. Guillermo weighs something in his mind.

– Mr Gunslinger, what do you know?

It's no use to lie, the man before me is not the one it's worthy to bluff with.

– Very little. I was informed that there's a problem in "Labyrinth", that your divers failed to solve it. I was asked to render an assistance to you.

A pause again. I'm anonymous and it's risky to let me into unpleasant sides of the Company's life but Guillermo has a 'good nose' for troubles and methods of overcoming them.

– You'll sign a single-time contract? – his tone becomes quick and business-like.

– Yes.

– Complete nondisclosure of the situation, – he adds, – with all possible penalties.

– Yes…

– Please Gunslinger, – he points at his table. I pad closer being sure that it'll be now when I'll sign the cooperation documents but Willy points at the monitor in the middle. – This is 33rd level of "Labyrinth" Mr Gunslinger, 'Disneyland'.

I look at the level and don't like it at all, at least because when I was there last time it looked completely different.

– Very-very bad level, – says Willy. – Hard. This is the beginning: 'Russian Hills' { roller coaster }. This is… – he puts his hand on the keyboard and the picture slides a little aside, – a Grabber Demon. Bad!

Gee, as if good demons ever came out of "Labyrinth" creators' minds…

– This is him… – one more touching the keys, – Unfortunate.

Guillermo keeps silent, not for theatrical pause – it's nothing unusual on the screen. He's just thinking.

– So the problem is this Gunslinger? Yes?

1011

No ordinary Deeptown inhabitant can exit the deep by himself: he'll just never see the computer, won't be able to enter the exit command or to contact the operating system with voice. It's only in virtual houses with drawn analogs of real computers installed where subconsciousness gives a kind break. One can exit the deep only where it was entered: in his imaginary home which might be a palace or a hut but with a 'real' computer.

That's why timers exist. They are plugged into all programs, from Microsoft's Windows-Home to Russian 'Virt-Navigator' and 'Deep-Commander'. The longest time for being in the deep is 48 hours, the time during which the human won't die of starvation and water loss. Reasonable users always set their timers for less though: a couple of hours, a day… Maniac who set his timer for 36 hours was already an exception. The waking of somebody who have spent two days in the deep is…. a foul smelling sight.

Of course it is possible to break and disable the timer. Or to break it and add a couple of zeros to the number '48' but such kamikaze are rarely found and their end is mournful.

Like Unfortunate's.

It's impossible to pass "Labyrinth of Death" in a single attempt, one can't just have strength for that. The drowsiness retreats in virtuality but there are the limits of stamina anyway. That's why players get access to the game menu at the end of each level where there's an option to save their coordinates and to exit to the outer deep, to exit in order to return later.

But sometimes there are optimists that decide to pass "Labyrinth" in one attempt to repeat that very first legendary submersion into virtuality. They break the security timer, sometimes by themselves, sometimes using some hacker's program, they cut off their guaranteed retreat and dive to the very bottom.

It's the divers who drag them back. All big game centers have communication with somebody of us. The biggest ones even keep anonymous employees on permanent contract. It's cheaper to pay us than relatives of the player who died of exhaustion.

I was looking at Unfortunate. He was dressed in regular masking overalls, protection mask-helmet and had only a gun as a weapon: he either entered the 33rd level like this or was killed here already. After demise in "Labyrinth" the player is being restored at the beginning of the level automatically, with minimum of gear.

– This is ridiculous, – I said.

– What? – Guillermo is interested.

– For how long is he there?

– For 39 hours. We trace players since their getting into the system.

So Man Without Face got interested in Unfortunate almost as soon as he got into "Labyrinth"? He watched him attentively and began his search for divers immediately.

– His timer could be set for 48 hours.

– Yeah. Ah, how unappetizing! – sighs Guillermo, – Pee-pee, poo-poo into the virtual suit… EWW.

Why did Man Without Face set the alarm?

Nothing terrible have happened yet anyway, it's just yet another self confident game addict.

– Does he sit like this for a long time?

– For almost 24 hours, – nodded Guillermo, – Yes, it's strange. He tried to pass the level for five times… then submitted himself… sat by the entrance.

– And what did you do?

– We've sent Anatol, – Guillermo pulls his hands apart, – He can do that… to lead to the end of the level…

– And?…

I have to drag the information from him with wild horses, not because Guillermo hides something from me, he just can't understand what exactly interests me, he got used to communicate with well prepared divers that understand everything on the fly.

– Please explain the situation in an orderly fashion, Willy.

Guillermo nods.

– The player entered the level 39 hours ago. He was killed 5 times, very quickly.

