Sergey Lukjanenko. Labyrinth of reflection

     Sergey  Lukjanenko,  30, is  one  of the today's  most popular  Russian
Sci-Fi writers.  His  first  works  were  published in  1988.  Currently his
bibliography includes more than 40 titles of novels and  short stories.  The
Author defines his genre as the "hard  action  science fiction", but all his
works also have a very well defined philosophical aspect. The novel  offered
to your attention was written in 1997 and became the real 'cult book' of the
Russian Internet.
     Sergey is married, he lives in Moscow.

     Email: sl@amc.ru
     Homepage: http://www.rusf.ru/lukian/ (In Russian)

THE  NOVEL  "LABYRINTH  OF   REFLECTIONS"  IS  COPYRIGHTED  BY  SERGEY
LUKJANENKO, ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR. ANY COMMERCIAL USE OF THE
NOVEL'S TEXT IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.


                Several notes for the reader:

     1). My English sucks. So it was obviously way too presumptuous of me to
try to make a translation like  this. It was my love to  this book only that
made me to venture into this adventure. ;-) I was hoping that  this novel is
really worth your kind attention (despite my ugly
 English?).
     2). Some  opinions  expressed  in  this  book  by  the  main  or  other
characters, as well as some words/terms used, might be considered  offensive
to some Western readers. In fact, one  such situation was even showed closer
to  the end  of  the  novel  itself.  The  concept  of "PC" (aka  'Political
Correctness') does not really exist in Russia which fact IMHO makes the life
much easier and slightly  reduces the amount of  stupidity  that  inevitably
presents in this life. Despite that, I definitely had  to use the 'softened'
terms  in my translation in order not to outrage the people (not too much at
least).  But  of  course,  something  might have still  leaked  out.  Please
consider yourselves warned.
     3). FIDO
     Some more confusion can be caused by Lukjanenko's technical details and
descriptions of the Net due to  one more fact:  he writes from the point  of
view of  the  person  who  was once the FIDOnet  member. Also it seems  that
Sergey himself was  mostly affiliated with FIDO at  the time of  this book's
writing.  The principles of FIDO's system  organization differ from the ones
of the Internet. I never was FIDO member, so I know very little. In general,
it's free, amateurs'  network that allows its members to exchange emails and
files. FIDO uses its own proprietary  protocol. Special gateways are used to
exchange  emails  with  the  Internet.  Look  at  www.fidonet.org  for  more
details... But be prepared to get back not the homepage, but some HTML code.
{<i>G</i>} The guys have forgot to put the {<i>HTML</i>}  tag  into the code of their main
page... OOPS.
     4). The names.
     The same name in Russian usually can have several forms, reflecting the
attitude of the  one who pronounces the name to the one named. The number of
these  forms is as far as I  can  judge, much bigger than in English. That's
why  in my translation I preferred to retain  the  original rules of forming
such  names and to  provide this note. Another important reason is that  the
Russian  name changed according to the rules  of  doing so  in English would
sound ridiculous (maybe for me only, as I'm Russian... ;-) ), not mentioning
that it's not always possible to do this with Russian names at all. Example:
John - Johnny.  Now  try to do the same with, say, my name: Yuri. Yup...  My
point  exactly.  Below is the  example  of  how  the  first name of the main
character can be 'bent'. The same  often happens to other names in the book.
For  inexperienced reader it might be confusing,  so  I apologize...  Russia
*is* confusing by definition, so bear with it. :-)
     Leonid - the complete name.
     Lenia (should  be read roughly  as  Lyo-nee-aa; don't pronounce 'double
lettered' sounds as too long ones though)  -  this  is  slightly diminutive,
friendly form used by relatives and friends.
     Lenechka (Lyo-nee-chka) - a "pet-name"  form, sometimes also  used with
sarcasm, depending on the context.
     Lenchik - "pet-name"/unceremonious address.
     Len'ka ( here ' means softening of the previous sound, 'n' in this name
sounds  like 'n'  in  the  word  'change')  - Unceremonious address,  a  bit
slighting. Often used by close friends without any offensive context.
     ...  and so on. No more forms are used in the book, so  I'd  better not
confuse you any more.
     Another trick is how the names are formed n general. In particular, the
concept  of the middle  name in Russia. It is not 'given', but rather is the
father's name.  To  be used as a middle name,  special endings are attached:
-ovich,  -evich for man's  middle  name (yeah,  they are gender  specific!),
-ovna, evna for female's middle name.
     Examples: Petrovich Alekseevich - men's
             Petrovna    Alekseevna     - women's.
     Also, the last names  of the Russian origin are gender specific too. To
women's form the ending -a is usually  attached:  Kalmykov  for  me  becomes
Kalmykova for my Mother, as opposed to her maiden name  which is Cellarius -
not originally Russian one and as such not gender specific.
     There's  much  more about Russian 'naming  system',  but I  think  it's
enough  said  here in order to  a). totally  confuse an unaccustomed Western
reader, and b). to explain  the  names in the novel for those who managed to
overcome the confusion. {<i>G</i>}
     And the last thing:
     5).  Any  feedback will be  greatly appreciated! Any questions/opinions
are welcome to mohatu@ameritech.net. Hate mail/flames will be ignored. Thank
you!

 Yuri Kalmykov aka Mohatu, Waukegan, IL, February-November 1998.  <mohatu@ameritech.net>




<ul><a name=5></a><h2> * PART 1. The Diver * </h2></ul>

     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 {<i>glubina</i>} 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.


     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. {<i>complete form: Victoria, never used in the novel</i>}
     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? {<i>here is  a reference to  the
Russian fairy tales of course...</i>}
     - 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? {<i>yet
another folklore hero ;-) </i>}
     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 {<i>Alexander</i>}, 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.


     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.


     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 {<i>Roman</i>}. 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 {<i>marijuana</i>}. 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... {<i>Note: the same word is in Russian original ;-)  as  well as
'Sux' in part 2 by the way</i>}
     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!


     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.
     {<i>  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'</i>}
     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 {<i>'long bearded'</i>} 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....  {<i>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>}
     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.
     {<i>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.</i>}
     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.


     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'  {<i>raw-smoked
hard  sausage</i>} 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'
{<i>classic Russian beer ;-) </i>}. 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 {<i>security guards ;-)  </i>} 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.


     Maniac  lives on Vasilievsky  [Island] {<i>a district  of  St.Petersburg</i>}.
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! {<i>same in Russian original</i>}
     - 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' '? {<i>OS/2: 'half-os'</i>}
     - 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'. {<i>orange soda</i>}
     - '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.


     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.


     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?



     "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'  {<i>roller coaster</i>}. 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?


     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.



<ul><a name=17></a><h2> * PART 2. "Labyrinth" * </h2></ul>


     The Portal through which "Labyrinth" is  connected to  the rest  of the
deep is  really beautiful. It's a huge black marble  ark  going up into  the
sky. Purple sparks slide along it  back and forth and  low rumble is emitted
by  the  stone, sometimes accompanied  with deep  nonhuman sighs.  The ark's
entrance is filled with swirling red fog.
     And  right into this fog people are  coming,  slowly  as if mesmerized.
Maybe  not  all or them are real, some of them  are created by "Labyrinth"'s
sysops for more solemnity but it's impressive anyway.
     I join the common flow.
     - Hey...
     The guy walking by my side touches my shoulder:
     - What's your name?
     - Gunslinger.
     - I'm Alex.
     -  Nice  to  meet you... - I turn away, but  the  guy doesn't leave  me
alone.
     - Going to the first level?
     - Yes.
     - Let's go together? It's much simpler, honestly!
     I  examine him. He has  obviously individually  created appearance, his
manners are somehow insolent but self confident.
     - We'll pass 5-6 first levels together, - he goes on, - they are simple
but it'll be easier to warm up. After that we'll separate if you want. Well?
     - Okay.
     We  shake  hands and walk  side  by side. The bloody fog  envelops  us,
nothing can be seen around anymore. The voice comes from the sky:
     - Your entrance mode?
     - Pair entrance! - says Alex, - Alex and Gunslinger!
     - Pair entrance, - I repeat, - Gunslinger and Alex!
     The  fog dissipates slightly. We're  standing  by the section car  that
rests  on the rusted rails.  Two overalls are scattered on it  together with
two  mask  helmets and two guns.  All our  'fellow  travelers' have vanished
somewhere. We check the chargers and change.
     -  There'll be a trap  by the station  building,  this is obvious...  -
mutters Alex, - We can't relax... Where are you from, Gunslinger?
     - From Mommy and Daddy.
     No more questions arise. We climb the section car and start pumping the
lever. The old rattletrap accelerates  quickly,  we move through dissipating
fog.
     - Gunslinger, do you like [Stephen] King or what?
     - Why?
     - Well, your nick... or you just shoot well?
     - You'll see.
     We leave  the fog. The rails are going along crumbling embankment,  the
station  building is ahead  burned  like  the  Reichstag  building after the
storm. The likeness is improved by the  red flag on the dome. Either it's an
entourage detail (some  Westerners are still setting  their scores with  the
communism), or  some  Bolshevik have decided to commemorate  the  revolution
anniversary. The latter is more likely, November 7th is in three days.
     -  Now  look attentively and be prepared,  -  says Alex from behind  my
back, - The trap  is there  for  sure.  You know, everybody  needs the spare
charger...
     - I know, - I say turning around. I shoot  twice and the  already aimed
gun falls from  the hand of my  short-time ally.  I bend  down to  him. Alex
gulps the air with his mouth looking at me with  senseless eyes. The program
gives him  5  more seconds to  understand  his defeat. - And in fact, I like
King too, - I inform him picking up his gun.
     That's all. I had one  gun with 8 cartridges,  now I have two guns with
14 cartridges.

     I  throw  the body down  over  the  section  car's skirting, under  the
embankment,  onto  the pile  of similar looking  bodies. It was  me who  was
supposed to end up there according to Alex's plan.
     - I was playing 'Deathmatch'  when  you even couldn't  reach up to  the
keyboard,  -  I friendly say  in parting.  The body will  decay quickly,  in
around  6 hours.  That's  how it  is made  here, otherwise all "Labyrinth"'s
space would be filled up with bones.
     The station building  gets closer.  I look at it trying  to  understand
what have  changed since my last time here. It seems to me that tower at the
right wing was missing before.
     The section car passes the frozen train, new and clean one, with people
sitting by its windows. Their bodies are covered by some  grayish film. This
is the refugees' train that the aliens had burned when it attempted to leave
the Twilight  City. I look  at  the 'refugees' that sit decorously along the
windows. Oh  yeah. Lamers you are, dear "Labyrinth"'s  creators. You have no
idea what the REAL evacuation is and how do REAL refugees look like.
     I  jump  over  the  skirting  and  roll  down the embankment.  Let  the
overconfident newbies ride to the very building.  I'd better do it on my own
feet... slowly.
     This will be more reliable.




     The first level is simple by definition. It must be like this in  order
for  the newbies  to draw  themselves into the  game and  believe  in  their
strengths...  in  order to come here more  and  more  times. I approach  the
station  building  from its  left  wing  and quickly  check several familiar
caches: in the  sewer, in  the power lowering booth  and in the cabin of the
overturned  locomotive  that lays across  the tracks. There's nothing in the
sewer,  in the  booth  I  find  two  chargers,  and a  sandwich  wrapped  in
transparent wrapping is in the locomotive. No people or monsters show up yet
and this is odd.
     I  approach  one of  the  building's side  entrances, stop  by it for a
second, then dash inside.
     A-ha.
     Two mutants run to me, two petty human-like demons. They are covered by
some  greenish  mossy nasty stuff, rifles are in their knotty  hypertrophied
paws. The austere  styled, 'professor' looking glasses remain on the face of
one of them.
     I shoot them point-blank, they even have no time to open fire. I change
the  charger  and  approach  the bodies. Their rifles are destroyed  by  the
bullets. Pity. One can't go very far with just a gun.
     I walk through the building:  the series of empty befouled halls, blood
pools, walls covered by some desperate  slogans and curses... Not a  station
building but the Brest fortress. {<i>The fortress on  Soviet-Polish border that
was one of the first to be attacked by the Nazis in the morning  of June 22,
1941</i>} According  to the game's  legend  it  was  here where the  last battle
between the city police and the aliens  took place. I know that one can find
a  dying  sergeant somewhere  in  the building's basement  who will tell the
terrible story of invasion and  will give away his rifle before he dies. But
I'm too lazy to search for this tear-squeezing,  endlessly dying program.  I
check  some  more  caches  one  by  one,  finding  brass-knuckles  which   I
immediately put on my left hand, a couple of hand grenades and finally a two
barrel carbine.
     A  couple of times I can see the human figures in the distance but they
don't start the hunt and I  leave them alone too: no time for that. I go  to
the exit to the  building square. There, on the table with a bloodied female
corpse under it...  it always lays there... the computer is quietly working.
The  game menu is on the screen. I save my game, refuse an offer to quit and
move further, to the second level.
     Holding  the rifle in my hands I run out  of the building, creep to the
road  bending down low  and hiding behind the  trees.  Not for  nothing: I'm
being shot at from somewhere like  the higher stories  of the building. They
miss.
     Most likely it's a human, monsters are dumb but keen.
     The square is full of  slightly dusty  but quite  operable  cars. Their
owners had boarded  that  train... I'm hiding  behind the  boxy and crumpled
Ford and wait.
     I always wait here...
     In around  five  minutes  a  human  dashes  out  of  the  building  and
approaches the cars in quick runs.
     I  raise and aim  my rifle at him. The guy stops, he wasn't ready for a
trap now, at the very end of the level...
     - Get in! - I motion at the Ford with my rifle's barrel. Looks like the
player doesn't  understand me. I can't see the face from behind his mask but
even if I could,  the  drawn face will say nothing about his nationality but
he doesn't look like Russian.
     - Get into the car and drive!
     He  understands, the interpreter program  have kicked in. He approaches
slowly, opens the door and sits inside.
     - Hey! - the voice is hardly heard. I turn around not  losing the sight
of  my captive.  The  slightly  familiar  figure stands in the breach in the
dome. Alex. Wow, he managed to catch up with me, he  entered the game  again
and caught up. Looks like it was him shooting at my back... - I'll make you!
Do you hear me?! No peace for you! I'll make you!
     The certain international  gesture from me causes  him  to  open volley
fire  but he has only a few loads while the  distance  is  big. Throwing the
rifle aside he tries to aim  at me with a  gun and at that moment the purple
shadow rises behind  his back. Geez, the fiery chokers can be encountered on
the first  level already. The glowing paws grab Alex by  the  throat  and he
falls down on his knees, flutters and shoots over his shoulder. I'm too lazy
to wait for the outcome.
     I sit into the car. The prisoner who submissively waited until the  end
of the talk, starts the  car.  He drives slowly, turning  around often as if
expecting a shot at the back of his head.

     The highway is quite busy. Huge trailers  try  to catch up and ram us a
couple  of times.  I  lower the  window and shoot them with  rifle aiming at
tires   and   windshield.   These  are  just  trifles  yet,   the  monsters,
"Labyrinth"'s creations. It's not them whom we should be afraid of.

     The man in  the front shudders when I shoot at first, then gets used to
it.
     The real  enemies wait  for  us  at  the road  junction. Three cars are
blocking the road, armed people are hiding behind them, one stands openly in
a casual, self confident pose. He has rocket launcher in his hands.
     Shit. I have heard that there is heavy weaponry in the station building
somewhere but never bothered to check.
     - What will we do? - asks my prisoner.
     One  should be an idiot  to try to fight the gang like this alone, it's
easier to submit yourself and  sacrifice  some of your weapons hoping to  be
let go after that.
     - Slow down gradually. Stop after my third shot.
     He nods silently.
     The bandit with rocket launcher looks at us amused, waiting.
     Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours... let me go, Abyss...
     I looked at the  picture  accustoming myself. The bandit... cars... the
back of my driver's head ... the sight's cross in the middle of the screen.
     The cheater I am.
     I stretched my  hand,  touched the mouse, moved  it along the  pad. The
cross slid along the screen.
     Here we go.
     I opened  fire, shooting  with the left mouse button  and reloading the
rifle with  the right one. The bright yellow  shells flew  across the  whole
screen, the headphones rumbled. After I shot those three who were visible, I
moved my  shooting  at the  cars. It's not easier to hit the  fuel  tank  in
virtuality than in reality but when you shoot at the drawn silhouettes, this
is the task for a kid.
     deep
     Enter
     What the hell, didn't I tell you to stop?!
     - Stop! - I shout to the driver.
     He stops right  before the burning cars and turns  around. Even through
the dark glasses of the mask terror and admiration can be seen.
     - How did you do that?
     - Get out.
     He obviously  waits for  one  more shot,  but I  plainly point  at  the
bodies, both shot by  me and killed in the  cars' explosions.  Go gather the
weapons.  He  won't dare to  try to shoot  me now.  The speed  and  accuracy
demonstrated by me  is  practically  impossible for an ordinary player, only
for the diver... and an old doomer who is used to the mouse.
     Doomers already  were divided into  'keyboardists' and  'mousists'. The
eternal argument who is cooler was never solved: virtuality had come.
     Now I dot the "i's".
     One of the bandits is still alive. His foul language is so colorful and
intricate that his national origin is obvious. The  player's face is covered
with blood, one hand is partially ripped off, with the other one he tries to
reach the  first-aid  set. Only 5% of strength had  left in him  but the set
would save him.
     I pad closer, he notices me, jerks and shouts:
     - Who? Who are you, asshole?!
     And another 'multistory' phrase follows.
     -  Gunslinger,  -  I  reply aiming  the  rifle  barrel at the swearer's
forehead. I don't like when one  curses  like this. Either the girl or a kid
could be in my body after all.
     We have to spend  at least five minutes to gather all the trophies. Now
I'm  equipped  excellently: guns,  the  rifle  with  an optical  sight,  the
carbine, the rocket launcher, first-aid  sets,  grenades, the armor vest. My
prisoner is equipped no worse, he just doesn't have the rocket launcher.
     It's impossible to drag away such a pile of iron  in reality, but  here
we all are Rambos a little.
     -  Let's  go, -  I  say  to  the  prisoner,  getting  into the  car. He
understands without translation.. We drive along the highway, I can't resist
and shoot one more trailer using the rocket launcher. Of course I  leave the
car  firstly... Labyrinth"'s creators had a good sense of humor  and I don't
want to watch my insides on the car's ceiling at all.
     The second level ends at the suburbs of the Twilight City. We leave the
car  together  and save our result using the  computer which  is  diligently
working on the ruins of a small cottage. Only after this  my fellow traveler
calms down. I wave my hand to him  and go towards the sever cover hatch. The
most reliable  way  through the third level lies through shit. A  few people
use it,  it's too disgusting despite the shower at the end of the level. But
I  don't  care,  I'll pass the sewer  looking at  the screen  and moving the
mouse.
     - Hey! - shouts my fellow traveler behind me - Why did you need me? You
are the coolest one I've ever met!
     Maybe he expects the reply like 'it's easier together' or even an offer
to  go together  further,  but  I didn't like  that he  almost crashed  into
burning cars, so I tell the truth:
     - I don't know how to drive and it's too long to walk on foot.
     He  just  stays  by  the  computer,  bewildered  and   overfilled  with
impressions. And quite well equipped for the  beginning of the third  level,
by the way...


     I pass 14 levels. In 7 hours. The legend was born today.
     Corpses and ruins were left behind my back. Only on the 6th level I was
delayed for  a while: it's very-very  new and unwonted. Then I  was stuck on
the 12th, I've encountered similar levels before but the arena is always the
arena  and  crushing  a  hundred plus  monsters  is not like  pushing  three
buttons.
     Fortunately other players  almost never interfere anymore.  The  rumors
are creeping across "Labyrinth"  crossing  levels with  the  ease impossible
even for divers. The deep is not an obstacle for rumors,  nothing could ever
stop them.
     Rumors are diver's enemy but now they spread fear across and this works
to my advantage.
     By the end of the 14th level I realize that I can't stand it anymore, I
get out  of the deep for a moment and  see that it's almost 7  am. It's only
bad for computers to be shut down, the opposite is true for humans.
     The  14th level is the city's sport center. The computer with  the game
menu  was  standing  on the  judges'  table  by the huge swimming pool where
corpses of crocodile-like amphibious  monsters were lazily swaying  in clear
water. It's quite difficult  to kill those so I had to use the plasma gun to
boil up the water in the pool. When the  water cooled down,  I dived in  the
stinky  broth  and  waited  for  the  pursuers  for  about 10  minutes:  two
hysterical players, the guy and  the gal  that followed me for three  levels
already.  They were  in hurry  being sure that  I'll leave the  sport center
immediately and  stormed  into the hall recklessly yet beautifully:  the guy
with  the plasma gun  by  his belt and the  gal  with the  carbine atilt.  I
launched a rocket  at them, right from underwater  and they both vanished in
the fiery swirl.
     I  crawled out of the pool leaning upon  the boiled monster's  body and
looked  into  the  crater. Nothing was  left  there,  the guy's plasma gun's
energy cells had detonated.
     - I'm  the Gunslinger, - I  say anyway. It  had become a ritual already
and I like good traditions.
     I save my result: "Gunslinger, 14" and  click the exit button: we'll do
everything right and honestly, I'll have a rest and return, return for sure.
     The hatch opens in the floor  by the judges' table  and  after  jumping
into it I find myself in the changing room.
     The exit from "Labyrinth" is as solemn and magnificent as the entrance,
though it's a different solemnity, a cheerful one. The room with pink marble
walls, bright sunlight in the ceiling window, soft armchair,  the table with
fruits  and food,  the  huge  carved redwood closet.  I  take off  my armor,
helmet, masking overalls  and stuff it into  my 'individual closet' together
with the pile of weapons. Only I will be able to use the goodies I've earned
when  reentering "Labyrinth". I take the shower and change. That's  it, time
to go. I don't want to break the program, enough headaches for me, after all
it takes just 5 minutes to get to the hotel and exit in a regular fashion.
     The changing rooms' doors  lead to the spacious hall with columns  from
where  Deeptown's  streets  can  be  seen. This is  the  border between  the
Twilight City and the rest of virtuality, as vague as a sound barrier in the
ocean.
     The  hall is usually empty: players leave their changing  rooms without
hurry and then, in groups  or alone they go  to nearby restaurant "BFG-9000"
or to "Kakodemon" bar to drink for their victory or defeat...
     Today almost  100 people have  gathered here  and  it was  my merit. It
seemed  that everybody killed by me were present.  Everyone leaving changing
rooms is  being closely examined as  if they could see and  remember my face
under the mask-helmet. I'm being examined too but probably I don't fit  into
the image of merciless Gunslinger  which they remembered during last moments
of the game.
     I approach the nearest group, the talk  dies there and the muscular man
with a square
 chin asks sharply:- Gunslinger?
     Luckily, I get what he means and nod...
     -  Yeah...  -  resentment  and  rage  are  on my face,  - With a rocket
launcher, ass hole... and then says: "I'm the Gunslinger!"
     Hm, it's a bit  overdone  possibly...  it's pretty hard  to  hear  just
anything after being hit by the  rocket, but Gunslinger's  figure is already
surrounded by mystical aura  and  my  words  about  the  rocket launcher are
accounted as usual looser's excuses.
     -  You're  the hundredth, -  says the  squared-chin  guy, -  I'm  Tolik
{<i>Anatoly</i>}
     - I'm Lenia.
     - Gee, he killed a hundred people on  the spot, sucker! - informs Tolik
with admiration and hate, - Just where did he come from, I wonder... Meet my
friends: Jean, Damir, Katya... He made us all in the 9th level.
     To be honest I don't  remember, it was too noisy there: the one  before
the last  attempt  of the  players to  get  together and crush the  impudent
Gunslinger in a body.
     - And me - on 15th! - I say, - I was moving so well, but he...
     - Have you heard this? - shouts Tolik, - The Gunslinger had moved on to
the 15th!
     The crowd answers with excited buzz.
     I wave my hand hopelessly and head for the exit.
     - Hey! - shouts Tolik, - Won't you wait for him?
     - I don't have a  rubber pocket! - I reply, - You'll soap up his mug by
yourselves...
     - This is true, - nods Tolik, - If we manage to recognize him.
     He  suspects  me anyway  but just can't confirm his suspicions.. I nod,
make the next step and see Alex.
     My  first victim  stands a  little  aside,  silently listening  to  the
dialogue  with  interest,  it looks  like  he ain't  gonna  interfere.  It's
vendetta, one on one.
     Works  fine for  me. I pass by him... a couple of seconds more and I'll
enter Deeptown's street...
     - Gunslinger! - I'm called from behind and  a hundred of people exhales
together.
     I turn around, the  voice was  too insistent, it's no use to  play  the
fool anymore.
     It's not Alex, it's Guillermo.
     -  Gunslinger,  - he comes closer, - I'm sorry to take your time... You
have beaten 8 level records, yes?
     Maybe. I look not at Guillermo but at the hundred of my recent victims.
Their looks don't promise me any good.
     - The management have decided to  inform you that you can't pretend for
the declared prizes... yes? Because you work on contract with us.
     Thanks God, he talks quietly at least now and we can't be heard.
     - I wasn't going to, - I inform him feeling dizzy of rage.
     Looks like  Guillermo understands that he  began this talk at  the  bad
moment, but he was ordered to.
     -  Nevertheless, we want to pay you a little bonus... 200 dollars... in
appreciation  of your intensive work. You've  made a very good publicity for
"Labyrinth"... we can barely handle the flow of new players.
     He pauses, looks around the hall and says in apologizing tone:
     - You can drop by to get the money  right  now, with me. There are many
exits from our office.
     Thanks  a lot.  What I don't like is to be pushed into the swamp to  be
cordially offered a helping hand afterwards.
     - I'll come when I have the chance.
     Guillermo  sighs  and  pulls his  hands  aside as if to  say,  "I'm the
dependent guy, was ordered to tell you that..." He leaves somewhere into the
depths of the hall, into some service corridors.
     99 pairs of eyes look at me.
     - I'm the Gunslinger, - I say.
     99 pairs of feet get off the floor. No, 98.
     Alex stands where  he was, just pulls  the long sparkling  gun from his
bosom and shouts:
     - Run you sucker!
     I don't like the name but the advice is good. All insulted ones, except
maybe Alex understand  in the  back  of their minds  that  they  were killed
absolutely  fairly  but right opposite is being shouted out  and that's  why
everyone is ready to  avenge  those friends  of theirs  who  were  hurt  for
nothing, forgetting that they also were competitors very recently.
     I run like crazy.
     Several shots can be heard from behind - Alex desperately tries to stop
the pursuers, then shouts behind me:
     - I'll make you by my own.......
     The shout cuts out: he's not the one  with  the virus weapons usable in
Deeptown streets or maybe "Labyrinth"'s security came into action.
     I run like crazy.
     The last thing  I need at  this point  is to  dissolve  in the  air. If
insulted players  understand that I'm also a diver,  the hunt will turn into
badgering.
     But man, if somebody knew HOW I want to sleep...
     The side street, another, and another one. I lower  level  of detail to
increase  the  speed  and  almost  pass  the building  with  the  sign  "Any
Amusements" in four main languages of Deeptown.
     To my luck the sign is big enough and I understand its meaning in  time
as well  as recollect  Maniac telling me about  virtual  brothels'  security
systems.
     The choice is simple and I storm into rotating glass doors.


     The 'retro' style is accepted here:  massive soft  furniture,  the wide
table with big decanter on it, plates with fruits. The silent bearded man in
the  corner  looks like  a furniture item.  Who knows, maybe it's in  fact a
security program.
     And along  the wooden stairs from  the second  floor descends the  dark
haired  woman in long dress. She looks a bit  older  than  30 and has such a
detailed face that  I almost feel tempted to leave the deep to look at it in
a  normal  way in order  to  understand  how  it  was possible to achieve so
unusually human appearance.
     The  woman comes closer and I  finally  understand the  meaning of  the
words 'ripened beauty'.
     It's  really  so, she  has  nothing of that  youth that reigns Deeptown
streets  and obviously no idea of innocence comes to mind and very good that
it doesn't, she doesn't need it at all.

     The woman stays silent and smiles. I feel that the pause comes too long
and mumble:

     - Hello...
     She nods.
     - Good evening.
     - It seems to me that it's night already, - I say.
     - It's always evening here.
     Well, let's note this.
     - Call me Madam, - the woman goes on.
     - I'm...
     - No name please, it's not necessary at all.
     - I'm Gunslinger.
     She nods.
     -  Very good. Did you drop by for a business... - a smile, - or are you
just hiding from annoying friends?
     I instinctively look at the glass door, silence and emptiness is behind
it.
     - Don't worry. Those who enter here don't see each other. Never.
     - In the second case I'll have to leave obviously? - I inquire.
     - No. We're  always glad to have guests. You can just  sit  here, drink
some coffee or wine.
     - Coffee, - I decide.
     The silent guard  disappears behind the door. I pad to the sofa and sit
down, Madam sits across me with a smile.
     - Don't such random guests ruin you? - I ask .
     - There's  nothing more useful than random fortuities. Besides, we have
a rule: the guest must at least browse the albums.
     I look at her confused.
     - The pictures of the girls.
     - Ah yes, the pictures... - I finally get it, - Sure. With pleasure.
     The  guard  brings  coffee in small pot, Madam accurately pours it into
cups.
     I  put a  little  sugar in it and  make  a  sip.  Coffee is strong  and
fragrant, very  hot. Even  the sleepiness retreats as if I have really taken
some caffeine in.
     - Should I show you all albums? - asks Madam.
     Looks like she puts a double  meaning  in the  question but my head  is
still too slow and I nod. Madam smoothly crosses the  hall and takes several
thick albums in hard covers of  differently colored velvet from the  closet,
puts them on the table before me.
     - I'll return to my room if you don't mind Gunslinger.  If by chance...
- she smiles, - something interests you, just call for me.
     - Okay, - I agree.
     On the stairs already, Madam stops and adds:
     -  By the way...  if you like the picture  and  want to see  it in more
detail, rub the image with your finger.
     I nod and drink my coffee glancing at the albums.
     Do they have any emergency exits here I wonder? Most likely they do.
     Though I also can pretend  that my timer worked  and to dissolve in the
air.  In any case  I'm saved. I've got the better of the hundred  of enraged
doomers, earned the doubtful fame and came 14 levels  closer to Unfortunate.
Maybe he'll be dragged out before I reach him but I did my best anyway.
     Coffee  was finished, I  looked into  the  pot... just look,  it's full
again! The magic thing from '1001 nights'. I fill the second cup and pick up
the black album. Looks like African women are here?
     It turns out that no.
     There was a picture of the girl chained to the chair on  the very first
page. The thick brick wall was behind her, her head thrown back and the face
can't be seen but half naked body  promises much. The chains are shiny, with
purposefully  big  links.  The leather  lash lies  under girl's  feet on the
floor.
     O-ooo-kay...
     I close the album and  put  it on the corner of the  table. Let it wait
for sadists/masochists.
     It's definitely "All Amusements".
     I look at the cover rainbow.  Let's  try to guess. The blue cover,  for
instance.
     Hm,  I guessed right. The Hollywood actor was  smiling merrily from the
first picture,  the one  named as a sex  symbol for the third year already..
He's dressed  in  leather  jacket, high  boots  and lacy  underwear. Wow  my
friend, just look how lucky you are...
     There's no title  under  the picture obviously. Even  if the poor cutie
who  never suffered  from homosexuality tries to sue  the  brothel, it'll be
very  hard  to prove anything. The photo is slightly altered and nobody will
accept it as an evidence except for those of course who were in the deep and
know  how the brain excited by  the deep  program imagines things. But those
who really know virtuality know its main law as well.
     The freedom.
     In everything and for everybody.
     Probably this is right...
     I put the actor on top of the lady in chains.  Let them have their fun,
poor martyrs.
     The pink album. Is it really lesbians? Strange...
     No, just couples.  Two girls with  defiant  stares, one stands  on  her
knees,  the other  leans  onto  the  first  one's shoulders,  gazing  at me.
No-no-no. Not today. Not after 14 levels of "Labyrinth". Just lie aside  for
now, you'll not be bored together either, I can feel it.
     The brown album. My imagination gives up, and I have to open it.
     The old woman in flabby dress.
     Oh my God, it's really for  all  tastes! Stirred up by curiosity, I rub
the picture with my finger.  The old lady on the photo becomes alive, smiles
winsomely,  starts dancing  tripping  with her legs and unbuttons  her loose
overall.
     Granny, you're fucking crazy...
     I put the brown album on top of the pink one and start laughing loudly.
     The guard in the corner glances at me but stays silent. I can't help it
and ask:
     - Do the ... customers happen?
     I poke the brown album with my finger. The guard nods slowly.
     The  violet album. I turn it over  in my hands  trying hard to think of
anything, then  open it at the  first page carefully: what if granddads  are
there?
     She-goat.
     I mean it: she-goat, the young one, whitish, with sharp short horns.
     I don't laugh, I'm too exhausted already. But it's impossible to take a
real goat into the deep so it's either a human operator or a program... that
imitates sexual stereotypes of the young spoiled she-goat.
     Granny, go milk the goat.
     The three albums  remain: the white, the green, the yellow. I open  the
white one, for some reason  being tortured by thoughts  of elves, angels and
other heavenly creatures. Wrong guess, it's just women. As it should be, the
famous top-model dressed in an evening dress
 from Cardin is on the first page. Okay, I'll examine the dress later. I weigh the green album
in my hand. What else have left that could feed the mighty erotic fantasies?
Kids, of  course. I  open  the album. A-ha. Juvenile millionaire, the  movie
star and aging housewives' favorite. Go  help your  Granny to  hold the goat
kiddo.
     The  yellow album. I guessed  right again.  The girl's face  is vaguely
familiar, I think she's an actress  too. The entourage is amazing: the beach
spreading to the  horizon  under  the rising  sun. Instead  of tanning idly,
better bring the bucket of goat milk into the house, baby.

     Having  finished with the most 'all' of offered amusements, I fill  the
goblet  with  wine,  gesture  at  the  pile  of  albums with non-traditional
partners, the guard picks them up silently and brings away.
     I had to take a better look at that  one,  with  animals. I wonder, are
there  young  crocodiles and the  swans, ripened as  Madam?  Though, even if
there are not,  they'll be organized  at  the  customer's request. Even  the
green squid or pit-bull.
     I start looking through  the white book making the girls to strip  from
time to time.
     The  choice is staggering. The movie  stars and models end  quite soon,
followed by  unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar but cute. I can't  help myself and
look at the very end of the album.
     The clean white sheet is there and the title: "Draw  your own happiness
yourself".
     Yeah, nobody would leave this place unsatisfied.
     I start to browse the album faster. After all, it's possible to look at
naked beauties, both still and moving, by less expensive means that being in
the deep.
     The African  in  palm  leaf skirt on her hips, the Eskimo in  furs, the
Korean  on the mat, the  Polynesian with the ring  in her nose... there's no
racism in virtuality.
     I turn the pages even quicker. One page, another and another...
     Vika.
     I freeze gazing at the girl that smiles to me every morning.


     Madam appears quietly as a ghost, sits by my side and asks:
     - Do you want more wine, Gunslinger?
     I nod. Looks  like I have spent a long time sitting here and looking at
Vika.  It was an evening twilight on the picture, she  sat on the railing of
the wooden  verandah, the dark  forest could be seen  behind  her,  the  dim
yellow lantern in the high grass, the black mirror of the pool.
     - We have  many  different customers here, - says Madam thoughtfully, -
Some of them prefer movie stars, others - goats...
     A slight smirk.
     - Who is this girl?
     Madam looks at me puzzled.
     - Does she have a real prototype? - I ask.
     The brothel mistress leans  on my shoulder and looks at the picture for
a long time.
     - I don't have  right to answer such  questions Gunslinger. I even have
no  idea. It's thousands of  faces here. Many of them might seem familiar to
you, - a slight  grin, - but this  is not more than just a coincidence. Does
she remind you somebody?
     - Yes.
     - Somebody real?
     - Not exactly... - I cut my one-side openness,  - Madam, can I...  meet
this girl?
     - Of course, - our gazes  meet, our faces are close, irony  and mockery
are in her eyes. - Ten dollars  an hour. Forty dollars  a  night. Our prices
are moderate, affordable to any hacker.
     - You're cruel, - I say.
     -  Yes. When it seems to me that a nice young gentleman starts  getting
crazy, I'm cruel.
     I take out the credit card.
     - Forty dollars?
     - Yes.
     She accepts the money, hesitates, then says:
     - Gunslinger, please  listen  to one story...  Once there  was a  small
silly girl,  she studied in college,  liked to hang in  discos and to  flirt
with guys. And she loved a singer. He appeared on TV often, was interviewed,
his pictures always were  on  magazine covers.  He  was a good singer and he
sang about love. The girl believed in love very much.
     - I know how these stories end, - I say. Not only Madam can be cruel.
     - Once the singer arrived in her town during his tour, - Madam goes on.
-  The girl was  on all of his  concerts. She  jumped out on the  stage with
flowers and the singer kissed  her cheek. Of course  she  had  got  what she
wanted. On the second evening she  entered his  hotel room and left  in  the
morning only. And never came to  his  concerts since.  No, the singer really
turned out to be a  nice guy and  a  beautiful man. He was tender and sweet,
sharp  minded and cheerful. The girl didn't regret anything.  But she didn't
believe in love anymore. You know why?
     - She mixed an illusion and reality, - I answer.
     - You understand. Yes, sure.  It  would  be better if  he  was dumb and
dirty bastard. It would be much better. The  girl would find the other ideal
or would still love the singer's image. But this way... it was too much like
a mirror, the  love to  reflection, the true  and perfectly  clean  one. She
really  had met her dream, had found her ideal while it must be loved from a
distance.
     I nod.
     Sure,  Madam... Of  course,  the  wise  brothel  mistress.  Definitely,
all-knowing master of love and sex.
     I know.
     - I'm sorry Madam, please remind me, have I paid you already?
     The woman sighs.
     - Follow me Gunslinger...
     We ascend the stairs, there's  a corridor, doors. Madam takes me to the
door with number 6 and touches my shoulder.
     - Take care Gunslinger... And by the way, the story that I've told  you
- it happened not to me. But I know lots of such stories.


     There's not a  room but a  garden behind  the  door,  the night garden,
crickets  chirp softly, the air is fresh and cool,  the dense grass is under
my feet.
     What  did I  expect after all?  The hotel  room  with a squeaky bed and
sheets damp due to  frequent washes?  This is what's good about  virtuality:
one can make the house's inner space as big as desired.
     I  walk towards the lantern  light in the grass,  my movements are slow
and sluggish, drowsiness have almost retreated but the lead-heavy exhaustion
have come instead.
     I  see  the  small house, either  a good 'dacha' or a  modest  cottage,
nobody around.  The  lantern shines  lonesomely  and sadly.  For a moment it
seems to  me that merciful  Madam decided  to leave  me  alone.  No, hardly.
Compassion is one thing but the business is always on the first place.
     I  sit by the lantern - this  is an antique kerosene lamp  in net case.
Those are used to descend underground. Into the deep.
     The  tiny moth  circle  around  the  lamp,  bounce  against  the  glass
powerlessly trying to break into the light. Humans are much more stupid than
the moth, they always manage to find a  fire to burn their wings, that's why
they are humans.
     I don't hear the steps, just the hands lie on my  shoulders,  unsurely,
shyly as if accustoming.
     - Is it always so silent here? - I ask.
     - No.
     I shiver. Even her voice sounds familiar.
     - It depends on the guests.
     - I like silence, - I say, still not turning around.
     - Me too, - she agrees, maybe in order to make a good impression on me,
maybe sincerely.
     I dare to turn around.
     She  looks  just as  on  that picture. A  short skirt, not a 'sexually'
short  one,  just  comfortable summer  clothes, smoke  grayish blouse,  gray
sandals on her feet, dark hair  tied up with a narrow band  on her forehead.
The girl looks at me seriously, examining me as if I'm not the customer whom
she has to serve but really just  a guest whom she might accept  or kick out
into the night.
     - I was  called Gunslinger all day  long  today but you better call  me
Leonid.
     She nods in agreement.
     - And... if you don't mind, - I add. - If possible, I'll call you Vika.
     The girl stays silent  for so  long that I decide  that I have hurt her
accidentally. But finally she just asks:
     - Why? Do I remind you somebody?
     - Yes, -  I  confess.  - I'll forget  anyway and  will call you by that
name. Let's better avoid this.
     -  Okay,  - she agrees sitting down by  my side, outstretches her hands
and warms them above the lantern as if above the fire, - I get used to names
easily.
     - Me too.
     We sit in silence. I feel falling down slowly - deeper and deeper...
     - Vika...
     - Yes, Leonid?
     - Will I look very stupid if I fall asleep now?
     - I don't know, - she says, - Was it a hard day?
     - The hard ones are still ahead.
     - There's a bed in the house.. as you understand.
     I nod.  I don't want to stand up  and leave alive silence for  the dead
one.
     - But if you want, I'll bring you comforter.
     - Thanks, this would be just great.
     She rises and I gather remains of my strength.
     Abyss, I'm not yours... let me go , Abyss...
     Firstly, I went  to  the bathroom. Luckily the suit and the helmet have
long enough wires.  Then  I lagged to the sofa  and fell  on it throwing the
pillow  aside:  the head in the helmet is lifted high  enough even without a
pillow. My neck  will grow numb by the  morning, but I don't  want  to leave
now.
     - Vika, turn the deep on... - I whispered to Windows-Home. The colorful
whirl follows and I'm in the deep again.
     -  What did you  say? - Vika stands by  me.  The  one that is  alive...
almost...
     - No, nothing.
     I take the comforter, spread it out on the grass and lie down. The girl
sits by my  side. I look up at the stars,  they are so close, so  alluringly
bright. I  lack just transparent light wings to  fly  up  and crash  against
invisible glass...
     - Vika, aren't you lonely here, in this nook?
     - Why do you think it's a nook?
     - The stars are too bright.
     - No. I like it here...
     She lies by my side and I shift on the comforter a little  to  give her
more space.
     - Do you like the sky? - asks Vika.
     - Yes. I like to look at the stars. But I have no idea what their names
are.
     - Why would they need the names we give them... - Vika touches my hand.
- Look, the star have fallen. Just above us.
     - We could go and search for it, - I say seriously. Vika doesn't answer
right away and I understand with horror that I'll have to rise now.
     - No, - she decides. - Your feet are failing you Gunslinger. We'll look
for it  in  the morning. It'll  just cool down by  that  time  and it'll  be
possible to pick it up.
     - It's  too much light in  the morning, - I note.  - Better tomorrow in
the evening.
     - You're strange, - says the girl quietly. -  Okay. Let's look  for  it
tomorrow.
     - Had you ever found a fallen star?
     Vika stays silent but I can feel how she shakes her head.
     - Virtuality took the sky from us, - I whisper.
     - You understood it too?
     -  Of  course.  The  world leaves into  the deep,  into  reflection  of
reality. Why would one fly to the Moon or to Mars if any planet is reachable
here and now? The passion have gone. The interest have gone too.
     - But computer technologies are developing rapidly.
     -  Oh really?  "Octium" is not more than  just very  cool  "686"... - I
purposefully call Pentium-Pro by unaccepted name. - Nothing new was invented
in last five years, we are just marking time.
     Vika laughs softly
     -  Oh geez... an  argument about  technological developments... Leonid,
you're in the brothel, remember?
     - I know... You're bored?
     - No, but... I just have weaned of the talks like this...
     She pauses then slightly touches my cheek with her lips.
     - Sleep. You falter, Lenia.
     I don't argue, I don't want to argue with her.
     All the more, she is right.
     I close my eyes and fall asleep - instantly.


     I see a dream. I often see dreams - the consciousness gets so exhausted
during the day that relief is absolutely necessary, it's what the dreams are
for, to save  us  from overload of  impressions,  to finish  what  was  left
unsaid.
     I  don't  remember  my dreams usually, just messy remains  whirl  in my
head, not  completely understood. But  now the dream is  bright and imprints
into consciousness, maybe because I sleep in virtuality.
     I'm standing on the  stage,  the heavy  curtains' cloth  is behind  me.
There's a man with a guitar  on  the stage, he's motionless as if chained by
invisible chains. He sings  but  the  words  don't reach me.  It's  the deep
between us, the Deep that became alive, that turned into transparent wall. I
strain myself trying to walk to him, to break the wall and to hear the words
but the deep is heavy and resilient like a rubber slab. It throws me back, I
fall on  my  knees and freeze, unable to move. The singer turns his head and
looks at me.  It seems that he starts  to sing louder, but I can't  hear him
anyway. I'm chained by the deep, I'm swaddled, helpless.
     The  singer nods  and turns  away, I suddenly  understand  that this is
Unfortunate from "Labyrinth", the  one I have  to save... to save instead of
standing on my knees under invisible rubber heaviness.
     But I have no strength anyway.
     From the  opposite side of the  stage, from behind the curtains another
man appears.  He's dressed in  camouflage overalls and has a  shotgun in his
hands, he looks at me, smirks and raises his weapon. This is Alex.
     I shout, - NOOOO! - but the sound is bogged in the deep.
     Alex shoots, the bullet breaks  the  guitar's neck, the  strings scream
curling  up  in  elastic rings,  the silence barrier breaks. I  jump up, the
heaviness disappeared. The singer  looks at  the dead guitar with  surprise.
Alex  pulls the  lock of  his  gun, I  jump, knocking  the  singer  down and
blocking him by my body.
     - I told that I'll make you, - says Alex.
     He shoots, the bullet hits my chest, tears  my heart into pieces,  goes
through and stabs the singer. His body shivers and becomes dead.
     This means - it's over. This means - I was too late.
     I rise and go to Alex. My heart doesn't beat anymore, but I don't care.
I'm the diver, the only enemy of the deep, the guard between the worlds, the
one  who  had to be here in time. I got used to live without heart, it's not
that simple to kill me.
     The audience roars behind my back, whistles and stamps their feet.
     - I've made you, - says Alex and lowers the shotgun.
     Vika comes out from  behind his back, outstretches her hand  -  there's
greasy looking gray ash in it.
     - I found that star, - she whispers and opens her hand.
     The ash streams down to the floor circling in the air.
     And then I die.