– By the Demon?

– Oh no… he poof-poofed the Demon! By other players. Then he sat down and is still sitting. We sent Anatol, he drove the Unfortunate and they were both killed. Anatol started for the second time but they failed again: the customer was killed. Anatol was very angry, he shot dead everybody there, – Guillermo laughs leniently, – Today divers were supposed to try together. I'll request the report, yes?

– Yes… – I say not turning my eyes from the screen. A young guy is there, dressed in overalls and holding a gun. What scared Man Without Face? Why does he think that events don't have analogies? Why does he offer the Medal of Complete License for a simple task? – Willy, have anything else strange happened?

I get the weak hope that the different task was meant.

– No.

– Nothing?

– Nothing-nothing! – Guillermo parts his hands – We take care of our customers. Everything is under control in "Labyrinth".

I'm looking at the screen, waiting.

– A-ha… – sais Aguirre curiously, – yes-yes… There were two more attempts to lead him out this morning… and three times more in the afternoon. All failed.

– And surely you didn't know about that? – I can't resist to be mordant.

– We don't fetter our employees' initiative, – answers Guillermo with dignity, – The situation isn't critical yet.

Of course he's right but I get a slight, vague anxiety. Who is he, the player gotten into trouble, US President, the Pope, Dmitry Dibenko?

– Who is he? – I ask aloud. Guillermo shrugs.

– This is unknown.

– You don't control your users?

– We're an entertainment center, not the KGB, – he answers with taste,

– Information can be stolen. How do you think, will the solid top corporate manager or Arabian sheikh be happy if some tabloid publishes an article about their adventures in the drawn world?

– And what's so bad?

– For you – nothing. The ordinary person will laugh. But solid people like little-little when they are laughed at.

– Can you cut him off manually?

– How?

How, really? Even if they trace the line using which the player entered the Labyrinth and cut off the connection, nothing will change. The person would just be hung in the void or the world around him would freeze like a photograph depending on what his subconsciousness would decide. It's the same as to cover the drowning person with a non transparent cover so that he would not bother the rest of the swimmers.

– Please trace his channel anyway…

– It's very hard, – Guillermo points at the city outside with imposing gesture, – Now there's 2036… excuse me, 2035 players already… This is 2035… no, now 2037 phone lines. All that is delivered to 28 main servers, then is being divided into levels and processed by our own and rented computers on all continents. We use 4 satellites to synchronize the data exchange. Either Internet user or an unorganized one who called one of 700 company numbers can connect to "Labyrinth"…

– I see… – No, it's possible to trace Unfortunate anyway but this fun will be so terribly expensive that it's useless to try to convince Guillermo to do it. – Can you summon your divers here?

– They are not online now.

It's understandable too, if they really tried to get Unfortunate out for whole 24 hours then they must simply sleep sluggishly now, one of them in Ukraine, the other one in Canada. Maybe they curse aloud in their sleep.

– Okay, – I decide. – Is it possible to enter the 33rd level directly?

Guillermo looks aside.

– Have you played long time ago? Do you still have your records saved?

– No…

– Then you'll have to go from the very beginning.

This is what I didn't expect.

– What's the bull? All games have service channels for traveling between levels. Are you an exception?

– Yes.

– But why?

– "Labyrinth" has a big prize fund for setting new level record or fast finishing the entire game.

– I remember, but… is it a big fund?

– The main prize is half a million dollars. This money will go to the one who manages to pass all levels and destroy the Alien Prince in 47 hours 59 minutes! – the commercial type solemnness starts to sound in Guillermo's voice.

Oy-oy-oy….

Why am I not a player?

– This is big money, – notes Guillermo for some reason, – Yes? Any codes that give nonsusceptibility or full weaponry and gear to the player would be figured when one talks about half a million. Any service channel would be found and used. We would be forced to pay prize amounts too often… or to be exact, never.

– But how do your divers work?

– They had passed "Labyrinth" previously. They have records on all levels, in all dangerous places. They need just a couple of minutes to get where they need.

Great beginning…

– How much time does it require to reach the 33rd level?

– From 25 hours to infinity.

What was Man Without Face counting on anyway? If "Labyrinth"'s divers fail to get Unfortunate out in 24 hours it means it's impossible at all…

Guillermo is silent watching me.

– Can I get level maps at least? – I ask, – Complete ones?

– No. There's no complete maps in existence. "Labyrinth" changes constantly and on its own. This is not a movie, not a book after all Gunslinger. This is the whole world, the miracle world! The miracle can't be static.