     Awaken, I swallow the air greedily. The sun have risen already, the air
is intoxicating fresh.
     Vika sleeps, pressed against my shoulder, shrunk of the chill.
     Very nice dream I've had indeed...
     Like  in that anecdote  about  Freud...  "You  know  my dear  daughter,
sometimes there are JUST dreams..."
     They say that it's a bad sign to sleep in virtuality.
     - Vika... - I  touch  her shoulder, she  shivers but doesn't wake up. I
rise and cover  her  with the  comforter. The lantern  in the grass had went
out. I go to the house.
     It is small, just one  luxury bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchen. I take
cream,  cheese and pate  from  the  fridge, make coffee on the  small stove,
several sandwiches, put all that on the small tray and return back to Vika.
     She's still sleeping.
     Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours...
     Well, not bad of a rest: 3 pm. I  visited the bathroom, got myself into
order, even brushed my teeth holding the helmet under arm, returned into the
room, took a can of soda, yogurt and a piece  of sausage  from the fridge. A
stupid combination but who cares what I  eat in  reality? The  main thing is
just to stuff the stomach.
     The Vika on the computer monitor is dozing too. I felt the slight shame
before the program whom I'm being unfaithful to with the human.
     deep
     Enter.
     I caress 'almost alive' Vika's hair and whisper, - Time to wake up...
     She opens her eyes, looks at me in puzzlement, then smiles.
     - Thanks.
     - For what?
     - Well... I had such a great rest. It doesn't happen often.
     - I brought the breakfast.
     -  This is MY duty, - sighs Vika with imposed resentment, -  Thank you,
Leonid.
     We drink  coffee and eat sandwiches. Somewhere  far in  the  forest the
bird's voice rings.
     - I had a bad dream, - informs Vika.
     - About the stage?  - I ask and my heart  stops  as if pierced  by  the
bullet again.
     -  No,  it was like  I found the fallen star but it have already burnt.
Utterly.
     The heart shivers again, it echoes in the temples, hollowly and dully.
     It's a bad sign to sleep in virtuality.
     What links were between us, fallen asleep in the deep? Unheard whispers
and sleepy grimaces, strained muscles and shaking eyelashes - everything was
melted into electronic impulses and was transmitted through the deep.
     To touch the one who was by my side.
     Sleeping, just as me.
     To slip into her dream.
     It's a bad sign - to sleep in the deep.
     - We'll look for it tomorrow, - I say. Vika  looks at me ironically and
asks:
     - You're what, a millionaire's nephew?
     I shrug.
     - I want to see you again. Just to see you.
     She hesitates before asking:
     - Tell me... Don't I attract you?
     - Sexually?
     Vika nods.
     - You do.
     - Then... why?
     - This shouldn't be so easy, - I also can't decide to finish at once, -
And it should not be for sale.
     - Lenia, you go crazy.
     - Maybe.
     - You even don't know who  I  am. This, - she raises  her hands  to her
face, - is a mask. A make-up. I can be whoever.
     I'm silent, you're surely right, I don't argue.
     - I  can be old in reality, -  says  Vika without mercy.  - Or terribly
ugly. Or perverted male. Do you understand?
     I understand. It's doubtful about the male though...
     - Don't be stupid, Lenia, don't fall in love with the mirage.
     - I just want to see you again.
     She decides finally.
     - Come to "Amusements" and ask for Vika. Without 'order'. Okay?
     - Won't Madam be angry?
     - No.
     - Okay, - I touch her hand. - Deal.
     We finish coffee and sandwiches, Vika looks at me but says nothing.
     Let her.
     I rejoice inside. Inside I'm concentrated and business-like.
     I'm a 20-year old  again, flirting  with the whimsical coeval. The only
difference is, the thought about the bed doesn't thrill me as much as then.
     Together we  leave the garden, exchanging meaningless phrases. The door
stands right on the grass, reminding of the scene from some old kid's movie.
Vika opens it and enters the brothel's corridor, I follow.
     It's quiet and sad in there.
     The customers never see each  other. Come here  everyone  and find your
cure..
     - My time is over, - says Vika, - my timer will come up now.
     I nod. It's pretty understandable, the timer is a holy thing.
     - Thank you.
     - What for?
     - For the fallen star.
     Looks  like  she  wants to  say something, but obviously  her time  was
really up.
     Vika dissolves in the air.
     I whisper, - Bye... - and descend the stairs. There is another guard in
the hall now, I wink to him and pad to the door, not waiting for the answer.
     - Gunslinger!
     I turn around.
     Madam stands on the upper landing, leaning on the railing heavily.
     - I think you shouldn't have come here, young man.
     -Maybe, - I agree, - But it so happened.
     Madam sighs and turns away. Let her.
     I  don't  need  Deep-Transit  today,  I  still  remember  the route  of
yesterday's flight, and the exit from "Labyrinth" and  the entrance are just
five minutes apart.. I walk  along ever-evening Deeptown's streets,  looking
around, expecting the ambush.
     But either  the  pursuers' passion  have exhausted since yesterday,  or
their finances had.
     - I'm Gunslinger! - I shout  entering the red fog in the portal. Others
turn to me and I laugh raising my hands  up to the lightning pierced arch, -
I'm Gunslinger! Gunslinger!!!



     Today I've become the Death and the Death have become me.
     This happens sometimes.
     I  cross "Labyrinth"'s  levels  almost  without  hiding,  shooting  the
monsters and  passing the other  players. The players  try to avoid me  too.
Except  those who  feel  offended  since yesterday  or  consider  themselves
heroes.
     Those I kill.
     I  was killed myself twice  too. At  the  first  time I've lost  all my
weapons and was thrown back to the beginning of  the 19th, the  water level.
The whole  team had worked here, at least  20 people, I can't  imagine  what
"Labyrinth"'s servers manage to coordinate actions of such a crowd.
     I feel  offended and kill  them all,  one by one, catching them  in the
swampy growth that covers  the  city's water reservoir, diving and  dragging
them  under water where I could survive longer  than any  of them because of
leaving virtuality. To the last of them, it was Tolik if I'm not mistaken, I
cut  the throat  with  the razor sharp leaf  of  the  alien sedge.  This  is
something new in "Labyrinth"'s program  - the possibility to  use improvised
means.
     Then I gather their gear and proceed forward.
     On  the  24th  level, this  is the bridge that  connects industrial and
residential blocks of the Twilight City, Alex catches up with me.
     I'm finishing passing  the bridge, the procedure  that  mostly requires
the  sense  of balance and  strong  nerves than the  ability to shoot  well.
Fortunately, I have the method proved back on the hair bridge of Al-Kabar.
     The explosion bangs before me when I jump from the last slab that hangs
over the chasm. The fiery whirl blossoms on  the bridge,  I'm thrown against
the concrete parapet by the explosion blast.
     Alex  stands at the  beginning  of  the  level.  When  I  look  in  the
binoculars found  in the  main cache of the 20th level, I manage  to examine
him better. He has just a minimal gear - a carbine, a rocket launcher and  a
couple of first-aid kits.
     - Gunslinger! - he shouts and waves his hand.
     He has plenty of loads but doesn't shoot. I don't either.
     - I'll make you pal! - he shouts, - Do you hear me? You're dead!
     He follows me from the very first level and almost manages to catch up.
Maybe he's a diver too, one  more candidate  for the  Medal? My nerves start
failing  me, I  leave the deep,  catch  Alex in the sight's mesh  and launch
three rockets one by one.
     Somehow he  manages  to  evade them and  explosions thunder  behind his
back, ripping into pieces  some poor guy  who  just have  entered the level.
Alex is stunned too though, he squats and shakes his head trying to rise.  I
aim the launcher again but then lower it. The anger have passed.
     -  Cool down, you lamer! - I shout throwing the launcher behind my back
and  leave the level. If he's not a diver, he'll get stuck on the bridge for
quite long.
     The  monsters  get  to use  me well on the 31st level. It's  at least a
couple of hundreds of them  here, beginning with  the weak and  dumb mutants
and  ending  with  the  scum flying, jumping and digging into the ground and
asphalt.
     I'm standing at the  beginning of  the  level  for  approximately seven
minutes - this is the skyscraper's lobby  and shoot the cheerfully gathering
monsters. Carbine shells are  over as well as  the rockets. I throw away the
useless weapons. I'm being wounded twice and  have to use several  first-aid
kits.
     The  lobby's  window cracks  and  the  half transparent  muzzle  shoves
inside. Other monsters keep running in.
     I take  the plasma  gun from my shoulder and open  fire. I have lots of
energy cells, so far saving the most powerful weapon available.
     The level is burning. Blue lightning bolts of my shots ruin the storeys
together with monsters and other players. I burn the whole block down to the
ground.
     The monsters calm down. I move through the wreckage.
     Several attacks more, much weaker this time.
     I leave the level being empty. Very, very nasty level. The monsters are
far less  smart  than the people despite any programmers' efforts,  but they
suppress by their numbers.
     I was  instantly killed on  the  32nd  level.  There  was  a  guy  with
winchester at  the entrance  and he shot me point-blank.  I  don't  have any
ammunition,  I  try  to run towards  my  enemy  to beat  him  to death  with
brass-knuckles, but three bullets in a row  blast the remains of life out of
me.
     I begin the level again from scratch, without the armor and with just a
single gun, as usual.
     Blacked out with rage, I shoot the bastard approaching him is zig-zags,
he  drops  his winchester  and falls  backwards. I  start  hitting his  head
against the asphalt, with each blow shaking out one percent of  strength. He
doesn't even defend himself, just mumbling cheerfully:
     - I killed Gunslinger! I killed Gunslinger...
     I take all his weapons - he had too little unfortunately, and leave the
half dead idiot for the monsters to lacerate.
     The  good thing is,  this  level - "shopping mall" -  is pretty easy, a
little break for those who survived the 'mincer' of  the previous one.  It's
long  rows of supermarkets and small shops... if one doesn't go too far into
them, there's no particular danger.
     I  obtain  the  carbine, the rocket  launcher,  the armor vest and some
ammo. Then, not getting into fights, I proceed to the exit.
     To Unfortunate... damn him.
     When I  enter  the Disneyland  (the  blood stained doll and  a pile  of
little bones by the cheerful entrance),  I start  thinking that  Unfortunate
could have been saved already. This would be funny.
     But Unfortunate is still here.
     I look around for some time to remember the surroundings. When I passed
"Labyrinth"  for the last time, this  amusement park  was not here. The 33rd
level was unpleasant but quite standard.
     Unfortunate sits by the fence of "Russian Hills", huddled up... I still
prefer  to  call  them "American Hills". From one side he's  covered  by the
elegant booth with the ride control mechanisms, from the other - by the wall
that  encircles  all  "Disneyland". A comfortable  place, it's impossible to
stalk him unnoticed. I would hide here too.
     But not for so long anyway, not for more than two days.
     I approach Unfortunate  openly, raising empty hands. He doesn't  react.
Maybe he's sleeping.
     Maybe he's dead.
     Death  in  virtuality is  quite an unpleasant  thing.  I  saw one  such
corpse... the  most horrible thing was that  it was "alive" -  continued  to
walk  along  the street, colliding with passers by, shaking, repeating  last
convulsions of its unlucky owner. He was shut down manually, after two hours
of  his channel tracing. Nasty thing is it  - the dead  body  walking in the
street...
     But Unfortunate shivers and raises his head.
     - Privet! - I shout - Hello! Ne strelyaj! Don't shoot!
     He doesn't answer, but doesn't rise the gun from his knees either.
     - I  came  to help you!  - I hear the  rustle behind my  back  and turn
around. Some guy with the plasma gun looks at me in shock.
     I wave my finger at him and nod - go on.
     It's not necessary to convince him, he recognized Gunslinger and is not
very eager to compete in keenness.
     - Let's talk! - I say approaching Unfortunate, - Okay? I'm your friend!
Go steady!
     Looks like he doesn't want anything, neither  to befriend, nor to shoot
me.
     I squat by his side, outstretch my hand and carefully take the gun from
him. He doesn't resist.
     - Do you understand me? - I almost  shout. And Unfortunate  condescends
to answer.
     His lips move and  I more guess than  hear: "Yes..." {<i>in this case - in
Russian</i>}
     At least something. The compatriot...
     -  Are  you here for long? - I ask carefully. Interesting, have he lost
the sense of time already?
     He nods. At least this he does understand.
     - Is your timer on?
     No reaction.
     I shake his shoulder and repeat:
     - Did you turn the timer on? Is the timer on?
     Unfortunate shakes his head. Uh-oh. The worst  case.  I turn  around  -
most likely Guillermo watches me, and shout:
     - You see? He can't exit by himself! Trace his channel!
     I don't quite believe in the success of this though. Thus, I'll have to
drag Unfortunate to the  end of the level  and convince or force him to push
the exit button there.
     Though, it's nothing impossible in this.
     - Now we'll  stand up  and  go, - I  say softly, as if  talking to  the
little kid. Although, he surely  might be one who  managed to seize upon the
desired toy in his parents' absence. This happened before. - Can you walk?
     An unsure nod.
     - Let's rest, - I understand that  I talk nonsense, Unfortunate 'rests'
here for  more than 30 hours already but I  go on: - We'll rest, eat and  go
forward. There'll be nothing terrible anymore. I'll lead you.
     I take off my mask-helmet,  the air is clean  enough  on this level and
open the package with food. I give him  a huge  sandwich  and a can of soda.
The virtual food  won't help his body but will give him  a fake vivacity  in
the deep.
     I  take a  bite, chew and  look  at  Unfortunate. He just sits with the
sandwich in his hand.
     Yeah. A hard case. I wish I came here a day earlier.
     - Eat,  - I urge  him. I outstretch my hand  and take his mask off. The
red oval from  the respirator  stays  on his  face. Otherwise, it's a pretty
nice face, a normal, not a standard  one: the blond young guy, just his eyes
are tired and dim. - Come on! - I encourage him.
     He  raises the sandwich to his mouth and starts chewing slowly. Good. A
piece for Mommy, a piece  for Daddy,  a piece for Uncle Diver...  Maybe he's
really just a little kid?
     - My name is Gunslinger. What's yours? - I ask. He doesn't answer,  too
busy with his
     food. - How old are you?
     The  last  question  is  a   serious  offence.  Everyone  is  equal  in
virtuality. If he has at least a  little experience in Deeptown  life, he'll
certainly answer... Oh, HOW will he answer...!
     But he's silent.
     Hard work is ahead.
     Well, the  prize isn't small either.  I  wouldn't  ever exchange it for
precious "Labyrinth"'s half a million. It's  impossible to  buy the Medal of
Complete  License  -  a single case like  this would  immediately  ruin it's
value.
     - Feel better? - I ask Unfortunate. He nods. - Very good. Stand up.
     He raises submissively and I return him  his gun. This is not more than
just a  symbolic weapon on 33rd level, but at least  he'll feel himself more
confident. I really want to believe in this.
     - And now let's go, calmly and confidently.
     I'm an idiot.
     I forgot  about  the 'grabber'  demon  around  the  corner,  forgot how
Guillermo demonstrated it  to me. I walk along  the "American Hill"'s fence,
stepping like in the parade.
     And surely the  demon grabs me  cheerfully with his long hand, rakes me
up and  raises  into the  air.  The  demon looks like a stomp,  covered with
tentacles... baobab's stomp most likely.  The toothy  mouth is in the center
of it, strong seven fingered paw grows from the butt, now turning me over in
the air, kneading, turning me into an accurate, one-bite meatball.
     The Unfortunate's gun whispers: "Tak-tak-tak", shooting the charger out
at the monster.
     Hanging  in the air, I  have time  to be amazed by his strange posture:
the body bent forward, his shoulders drawn back, the gun  is in outstretched
left hand.
     It's impossible to kill the demon with this weapon.
     But the paw suddenly stops  breaking  my ribs, weakens and  I fall from
the three meters height right down into the greedily opened gob.
     To  my great  luck,  the  monster  can't chew  and swallow  anymore.  I
scramble out  of the stinking hole trying not  to look at the teeth at least
ten centimeters long. There are shreds of clothes on them. Not mine.
     I'm covered with saliva and it  hisses on my armor  vest. I wipe myself
with  tufts  of  yellow dry  grass,  then pad to Unfortunate. He's  relaxed,
sluggish and barely alive again.
     It appears so...
     - Thanks, - I mutter, press the  first-aid kit to  the hand,  it clicks
injecting the medications and disintegrates. Pretty well was I crumpled.
     - You're welcome, - Unfortunate says quietly but  clearly. Though, this
name doesn't quite fit him anymore. To kill the demon with a gun!
     Theoretically it's  possible though.  "Labyrinth"'s  creators  declared
many  times  that  one can  kill any  monster  with a  gun  or  even by  the
brass-knuckles.  Theoretically.  If  one  knows  one single super-vulnerable
point on the monster's body.
     But I haven't heard about such deeds yet.
     I drop the winchester from my  shoulder and give it to Unfortunate.  He
takes the weapon melancholically.
     I'm armed with the  launcher. It's only four loads there, but we'll try
to get more now.
     - What is your name? - I ask.
     No answer.
     What the hell... let you be Unfortunate then.

     "Disneyland" is  made  beautifully.  I Dunn whether it  copies any real
park or only embodies the fantasy of game designers. But the monsters riding
the view wheel, throwing the fireballs at each other  must have been born in
somebody's sick mind. The sight is so amusing that I look at it for a couple
of minutes before shooting a rocket at the wheel's pivot. Explosion  and  it
falls on it's side slowly. Debris flies at least 20 meters high.
     I look at Unfortunate askance: will he appreciate the show?
     Not in a freaking bit.
     -  Let's  go,  - I  growl. Looks  like I start to get used to my silent
companion.
     We  pass the water rides. There's  blood in the pools instead of water.
Some  boats  sliding  along  the  purple  smooth  are  filled  with  sitting
skeletons,  others  are  empty.  The  nasty  shrilling  screech  is heard  -
mechanisms were not made to work in this type of liquid.
     Disgusting.
     And over  there -  the whole family of mutants: two  adults  and  three
little ones in bright flower patterned dresses, made themselves  comfortable
for the picnic. On the small gas stove  they fry a  piece of  leg in leather
boot. I waste one more rocket. They don't even try to run: those are  not  a
fighter monsters but ones created just to pump up the dread.
     I wish I could find the one who created all this  vileness and kick his
ass. Not in virtuality.
     - We'll soon be there, - I say to Unfortunate. - You do pretty good.
     He  nods, as if  with slight gratitude. Why  did  "Labyrinth"'s  divers
waste so much time?
     The guy proceeds great.
     Together  we deflect the attack of the  flock of petty flying monsters.
Unfortunate shoots sparingly  and keenly, leather wings break, clumsy bodies
fall down and burst.
     - Let's go, - I say.
     It's only by the big concrete field  with  small  cars sliding along it
where the little delay happens.
     There's a little kid in one of the cars, a little black  boy. He steers
trying to dodge from  three mutants that drive  him across  the  field  with
screeching laughter.  Once the kid  passes close to the fence glancing at us
with utter terror.
     Unfortunate raises his carbine.
     - This is not a  player,  - I explain tiredly. - This is a part  of the
program. Some bonus points. You rescue the child, take him to the safe place
and  get some weapon or an armor as a bonus.  Let's go, no need to waste the
time.
     But Unfortunate had obviously lost the contact with reality completely.
He starts shooting.
     Three shots - three mutants.  They try to fight back throwing fireballs
at us but Unfortunate is quicker and much more keen.
     The giant spider crawls out from somewhere attracted by shooting sounds
and starts pouring on us the bursts from  the machine gun implanted into his
muzzle. I have to meddle. Two rockets -  under the cat's  tail {<i>wasted.  ;-P
</i>}... more precisely: under the spider's mandibles.
     The silence falls, just the  kid who have got out of the car squats and
cries.
     - Let's go, - I decide. Now nothing is left but to bring the kid to the
shelter and take the well earned ammunition.
     We walk through the fence torn by machine gun fire  and pad to the boy.
I lag slightly,  pick at the spider's remains with my foot  trying to figure
out whether it's possible to use his machine gun.
     Slime, chitin and iron debris. Nothing to look for.
     Unfortunate approaches me holding the kid in his  hands carefully and I
feel sympathy  to him involuntarily.  He's a  fool, turned off the timer and
got lost in the deep, but he's a nice guy after all.
     - Where are your parents? - I ask the boy hoping that the proggy is not
too complicated and I won't have to  waste the time for persuasion and care.
The boy silently points at the building nearby. Thanks God...
     We approach the building, I keep the launcher ready, Unfortunate is not
battle-worthy.
     The entrance  looks suspicious  to me, the door is torn from its hinges
and  screeches, even if there's no wind. Behind it is full darkness. Windows
are covered with blue moss from inside.
     - There? - I ask. The boy nods. I raise my foot above the threshold.
     - I'm sorry... - the boy whispers clearly, - they said that they'll let
Mommy go if I...
     In the last instant  I manage  to  jump back and the jet of fire misses
me. Something is heavily moving  inside the building and rolls on the floor.
I launch my last rocket in there.
     An explosion  bangs, but  sounds only  become louder  after it. The boy
screams, breaks free from Unfortunate's hands who tries to hold him, but the
kid scratches his face, slips down and rushes into the door.
     - Mommy!!! - his thin scream can be heard followed by the muffled champ
and the silence falls.
     - What a nice  walk for beer  it was... - I mumble dragging Unfortunate
by the shoulder out from the  building. He seems to be ready to storm inside
after the boy, right into the welcoming gob of the unknown monster.
     - Why? - he whispers, turning to me, - Why did he do this?
     It's useless  to  explain him the logic  of "Labyrinth"'s  creators, he
obviously takes everything what's going on seriously.
     - They forced the boy to lure the passers by into the ambush, - I  say,
- They threatened to kill his mother. That's why he submitted.
     Unfortunate stays quite for  some  time as  if thinking over my  words.
Then asks:
     - And why did he rush inside?
     At least now my ward have become a little more talkative.
     - He was afraid for his mother.
     - We need to help them, -  says Unfortunate  gripping the  carbine more
comfortably.
     He's definitely ready to crawl even in the devil's gob.
     - They're already dead! - I shout, - They have perished, believe me!
     He  believes  and  lowers the weapon. Thanks  God  he doesn't insist on
revenge for the poor kid.
     We go further.
     I  have an empty launcher, the Unfortunate's winchester has 10 loads at
the  most.  Aren't we armed  great?... What  a beautiful walk.. And  when  I
notice  the  guy  standing in some 100 meters from us with the corner of  my
eye, my mood becomes even more lousy.
     - Knock him off, - I command. Unfortunate turns to me in surprise.
     - Why?
     Sure. If  he  believes in  reality of  events  he would never  shoot at
people. What a nice guy.
     - Give me the weapon! - I insist, looking at the stranger intently.  Is
it Alex or not? Gee, how I need my binoculars now...
     - No! - says  Unfortunate  firmly and hides the winchester  behind  his
back.
     I even don't want  to argue with him, I just stand and watch the alien.
He studies us too for some time, then steps behind the building's corner and
vanishes.
     Looks like it wasn't Alex.
     - Let's go, my grief you...
     In half  an hour our situation improves  a little. The purple clouds in
the sky disappear opening the evil Southern sun. We're almost near the  exit
from  Disneyland.  Unfortunate   managed  to  deflect  the  attack   of  two
spider-like monsters, I find the  loads for  the launcher and the plasma gun
with one energy cell. The life becomes better.
     We take a break  in the shade of the ruined pizzeria. This time I don't
have  to  ask  Unfortunate  to  eat.   He  chews  the   last  sandwich  very
concentrated, I watch him. I don't need food, but at least he could offer to
share it, lamer...
     - Why did you want to kill that man? - asks Unfortunate.
     I don't dare to tell him that his gear would be useful for us.
     - He could attack us.
     - No. Dick is good.
     - Dick?
     - Yes. He tried to help me. This morning.
     My brains screech in strain.
     So, one  of  "Labyrinth"'s  divers  watches us?  Without  interference,
without offering help. All this is odd.
     - Is Anatol good too? - I launch a probe.
     Unfortunate shakes his head  energetically, but doesn't try  to explain
the reasons for his dislike towards the second diver.
     - What  about me? - this becomes interesting. Unfortunate stops chewing
and thinks.
     - I  don't  know yet,  - he concludes. Then  adds in apologetic tone, -
Most likely, good.
     It's better not to stop the  talk. I carefully  take Unfortunate's hand
and say:
     - Do you understand that everything around is virtual reality?
     - Yes.
     Perfect. This is half of success.
     - Hey kid... What is your name?
     - I can't say, - he confesses with obvious regret.
     - Are you sure?
     - I can't.
     - Kid, you're  in virtuality  for one and a half  day already.  this is
much, very much. Your body is tired, it requires rest, food, water...
     I really hope that my voice sounds insinuatingly, like hypnotizer's.
     - I need to exit, - he agrees.
     -  I'll  help  you, - I promise again, - We're  already  close. but  if
something goes wrong, it'll be easier to help you by other means.
     Unfortunate  swallows  the  remains   of  sandwich  and  looks  at   me
questionably.
     -  Tell me your Net address, - I ask,  - "Labyrinth"  will inform  your
providers, they will send  a guy who  will eject you from the deep manually.
There's nothing shameful in this, I swear, it can happen to anybody.
     - No, this is impossible.
     - Listen to  me...  If  you  are  so shy about what  happened,  or fear
something...  I'll  personally  come to you. Wherever  you  might  be. I'm a
private party. I don't care about "Labyrinth".  I  just  want to  solve your
problem! Do you believe me?
     - Yes.
     - Then tell me the address... - for a moment I think that I've won. I'm
really ready to jump out of  the  deep,  to buy  the plane ticket and go  to
Unfortunate's home, even to the Sakhalin [Island] or to Magadan.
     - No.
     Annoyed, I hit the wall and hurt the finger bones.
     - Then stand up! - I command.
     The  exit  from  Disneyland  is made  inside the mirror labyrinth.  The
labyrinth  inside  "Labyrinth"...  I  start  feeling  dizzy  imagining  this
inclusion of virtual spaces.
     - Okay... - I say when we pass the stone  statue of the moustached  old
man  with  the  pile  of  some sort of ad brochures in  granite fingers. The
statue watches exiting players sadly. - I'll go in front of you. You'll keep
close behind, okay? And try to notice the enemy first, you have keen eyes.
     - All right, - says Unfortunate.
     We enter  the mirror labyrinth.  In the beginning it's just  a corridor
with mirror  walls, then it begins to branch, alternating with columns and I
lose orientation  completely. There's ten pairs of  divers and  Unfortunates
around me. The world breaks into pieces, rotates and flows.
     Shit.
     It's absolutely different from the mirror  labyrinths they like to show
in  cheap  sci-fi  movie  tales.  It's  impossible  to confuse  reality  and
illusion, no matter how directors try.
     Here it's no difference.
     I think about leaving the deep,  though  it'll not help:  the  detailed
illusion will be replaced with the schematic one, that's all.
     - Careful, Unfortunate! - I warn, mechanically calling him by  the name
invented by Guillermo.
     He doesn't protest.
     We wander in the labyrinth for twenty minutes and finally enter the big
hall.
     It's  a mirror one also: 13-edge  prism. Computers are  installed along
the walls. It's the exit!
     And just  under the  ceiling  there are small balconies  where monsters
stand in pairs. I  haven't seen those before -  big bulging eyes, long hands
holding carbines firmly, scaly bodies.
     Except this, they're quite human-like.
     - Get back! - I shout, and Unfortunate seems  to try to jump back  into
the mirror corridor.
     But at this moment monsters open fire.
     Bullets pierce the mirror  floor, sharp  needles  stick into my body. I
shoot at random at one of the balconies, clearly understanding that only one
of them is real, all others are just reflections.
     The  fiery whirl,  the  hall  overcasts with a  smoke.  The  shots  are
thundering, my right hand is wounded, I jerk with pain, throw the heavy tube
of  the  launcher  at the  left  shoulder.  I don't even have  time  to exit
virtuality.
     And Unfortunate rushes back.
     We stand side by side, shooting at  the damned mirrors and they shatter
with mocking  jingle.  I'm  wounded  one  more  time,  scream  but  continue
shooting.
     The last rocket doesn't  find its aim too,  I throw the launcher up, at
one of the still intact balconies, hit it - the glass!... - grab  the plasma
gun and make the hard choice between the last two targets.
     Wrong choice.
     The blue fiery blast hits the dimming mirror.
     The energy cell is empty.
     One of the monsters  is dead,  either hit by the shot or just badly cut
by the shattering  glass. But the second one continues shooting. His carbine
is aimed straight at me and he hits the trigger.
     Unfortunate covers me with his body.
     The whole volley hits him and he sinks down. The monster recharges  his
carbine,  quickly,  with  experience....  and  I  stand  frozen,  unable  to
comprehend  what happened. And anyway, I don't have anything to answer with,
I don't have any loads.
     The  shot thunders  right above  my  shoulder, deafening  me. The fiery
sphere flashes on the  balcony, burning the monster down to ashes, splashing
tenacious threads  of  charges in all  directions trying  to find any  other
target.
     BFG-9000.
     The weapon that I failed to get in my hurry rush through the levels.
     I even don't look who was shooting and bend down to Unfortunate.
     His  face  is a bloody mask, the chest is torn  by the bullets but he's
still alive - five farewell seconds given by the game.
     - Reflection... - he whispers.
     I wipe the blood from his face and rise.
     The husky guy in full armor stands behind me, weapons hang  on him like
ornaments  on  the  Xmas tree.  His face is dry and  calm,  breathing filter
pulled down on his chin.
     - It's hard to kill the Alien Prince's  escort  guards. -  he says. The
voice is quiet but one can feel boiling emotions under this calmness.
     - You're the diver... - I say.
     - You too.
     The armored giant doesn't look like the guy who was watching us before.
     - Anatol'?
     He nods and I remember divers' courtesy rules.
     - Leonid, - I introduce myself.
     "Labyrinth"'s  diver  nods,  throwing   the  bulky  "BFG-9000"  on  his
shoulder.
     Most likely we  had  met  at  some gathering, he just was in some other
body, as well as I was though.
     Anatol' pads  to the  Unfortunate's body, looks into his face  and nods
again.
     - As always.
     He  slightly kicks him as if  making  sure that  Unfortunate  is really
dead.
     And then I hit him on  the face, hit  so  hard  that  Anatol is  thrown
against the wall.


     Dick, the second "Labyrinth"'s diver, whom Unfortunate  called a  'nice
guy', is the one who pulls us apart.
     We fight for around five minutes, without intention to kill each other,
just venting out the rage and hate. Dick pushes the barrel of his "BFG-9000"
between our bodies and informs quietly:
     - Three more hits and I shoot.
     Anatol looks at him askance, lets me go and then hits me under the ribs
in a  short  blow. I  catch my breath and  kick  him in the groin.  Now it's
Anatol's turn to writhe in pain.
     Dick calmly waits for the third hit but we stand still.
     - Good, - decides Dick lowering his weapon.  He speaks Russian, clearly
and almost without accent, - D-divers... motherf***ers.
     - This imbecile lamer... - hisses Anatol, - This asshole...
     - Cool down, - advises Dick. - He went well, I was watching. Not always
honestly, but always well.
     Dick is  not  high,  lean and lithe, but  in  this pair  he's the boss.
Anatol calms down and starts wiping the blood from his face. I get busy with
the same.
     - You played well, - says Dick, - but everything isn't that simple.
     - I understood that, - I agree shifting my gaze from the  Unfortunate's
body, - What's going on?
     - Explain him, An, - throws Dick out and sits on smoked shattered glass
of the floor.
     Anatol winces as  if was asked to eat a  handful of leeches but submits
himself.
     - Did you weirdo really think we're playing the fool here? - he asks.
     - You know better, - I growl.
     - We  try  to drive him out every  hour!  - screams Anatol, - I led him
seven times! And Dick -  eight times! Do  you  understand, dumbass? We  know
every corner here! We can smell when something changes! Understand?
     I start to understand.
     - Had Guillermo told you that we're trying to  pull the guy out? - asks
Dick in a dull voice.
     - Yes, - I sniffle with my broken nose.
     - Great! -  cheers up  Dick, - Then why  the... - he swallows the swear
and just waves his hand tiredly.
     -  Who  is this  guy for  you? - asks Anatol looking at me with a heavy
gaze.
     - Who?
     - Unfortunate! -  shouts Anatol'.  He obviously wants to kick  the body
one  more time  to illustrate his words but  stops  just  in  time.  -  Your
brother? Your brother in law? Who is he? You're what, in really dire straits
that signed for doing our job?
     - Well, I can see how YOU do it.
     - Anatol' asked right, - notes Dick, - Who is he for you?
     - Nobody.
     - Listen man, if you know his address, it's  better to drag Unfortunate
out manually.
     - I don't know his address, - I say, - Can you believe me? This is just
a customer. I was hired to save him.
     - By whom?
     - I don't know either. The guy had no face.
     I watch their reaction, but there's none. They took my phrase about Man
Without Face as a figure of speech.
     - No better, - says Dick.
     - No easier,  - Anatol' mechanically  corrects him,  - No  easier. {<i>The
Russian saying was here... Impossible to translate adequately. :-/ </i>}
     - Thanks, - Dick looks at me askance, - What's your name, man?
     - Leonid.
     Dick nods.
     - You know me as Crazy Tosser. {<i>same in Russian original</i>}
     I just blink. Crazy Tosser  is one of the  oldest and respected divers,
an aged cheerful pot-bellied  guy... at least he has  this appearance on the
gatherings. So this is where Crazy earns his living...
     - Guys, I ain't gonna take over your job, - I say.  - I have a definite
request - to rescue Unfortunate. I couldn't refuse.
     Both  divers soften  instantly.  Looks  like  yesterday's  stir and  my
headlong  journey  through   "Labyrinth"'s  levels   have  planted   certain
apprehension into their minds.
     - You're doomer, right? - asks Anatol' - One of the old ones...
     - Yes.
     - Oh  well... You were  going fine... -  says Anatol' turning away. - I
heard the stories. Even if a half of those is bull...
     - Thanks, - I say. Nice words are pleasant even for a newbie... {<i>remake
of another Russian saying.... ;-) It gets harder... </i>}
     - It's impossible to save Unfortunate, - says Dick.
     - What? - I feel lost.
     - Impossible.
     -  Dick  is  our  fatalist, -  smirks Anatol, -  Okay. Sit  down,  I'll
explain.
     We sit  around the Unfortunate's  body and  Anatol' starts his story. I
listen, skipping details and remembering the main facts.
     Unfortunate doesn't tell his name and address.
     Unfortunate is a perfect shooter... and would he be more lucky he could
pass "Labyrinth" in one day and get all the prizes.
     Unfortunate never shoots at other players.
     - What? - I ask.
     - What you've  heard. He  doesn't  shoot at  the  players. He kills the
monsters in a snap, -mutters Anatol, - One feels envious seeing it... But he
didn't shoot at humans even once.  When I was dragging him out for the first
time, it was the thing why I failed. I was sure he'll help...
     - He "flows"... - I say - He considers what's going on real... well no!
He said it himself that it's virtuality around...
     - Um-hmm, - agrees Anatol - He didn't lose orientation but the humanism
is his quirk.
     - Religion? - I guess, - Pacifist?
     Anatol just shrugs.
     - So it were the players who killed him each time?
     -  The  fate killed  him, - Dick enters  the  talk, - He was killed  by
players, by  monsters, by ruined ceiling, by ricochet,  he drowned in melted
asphalt and fell down from the height. Fifteen deaths, all different.
     - It's impossible, - I note. - Unless he does it himself.
     - If  he's suicidal,  then he must be very-very cunning, - Dick doesn't
agree,  - Everything looks like an  accident.  It's just too many  accidents
already.
     -  Dick thinks it's his karma, - says Anatol - He  had earned this fate
somehow. And whatever we do, it's impossible to get him out.
     - Crazy, this is bull,  - I say. Dick just smiles, -  Guys, isn't there
ANY mean to shut the player down forcefully? Without knowing his address?
     "Labyrinth"'s divers look at each other.
     - Don't hide it, - I beg, - It's serious..
     - There was a method, - confesses Dick. - Anatol have tried it.
     I look at Anatol waiting for explanations.
     - Thirteen deaths in a row,  -  he answers reluctantly, - If the player
perishes thirteen  times in  a row  with interval of less than five minutes,
the program  kicks  him out without  notice. This is a barrier  for absolute
dummies.
     I still don't understand.
     - I tried it this  morning, - says Anatol, - I haven't drag Unfortunate
through the  level, just  stood at the beginning of it and  started  to kill
him. Thirteen times, then two times more, I  thought that I did a mistake in
count. And nothing happened!
     - Stop! - shouts Dick jumping up, - Leonid, one more step and I'll kill
you. This is a game, understand?
     I retreat from Anatol. Dick is right, one can't measure what's going on
in "Labyrinth" with the  real world's  or even Deeptown's measures. This  is
deep within the deep.
     - How did he respond? - I ask.
     -  I  explained everything  to him  before!  -  Anatol hardly  refrains
himself too,  -  Don't  think  I  enjoy that!  I explained  everything,  was
shooting at his head with the carbine. I thought maybe he'll resist somehow,
but in the beginning he tried to hide, then just sat and waited!
     Now it's clear why Unfortunate thinks so about him.
     - Leonid,  it's a  game, - repeats Dick. - On the 17th level you had to
shoot the boy tied to the tunnel door in order to pass. Did you do it?
     Sure I did, it was impossible to untie him...
     -  That  was  just  a program  Dick,  a  drawing  and a sound file.  It
prevented me from getting to the real guy.
     -  And  how  many people  did  you  shoot  in  the  first  day  earning
reputation? - shouts Anatol,- And don't tell me about fair fight! You're the
doomer  of the  old  training, you're diver! All  "Labyrinth"'s heroes don't
have even a half of your abilities in  a fight! You can jump out of the Deep
and not feeling any pain! You can  shoot  like being  in the shooting-range!
You can walk along the wire as a rope-walker!
     He silences and frowns, - Was Al-Kabar your work?
     I nod.
     - Beautifully done... - Anatol calms down as fast  as he fires up, - So
listen  up,  Leonid.  We won't interfere in your business. Make  a try.  But
don't vent out on us! We're doing our own job.
     - And now  it's our turn, - adds  Dick. - Return  in six  hours. If  we
don't get the guy out by that time, it'll be your turn again.
     I don't argue. They are hosts, I'm the  guest. I rise  and walk to  the
computer by the wall.
     - Hey Leonid! - shouts  Anatol'  behind, - Do you know why you couldn't
kill those escort guards at once?
     I shake my head.
     - The programs  can cheat too. Wherever you shoot, only the last target
will be the real one.
     Well, thanks for info... I touch the keyboard and save my result.
     - In six hours! - says Dick behind my back, - Not earlier!


     This time it's much less people in the column hall, but still around 10
people stand sipping beer and obviously waiting for me.
     I go past them.
     - Gunslinger!
     I turn around.  Two unfamiliar guys and  long haired girl  come towards
me.
     - I'm Gunslinger, - I agree.
     - Who are you? -  asks stooping guy with glasses. Many people pick such
peaceful looking appearances to distract the vigilance of their rivals.
     Looks like it'll be no fights with shooting today. Very good; yesterday
everybody were pissed but their minds cooled down a bit as of late.
     - This is not important.
     - Gunslinger,  what do  you want? - the girl joins the talk,  - Are you
just playing?
     - No.
     - What  do  you want then? You were seen on the 33rd level all day. Are
you stuck?
     - No.
     Delegation makes no headway, then the guy in glasses raises his hands.
     - Peace Gunslinger?
     - Okay, - I reply puzzled.
     -  People  fear to go  through the 33rd  -  he  explains, -  About half
hundred of them gathered on the 32nd. Gunslinger,  if you won't purposefully
shoot the players, they won't touch you too. Otherwise the big hunt is gonna
be declared, and not only in the Twilight City.
     - Very good, - I agree, - But one condition... there is a guy  with the
pistol on the very beginning of the level. He must not be touched too.
     The guy in glasses and the girl glance at each other.
     - Deal, Gunslinger.
     We shake hands.
     - Let's go to "BFG"? - suggests the girl.
     The deals  are usually celebrated with beer, and I  have six free hours
anyway, so I nod. The  rest of  the group joins  us and we leave the  column
hall in  a  dense  group.  I  look around  -  either  Alex  is not  among my
companions or he hides in the different body.
     - Guys, if anybody breaks the deal and attacks me...
     - It'll be your and his problems, - confirms the guy in glasses.
     - Great.
     - Gunslinger, are you doomer? - asks the girl.
     - Yes.
     - Maybe yet played on the 'threes' {<i>386</i>}?
     - On 'twos'.
     - 'Doom'? On the 'two'? - asks the guy in glasses ironically.
     - Sure not. 'Wolfstein'.
     The crowd buzzes  approvingly,  most of them  had  only heard about the
most primitive of 3D games.
     -  By the way,  - says the girl,  - I've recently met a guy, he entered
Deeptown from the 'three'.
     - What?! - the guy in glasses looks shocked.
     - What you heard.  As is, without the helmet  or suit.  He said  he's a
drafted  sergeant, sits  somewhere in  tundra  on  the space  communications
station. Their equipment would just fit a museum, but they have a connection
to  the  Internet  through   some  military   local  server.   He  installed
deep-program on 386-DX, entered Deeptown through some gate and ventured into
the city. I noticed him because of his gait,  shaky and jerky, obviously due
to a crappy modem.
     -  Bull, - the guy in glasses shakes his head, - it's impossible to get
into virtuality on the 'three'.
     - Why not? Quite possible, if with 'sopr'. - objects somebody.
     A long argument  starts,  about whether  it's possible or not to  enter
virtuality on  IBM-386  and whether  the math coprocessor  will help in this
process. I just listen but don't meddle, even if I know the answer.
     It's possible.
     I started with  the  'three' myself, also without helmet  or suit, just
like that  hypothetical soldier in the most  unusual leave in  history.  But
this information is not for giving away.
     In  the meantime, the hall livens up. The guy with  the guitar  appears
from somewhere, swarthy and long-haired. He smiles shyly, waves his hand and
steps  into  the green substance which hisses under his  feet. Then he walks
into the center  of  the green zone, sits on  the chair  that  stands on the
small  concrete patch and starts tuning his guitar without  a  hurry. I wave
back to him, even if he  can't  recognize me in the Gunslinger's image. This
is a legendary person  in the Deep, one of the old  hackers, and also -  the
bard.  Our paths didn't cross for a  very long  time.  He usually  sings  in
"Three Piglets", where he  even has  a small  share as they say. He's  quite
indifferent to  "Labyrinth" and  the fact of  his being here is a rare luck.
The singer brushes his hair off his forehead and starts singing.
     The girl claps  her  hand against the table  following the  rhythm, the
beer flows like a river.  I get  to know  all  the company, making  Vika  to
remember all faces and names just in case. Using my distraction, one of them
shakes  my  hand  for the long  time and sticks  a primitive marker onto  my
shoulder. I pretend that I doesn't notice anything,  hug the guy in  a burst
of friendliness and throw the marker back at him.
     Go ahead and trace me now, lamer.
     The fun reaches its peak, everybody's happy, including the smart lamer.
     My head  is already full with intoxicating fog, I stand up and smile to
the players, - I have to go.
     Nobody asks  why  or tries to  make me stay longer. Being in  the  Deep
isn't a free fun. I make my way among the tables, imaginary cubes hiss above
my head, opening and spitting out monsters. I force myself not to duck.
     I  have  around 5 more  hours. Now  "Labyrinth"'s divers are  busy with
Unfortunate, but for some reason I'm sure they'll fail.
     Turning into the alley, I stop. Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours....
     As a  first thing after  getting the helmet off, I  opened  the fridge,
took out the soda, sausage and yogurt. It's time for lunch.
     Everything is  quiet on the  screen. Gunslinger stands  propped against
the  wall,  rare passers-by don't  pay  attention to  him. Some queer fellow
whisks into "Amusements'" door.
     - Hey, not to Vika! - I said following him.
     - I haven't understood you Lenia, - replied Windows-Home.
     - Never mind, - I said hiding my eyes, - Everything's okay.
     I start feeling uncomfortable  suddenly,  what if somebody have come to
that, virtual Vika? I imagined myself starting the fight in the  nonexistent
brothel and smiled but began to eat much faster anyway.
     - Lenia, - said Windows-Home, - I must do my monthly reminders to you.
     - Fire away, - I growl.
     -  To call your parents, - reproachfully says  Vika, - I  can  dial the
number, but this will require the phone line to be freed...
     - No.
     Not very nice of course, but I better call them in the evening.
     - To pay your utilities.
     Yeah, it's better not to postpone  that. They  can  shut down the phone
line in the least desirable moment...
     - Thanks.
     - To clean the apartment.
     I looked around quickly. Yup, it'd  be great to  wash the floor and  to
wipe the dust and to paint the rusty central heating unit.
     - Thanks Vika, acknowledged.
     - Also, one more time I draw you  attention to the fact that  the level
of the given tasks doesn't always correspond to the capacity of my RAM...
     - Shut up.
     I put my hands on the keyboard, pushed  the empty yogurt carton down to
the floor so that it wouldn't hinder me.
     deep
     Enter
     I glue off of the wall, enter brothel's glass doors and Madam comes out
to meet me.
     - You're early today Gunslinger.
     - Well, at least not for long this time.
     Madam smiles and strokes my cheek.
     - Just don't take the girls in.
     - I'll try, - I reply with a voice of well behaving kid.
     Madam nods, not really sure and turns to the guard:
     - Escort him to the service area. To Vika.
     - Thanks a lot! - I say from all my heart. Madam waves her hand tiredly
and goes to the stairs. The guard nods at the little door that he stands by.
     With  a  little  confusion I  follow  him,  into  the very heart of the
brothel.
     There's  a  clean corridor, the summer forest behind the  windows,  the
river and  the bright sun.  Heh, but Madam  said it's always evening here...
still want some sun, don't you?
     The row  of  doors along the  corridor, no names or numbers on them but
the  pictures  instead.  Kittens,  puppies,  mice,  hares...  It  reminds  a
kindergarten a little, but a half naked blonde suddenly looks out of one  of
the doors, oys, vividly covers her breasts and jumps back inside.
     I try  to  keep the  straight face. There are rustles behind the  doors
when I pass them, the light noise can be heard. I know that if I turn around
I'll see a dozen curious faces looking into the corridor. That's why I don't
turn.
     The  guard stops by the door with a thoughtful black kitten on  it  and
knocks.
     -  Yes?  -  I  hear the  voice  that  I  instantly recognize  and start
slightly.
     - A visitor, - replies the guard.
     - Let him enter.
     The guard taps me on my shoulder slightly and walks away. He's asked in
whispers about something from half opened doors, but doesn't reply.
     I enter, followed by the mocking gaze of the kitten.
     The room looks like  a  hut in the mountains. The window  is opened and
the gusts  of chilly wind  enter  the room,  the noise of the river  can  be
heard. Vika sits on the simple wooden chair by the window, studying her face
in the little  mirror,  the  quite  up-to-date  cosmetic set is on the table
nearby.
     - Hi, - she says, - Sit here quietly for a little bit, okay?
     I  nod and look around. There are  watercolors on the walls, unfamiliar
ones,  almost all of them show the mountains, the fog and pine  trees.  They
seem  monotonous  at  the  first glance,  like creations  of  a hack-worker,
prepared  for the weekly  sale but I look closer and  nod in approval, these
are not a 'stamping' made by experienced hand but rather a series.
     -  How would you call  them? - asks  Vika without turning around.  It's
nice to have a mirror.
     - I Dunn,  - I confess, - I always  had problems with names. Well,  for
instance...
     I pass  along the  walls,  touching frames  carefully. The mountains or
maybe just one mountain but at different points of view, dense lashes of the
fog, pine trees stuck to  the slopes. The morning chill and  dry liquid air.
The ringing stream, rustles of wind, as if the picture can make sounds.
     - Labyrinth, - I say, - Labyrinth of reflections.
     Vika makes-up her lips ans agrees thoughtfully:
     - Maybe... The main thing: it's vague. They buy better with such names.
     - These are your pictures?
     I'm amazingly slow minded lately.
     - Yes. Doesn't look like that?
     - It does. But I just thought you selected them with good taste.
     -  Geez, men... - Vika  stands up at  last. She is dressed in the white
linen knee-long dress, sandals, the silver pendant hangs on a chain from her
neck. - Is it supposed to be a first date compliment?
     - The second date, - I try to joke.
     - No, the first one. It was work in the morning.
     -  Okay, then I'll start telling you compliments, -  I mumble, - You're
clever, beautiful, talented...
     - Add 'punctual' to it, - Vika ties her hair with a white band.
     - No, I better say - generous. It's a heroism to sell such paintings.
     - Nonsense,  -  Vika waves her  hand  lightly, -  I sell the originals,
these stay with me. They are better.
     She  didn't  notice  her mistake,  and  I'm really glad  for  it; I say
quickly:
     - Why?
     - They sound.
     Oh,  that's  what  it is...  The sound  of wind  and splashing of water
coming from the paintings wasn't an illusion.
     - The new art is being born, - I say.
     - It  was born long time ago and not only  one  new art.  We just don't
understand yet  that this is an  art. When the cave people were drawing deer
on the walls it wasn't instantly recognized as an art either.
     - Well, in this case all Deeptown is a work of art.
     - Sure. Not all of it but some places sure are. Come here.
     Vika grabs my hand without ceremonies and drags me to the window.
     - Look.
     Now  I  see,  Vika was  painting from  nature... but  do such mountains
really exist? The central peak - hardly. It is at least ten kilometers high,
it breaks out of the mountains chain as a proud rebel. The clouds circle its
crest,  unable to  cover it. The  mountain looks like cut into  layers - the
dark green of the forests, the light green of alpine meadows, the snowy ring
and the gray lifeless granite of the peak itself.
     The lake is spread out between the mountain and our hut which stands on
considerable height too. The lake is not too big but is perfectly round, I'd
say - looking drawn if it wasn't so alive. The water is dark blue, heavy, on
the point of freezing.
     I stay silent.
     - Don't you fear it's just an entourage for whimsical customers? - asks
Vika.
     - Yeah right... They'll manage without it.
     We look at the mountains.
     - Did it take you long to draw that? - I ask quietly.
     - Two years, - says Vika carelessly.
     I nod.  One could spend even more time  on this. These are not standard
beauties outside the window being sold on every corner.  It seems to me that
even  if I take a very strong binoculars I'll not have  to imagine anything,
the picture is done completely, full volume.
     - I want to descend there, - says Vika looking at the lake.
     I silently nod in agreement.
     - It's scary though, the  path is too hard,  - Vika sighs, - If you tie
the rope  to  the  window  it's easy  to get  out there. But  the  landslide
happened on the North  slope  half a  year ago and it's most likely that the
path is blocked.
     I turn and look into her eyes. No, she doesn't joke or laugh.
     - You want  to say that all this  is  alive? -  I ask, - You  can enter
there, climb the mountain, swim in the lake?
     - The water is freezing, you'll catch cold.
     - And  this  all lives?  The snow  is  falling,  avalanches  and storms
happen?
     Vika nods.
     - A separate server is needed to support such space!
     - Two servers. One is completely full, the other  one also supports the
whole 'institution'.
     I swallow the cold air and ask:
     -  So... why  do  you  work here then? Any company would  hire you as a
spatial designer, just let them look into this window!
     - I have my own reasons, - says Vika in  a  slightly raised tone  and I
understand that the question was inappropriate.
     The freedom for everybody and in everything.
     Who knows, maybe she likes to be a virtual prostitute?
     - Thanks, - I say.
     Vika frowns in puzzlement.
     - Thanks for letting  me to see it, - I explain, - You don't bring just
anyone here, right?
     - No. But will you show me your paintings? -  she asks with a smile and
I start.  - You said you can't think out the names. It means, you  had to do
it before.
     Uh-oh... My fault too and like Vika I haven't noticed that.
     - I'm not drawing for a long time,  -  I  confess,  - It so happened...
Maybe for good, I can't do anything like this anyway.
     She doesn't even try to argue politely, she knows what she is worth.
     - You know, I wanted to invite you to the restaurant, - I say, - If you
want...
     - No.
     I feel myself spat  all over. For some reason I was sure that Vika will
accept,  that  she'll  like "Three  Piglets",  that  we'll  stand  above the
mountain  stream; even if it wasn't me who created the landscape  I love  it
anyway...
     - I understand, - I say.
     - No, you don't. It's not because of the customers, it's a  quiet  hour
now anyway and  the girls can work for me. I want to invite  you myself,  to
our restaurant.
     I  can't  understand  but  accept.  Vika  examines  me  critically  and
straightens the collar of my shirt.
     - Good enough, - she decides, - Let's go.
     - Is it far?
     Vika  just smiles and grabs the small  leather purse from the table. We
enter the corridor and I  notice  that the doors  don't  squeak in curiosity
anymore. We walk hand  in  hand, with decorum, like well-behaving  kids on a
walk. The corridor ends with winding stairs, I count 7 turns until the heavy
velvet curtains  block our  way.  For a second  I think  that  the space  is
'turned  inside out' here  and now we'll exit into  the lobby on  the  first
floor.
     - Don't be surprised by anything, - says Vika and steps forward.
     I follow her being absolutely sure that I'll be able to do it.
     We exit to the sea shore.
     The  sunshine  colors the sky in  orange  and  gold.  The sea  breathes
tiredly, caressing the shore. The  sand under our feet is black,  the entire
beach is coal black. I know that such beaches exist, I never thought it's so
beautiful.
     White tables  under umbrellas  are  standing  on the shore, some people
sitting by them. All are alive, not program fakes, I feel it instantly. Most
of them are girls except two muscular guys by the table closest to the water
and also a lean guy in blinders by the bar.
     - This is our recreation area, - whispers Vika, - Let's go.
     We sit by the empty table, Vika turns to me:
     - It's self service here. Go to the bar, bring me some champaign.
     I walk over sticking in the sand. Three men  and twenty women watch me.
Everything looks extremely strange, as if a terrible typhoon had swept along
the shoreline blowing  away hotels and  houses but leaving only this part of
an open restaurant.  The impression is enhanced by the door through which we
have entered - it stands in the sand lonesomely.
     - Hi there, - says the guy by the bar quickly and shoves me his hand.
     I shake it automatically.
     -  Vika prefers dry champaign, -  says the guy, -  But  don't take  the
French  one, take Abrau-Durso, it should  be somewhere to the left under the
bar... Are you here for  the first time? I never saw you before. A quiet day
today, all girls are here. Now they'll have a topic to discuss...
     He  chatters  with the energy of Robinson  who have met Friday for  the
first time. He has a very vivid face, a couple of teeth are missing.
     -  Gee, I like you, - says the guy, scratching his  stomach,  sunburned
skin peeling off, - Hell,  I really like you! Hee-hee... scary, huh? No, I'm
not working here... well, I do  but not  like this... be careful  not  to be
suddenly liked by those two by the water!
     I start feeling  dizzy already, I squeeze out a pathetic smile,  take a
bottle of brut from the ice filled bucket and a couple of high wine-glasses.
     - Here, look... I was tanning too much yesterday! - says the guy in the
meantime, tearing  off  a long piece of peeling skin. - I had a bet with the
girls that I'll be sunburned, they didn't want to believe me. They come this
morning - and I'm really burned!
     He pushes the pitiful remains of his hide under my nose.
     - Cool, huh? Worked like hell all night making tan simulation. I should
try to offer it to somebody, they'll really grab it from me together with my
hands... but I won't give my hands to them!
     I nod hastily and run away with my trophies. Vika waits for me  choking
the laughter.
     - Who is that? -  I ask lowering myself on the chair. The  soft whisper
of waves by the shore seems to be the greatest bless.
     Vika continues to laugh, then becomes serious.
     - This is our computer genius, the hacker and the guard,  the master of
hard and soft...  You can call him Computer Wiz  or just Wiz. He likes that.
Just don't call him Zuko.
     - Zuko?
     -  Yup. He  loves  those instant  beverages:  "Zuko",  "Spreem",  other
chemical stuff. The girls call him that, it really hurts him.
     - But why is he... so weird? - I ask carefully.
     - I Dunn... Maybe he scares our gays off, maybe he's really like that.
     I  examine  the  guys by the  water  askance  and  they  also watch  me
discussing  something. Then one  of them is slapped on the lips slightly  by
the other one and turns away in hurt feelings.
     I start feeling  uncomfortable  but  Vika continues to smile and I  ask
with forced curiosity:
     - Why would you need the guys? Can't the girls always manage the job?
     - Sure. Remember the blue album?
     I remember. The devil tempts me and I ask:
     - And where do you keep those she-goats?
     We laugh together and the tenseness disappears.
     - This is a program, - confesses  Vika, - We tried to  put  on animals'
bodies but  the  behavior turns out inadequate. The customers for that don't
happen often but at least we have everything. Any weirdness.
     I pour the champaign into the glasses, we touch them.
     - Good, - says Vika.
     - Yeah, not bad, - I agree putting down the empty glass.
     - "Abrau-Durso" is never bad. It's just for you - "not bad". I just had
a doubt how will you act in such a company.
     - Hm,  what's so  special? - I ask in the tone of somebody who walks in
the company of gays and prostitutes every day.
     Vika thinks for a while.
     - No, you don't think  so yet,  - she says, -  But it's okay. The  most
important  is  that  you  at  least express agreement. It means, you'll make
yourself to believe in it later.
     - May I? - Computer Wiz  stands by the table, somehow weirdly bent over
and  with  a  pleading grimace,  -  aren't you discussing me? I  hope  don't
interrupt? May I sit?
     - Sure, - sighs Vika  looking  doomed.  The Wiz plops down on the empty
chair,  gets  the  glass and  one more  bottle  from behind  his back  in  a
juggler's gesture: some kind of banana liquor.
     - Vikochka dear, thanks! - he says,  - I started to think I'm doomed to
perish alone! Want some?
     Vika  fills her glass with champaign  in an answer,  I also decline the
liquor. The Wiz pours it in his glass.
     - For our acquaintance! - he proclaims, - I'm Computer Wiz!
     - I'm Gunslinger, - I say mechanically.
     - Oy! -  The Wiz leans back on the chair, - Don't kill me! It's you who
keeps  "Labyrinth"  so  excited  for  the  last two days,  right?  Vika,  my
congratulations, you've befriended the cool doomer! He makes  everybody cry!
He kills and kills, to the left and to the right!
     - Is it true? - asks Vika.
     I just nod.
     - I'd never imagine.
     - Well, I guess I should surprise you too.
     - Hey Gunslinger, don't  make too big mess in "Labyrinth"!  -  exclaims
the  Wiz,  - Otherwise  I'll take a leave from Madam, will move myself  over
there  and will rip  everything into shreds! I'm a peaceful  guy usually but
it's  a nightmare  when  somebody  pisses  me off! Hold  me three, two  will
fail... I remember once...
     - Wiz, -  says Vika, - We were talking, we have a  serious  talk. Could
you please chat with Tina or Lena?
     The Wiz nods sadly.
     - It's always like this... Okay-okay, I'm leaving. Nobody likes me...
     - I like you very much but Tina is depressed since yesterday. Cheer her
up, I know you can do it.
     - No  problems! - Wiz brightens up.  He picks up  his bottle  and in  a
dancing  walk moves over to the table  where the  dark-haired splendid  girl
drinks vodka intently.
     I just shake my head.
     - This is our own  small world here,  - says Vika, - A pretty quiet and
peaceful one. By the way, all girls come  hear in their main bodies, not the
ones we put on for the customers.
     - So this is your main body in virtuality?
     - Yes.
     I make the next step.
     - And the name too? Your name is Vika?
     - In the Deep - yes. That's the only reason  why I allowed you to come:
you guessed it right.
     She smiles sadly.
     -  In the  beginning  I even thought that you're some  sort of a spy, a
hacker or a diver, that you had identified my personality...
     My heart starts beating hard.
     - And what about now? Do you still think so?
     Vika shrugs:
     - Who knows? But  I like  you. I just want everything  to coincide this
way by itself... in a wonderful and beautiful way.
     I don't  have time  to reply, the  curtain on  the  door  opens and the
girl's face pokes in for a second:
     - Natasha, Tina, your call. The green and the yellow albums.
     The  splendid  girl  by  whom   the  Wiz   have  already  made  himself
comfortable, throws the bottle at the door. Vika rises a little.
     - Alice! - she says quietly but clearly, - Substitute Tina!
     The girl by the nearby table nods but Tina raises her hands in protest,
- Vika, I'm alright.
     She talks through the  interpreter program but even through it  one can
hear feelings of tiredness and anger.
     - I'll work as a kid, it's okay... That Cap pissed me off yesterday. {<i>a
nick here</i>}
     One of the gays stands up and quickly moves between the tables, he hugs
Tina's shoulders,  whispers something to her and gently  makes her sit, then
looks at Vika questionably.
     - All right Anjei, - she agrees, - Thanks.
     The gay and  one of  the  girls  exit.  Vika  sits down and drinks  her
champaign in one shot, then suddenly says in a hissing whisper,
     - Assholes. All you males are assholes.
     - Who is Cap? - I ask.
     -  A customer.  A  constant  one. I  usually work with him  myself  but
yesterday... I was busy.
     - With me?
     - Yes, - she replies sharply. - The girls shouldn't work with him, they
are out of themselves afterwards.
     - What does he need?
     - The red album.
     I recollect yesterday's evening.
     - I haven't seen that one.
     - It's an inclusion into the black  album.  It  is not  shown  just  to
anybody. - Vika rises, - Damned... Sorry Lenia.
     I rise too.
     - Did you want to invite me somewhere?
     - Yes...
     - So go ahead!
     Back in the lobby, I look around expecting to see Madam but she doesn't
show up. I call the taxi and tell the address:  "Three Piglets". Vika  cools
down slowly. I want  to ask her about Cap and the red album but stay silent.
I can't. Not yet.
     - So, I showed you how we live, - says Vika, - Interesting, isn't it?
     - It's okay, - I say, - Not too bad.
     - Okay... - Vika takes cigarettes from her purse, clicks her lighter, -
Not too bad...
     I don't like when girls smoke, even if in virtuality.
     - Vika, what did you expect of me? Screaming "How terrible!"? I'm not a
hypocrite. Raptures? I can't see any reason for that either.
     She touches my hand lightly.
     - Sorry Lenia. I'm little worried for girls. You  know, you're a random
customer. You were fleeing from pursuit, ran into the brothel, went crazy on
my picture... Sorry. You don't have anything to do with that.
     We  approach "Three  Piglets".  There's no  'rush hours' in virtuality:
zone time canceled this term but some random fluxes and refluxes happen. For
instance, now the hall is packed.
     We elbow our way to the bar and I shout, "Hi Andrei!" to the bartender.
     - Hi-hi... - says Andrei, giving a glass of cocktail to somebody, - And
who are you?
     Wow, it's really him, not a program.
     - Leonid, - I reply.
     Andrei  knits  his  brow,  he  never  saw me  in this  body  and  makes
precautions.
     - Hey man!  - I  say in a scary whisper, -  What's  wrong? Tortured  by
taxes again? The racket filched your file stuff? Just tell, we'll find...
     Andrei leans over the bar and shouts:
     - Ah! Haven't recognized you! Just look how you've grown! A real man!
     Vika hesitates nearby patiently, obviously feeling out  of place.  Just
like I did in the brothel's recreation zone.
     - You want it as usual? - asks Andrei and outstretches his hand towards
the bottles.
     - Gin-Tonic, fifty-fifty, -  I smirk,  - It's me, it's me. We'd like to
sit somewhere above the river. Alone.
     Andrei frowns slightly and looks under the bar, at the terminal.
     - Are all channels busy? - I'm horrified.
     - We'll find one for you, - decides Andrei. He pushes some button, -  A
penny  deal... Oh, what a  perfect timing!  Sudden disconnect, one channel's
free! Go ahead, quick!
     I grab Vika's hand and pull her to the stone wall of the restaurant. In
the tambour I order:
     - Individual space for us two. No access to anyone else.
     - Acknowledged, - whispers  the ceiling, -  No access. You're guests of
the restaurant. "Three Piglets" wishes you a nice rest.
     - How  cool, -  says  Vika ironically,  -  And you're  their  permanent
customer?
     - Yes.
     I don't tell her  all the tiny details, like about that little  diver's
fraud when  I found and kicked some racketeers'  butts. They  stole original
financial  files from restaurant's owner. If I failed to persuade that  gang
of undereducated hackers, Andrei  would have  to fork up quite an  amount...
either  for  racket or for Deeptown's tax  inspection.  But in this  case...
everything ended in peace, even racketeers were happy...  to get out of this
so easily.
     We enter the autumn.
     Vika  stops  for a second looking around,  picks decayed leaf from  the
ground, crumbles it in her hands, touches the tree trunk.
     I wait.  Usually  I waver the same way  when I enter unfamiliar virtual
spaces.  I  also  usually leave  the deep to evaluate  the real  look of the
landscape. Vika can't  do  that but  spatial designers  must have  their own
methods.
     -  Beautiful, -  she whispers,  - Maybe Carl Siegsgourd himself worked.
I'm envious.
     - Yours is not worse. - I console her but Vika shakes her head.
     - Not in everything, he has an excellent sense of  measure, while I can
be carried away easily.
     She kicks fallen leaves in childish manner, they slowly fly up and fall
down again. Their flights are over already.
     -  Let's go, - I take her hand and lead her to the  river. The table is
laid for a banquet. The specialty of the house - fried pork 'a-la Piglet' is
on the table in a big plate, also my favorite mulled  wine and decent set of
other wines.
     Vika doesn't look at the table, she stands  by the steep looking in the
distance. I stand by her side. The  stream washes  over leaves  of  a fallen
tree on  the opposite  bank. Looks like it was a storm lately. This space is
alive too, just as Vika's mountains.
     - Thank  you, - says Vika and I feel  great. I  think I yet should show
her  the sea  shore and the  part  of old Moscow that  are  adjoined to  the
restaurant but all this - later. I'm sure that we'll yet have time for that.
     Otherwise why is everything?
     - You know, I leave my  space  very seldom, - says Vika, - I don't know
why.
     She hesitates, then goes on:
     - Maybe I'm just afraid to meet those who comes to us... to see them as
the ones they can be- kind, cheerful, nice people.
     - Why?
     - Then  it'll be true that all  people are bifacial.  You know, we're a
garbage  can Leonid. The  one  in  which all shit which  was accumulated  in
peoples' souls is  dumped. Fear, aggression, unsatisfied desires, disdain to
themselves. I think your "Labyrinth" is the same in this way.
     - It's not 'mine'. I'm there for business.
     - Then  it's easier  for  you.  But who comes to us? Milksops who can't
wait to become men... who grew tired of being ones, some  guys pissed off by
their girlfriends with a wish  to  swagger... Some of them come and  try all
albums. They say: "We must try everything in this life."...
     Again I restrain myself and don't ask  why the hell does she work there
then.
     -  Why do we drag the worst that we have in the future with  us? - says
Vika
     - Because it does exist and we can't do anything about it. Just imagine
that everyone around us are gentlemen in tuxedos, ladies in evening dresses,
everybody speak in clever beautiful words, are nice and civilized...
     Vika laughs softly,
     - I don't believe in this.
     - Neither do I. No society change, be it technical, social or a complex
one like the  Deep, ever changed individual moral principles. Everything was
postulated:  from  disdain  towards  the  bond-slaves  to  brotherhood   and
equality, from  ascetism to complete license. But the choice was always made
individually. It's stupid to say that virtuality have made people worse than
they were and it's  naive to hope that it'll make them better. We were given
an instrument  and it  depends on us whether we'll  build using  it or crush
skulls.
     - Wrong instrument, Lenia. Everybody understand that they are really at
home  or at work, sitting by a computer in a helmet  or just  gazing at  the
screen and therefore everything is allowed. It's a game, a mirage.
     - You're speaking like Alexandrians.
     -  No, I don't like  their approach either. I have no wish to turn into
the stream of electronic impulses.
     - Vika... -  I put  my hand on her shoulder, - It's not worthy to guess
or  worry.  The  Deep  is  only  5  years old.  It's yet a child.  It  grabs
everything it can reach, speaks nonsense, laughs and  cries irrelevantly. We
have no idea what it'll grow into, we don't know whether it'll have brothers
and sisters that will be better. We just must give it some time.
     -  We  need to give  it  a goal, Lenia.  We have dived into  this world
without  defining for ourselves what  have we left  behind.  Being unable to
live in one world we have created another one and we don't know where to go,
what to aspire to.
     - The goal will appear, - I say without great confidence, - Again, just
allow it some time... let the Deep to become aware of itself.
     - But  what if it did  already? - says Vika mockingly, -  ...and became
alive? Like in imagination of those people who  never been here? Maybe there
are people here  among us that don't exist  in real  world?  Reflections  of
void? What if you or me don't really exist at all? And what if all our ideas
of reality are just fantasies of the Net that became alive?
     Suddenly I feel scared.
     No, I don't think that I don't really exist.
     And I'm almost sure about Vika.
     But I think I know the candidate for being the 'reflection of void'...
     Vika goes on as if wishing to drive me crazy:
     -  Just  imagine how it can  happen. Hundreds  of  thousands  or  maybe
millions of computers are already plugged into the Net permanently. Flows of
information   rush  between   the   continents,  accumulate   on   different
hosts/routers, in machine memory. Nonexistent spaces live according to their
own laws, change. Leaves are  falling,  our steps  leave traces, our  voices
start  avalanches. Information  copies over,  becomes tangled, mixes. Docile
programs create plaster casts, shells but who knows  how  soon those  shells
will be filled with real intelligence?
     -  Any hacker will die  of laughter listening  to  you,  - I  say in  a
'wooden' voice.
     -  I'm not hacker. I  just see what  is  going on around and  I  try to
imagine what would somebody  who came from  nowhere  think if he  appears in
Deeptown  being sure  that he is alive  and real? Grimacing buffoons? People
running around in "Labyrinth"  and cheerfully  killing  each other?  Psychos
having fun in brothels?  Everything that exists in reality we have here too.
The sky and the Sun, mountains  and seas, cities and palaces.  Spaces within
spaces, the mixture of times  and nations,  merits  and  vices.  Everything!
Everything  and  nothing. We need  only what  we  hate in real life.  Death,
blood, fake beauty and  borrowed  wisdom.  So  what might the  Deep think of
people if it learns how to think?
     I stay silent, remembering Unfortunate who kills monsters with a pistol
but never shoots at players. Who doesn't tell his name and address. Who have
spent two  days  in the virtuality already but his tongue doesn't  falter of
thirst and his feet don't stagger.  Who doesn't understand that the kid that
flees from mutants is nothing more than a  hundred kilobytes of a program on
the 33rd level's server.
     I remember the words of Man Without Face: "Something have changed now."
This was the  direct hint,  together with memoirs about 'Invisible Boss' and
'Lost Point'. Something  had happened that doesn't have any analogies except
in the folklore.
     I start to shiver.
     Accidents  can't happen fifteen times in a  row -  "Labyrinth"'s divers
would rescue Unfortunate... if the Net  itself wouldn't resist that. There's
nowhere to get Unfortunate out, he lives in this world only. He's chained to
"Labyrinth"'s world, the world of shooting and betrayal, blood and ruins. He
dies and resurrects not understanding what happens to him.
     - Vika... - I whisper, - Vika, God forbid...
     - What? - she looks at  me and makes one  step from me, -  What's wrong
with you?
     - God forbid you're right... And I do think you're right.
     She grabs my hand, squeezes it strongly, almost painfully and shouts:
     - For how long have you  set your timer? Where do you live? Lenia, wake
up! You're alive, you're real! I'm talking nonsense!
     It feels funny: Vika was scared for me.
     -  I'm  fine,  -   I  say,  -  I'm  alive  and  real.  I'm  not  having
Deep-psychosis. But I know the guy who can't be alive.
     As  strange as it seems,  Vika calms down. If I were her, I would  feel
even more scared.
     - I had met those too... - she declares.
     I shake my head.
     - Vika,  I know a man who  behaves just as  in your fantasy. He doesn't
tell reality and virtuality, he lives in the Deep, not plays.
     She gets it instantly, - In "Labyrinth"?
     - Yes.
     -  This  is  called lost sense  of reality... it's neural  related, but
nothing more.
     -  I saw what  is  it  when  the  nervous system  fails...  This...  is
different.
     - Lenia, - Vika smiles, - I've told lots of nonsense  and scared you...
You know, similarities are confusing.
     I  want  to  tell  her about  Man Without  Face  and Unfortunate. About
accidents that became systematic. But I signed the contract and  promised to
keep it confidential.
     And also - I'll have to confess that I'm diver.
     I have enough experience of such confessions.
     I  can imagine what do  the girls  think kissing the  diver, "Now he'll
leave the Deep and my face will turn into the mask of tiny pixels. He's free
here and I'm a prisoner."
     I don't want Vika to think so, don't want it to be a wall between us.
     - You're right, - I whisper and Vika snugs close to me.
     We stand above the steep, kissing each other, the river roars below and
the wind tousles our hair. A lonesome  bird's cry, a momentary  flash of the
sunlight  is  the clouds,  the leaf carpet  beneath our feet. It's  soft and
smells spicy.  I take  off Vika's dress  and she helps me  to undress too. I
kiss her body, my lips  touch the  live warmth, it's not me  in the Deep but
the  Deep inside me, it's our world around,  I'll never leave it, we'll  get
lost  in  these  forests and  will find a way to the mountains seen from her
window.
     Vika  whispers something  but I can't hear words,  we are  too deep, we
left the boundaries of all spaces.
     Then there comes a short moment when spaces merge.
     We are together despite all distances and uncertainties.
     - Don't leave me Gunslinger, - whispers Vika, - Just dare to leave me.
     - I'll never leave you, - I  say. We snuggle together,  the wind slides
against  the skin, damp  leaves  cool  my  back,  I look up but clouds whirl
circling above, one moment - and I'll fall into the sky, will lose myself in
realities following Unfortunate.
     - Who are you Lenia?
     But I  can't answer,  I hug  Vika again and our lips touch  making  all
words empty and unnecessary.
     My time is up, - whispers Vika, - I'll have to leave... soon.
     I understand, hug her even tighter as  if I  can stop the  timer on the
opposite end of invisible thread, to hold her in the Deep for  a minute, for
a second longer...
     - Come to me  again,  - Vika  raises her head and rises  on her  elbows
above me, - Come today, I'll wait for you.
     I nod, reach out for her but it's too late.
     Her body turns pale and dims, dissolves in  the cloud of violet sparks,
the dress melts on the ground like a handful of snow.  One moment and I stay
alone under the sky that wants me to fall into it, to be lost in cloudy fog,
to  become one more  human  who doesn't  understand the  border between  the
worlds.
     And Vika will be with me always, we'll become equal and I'll never have
to answer the question with a kiss...
     I shake my head and force myself face forward into withered leaves.
     It happens, all divers know the moment when they want so much to become
just like the others.
     I need to flee.
     Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours... Let me go...
     Tiny screens before my eyes, cool wind from the conditioner.
     - Ate me? - I asked the Deep, - Tasty, huh? Aren't your teeth aching?
     The deep was silent. It had nothing to answer, it have lost again.
     As if the world have broken into two  halves, the one where it was love
and  the one where  I  was rolling on the floor hugging  the void. Damn this
split personality after which one feels himself an idiot!
     I  took  off the helmet. The body was feeling  like stuffed with cotton
wool. I  need  a  good  sleep. I outstretched my hand and  tore  the virtual
suit's cable from the port.
     - Device fault! - said Windows-Home  scared, - Lenia, check the plug of
the virtual suit!
     - Pause, - I said standing up and stretching. The suit needs washing.
     I entered the bathroom, undressed  and  padded under the  shower, stood
there for  a minute feeling tight jets of water on my face.  Then picked the
suit up from the floor, took a piece of laundry soap and began washing it.
     Yup, this is how they usually ruin costly things - being too lazy... or
too shy to bring it to the cleaners.
     After washing the suit with extreme care, I  hung it on the hangers and
that  on  the  hook  above  the  bathtub.  The  water started flowing  down.
Squeezing the fabric that  has hundreds of  tiny wires, sensors and pressure
imitators  inside  is  even  more  insane than washing.  Well, let's rely on
Philips'  reputation, maybe  they  even  took  the Russian carelessness into
consideration.
     My old virtual  suit, Chinese made but still quite decent one, was lied
about in the  closet.  I was going to sell it all the time but never found a
time to post an ad in the Net. Now I was happy I haven't.
     After pulling on  cheerfully colored knitted fabric I walked  along the
room for  some time. Feels quite okay, it became a little tight but  not too
much. I even started whistling something waving the suit cable in the air.
     Vika's words  are nonsense. She  really was  imagining things  and I've
lost  my  sense of  critic. The Net is  nothing more than  just  hundreds of
thousands of computers plugged into  phone lines. Virtuality is just a trick
of subconsciousness.
     Electronic intelligence  is impossible on  the  basis  of  Pentiums and
'forths'. Any computer specialist will explain that to you if he won't  feel
too lazy to argue with an obvious stupidity.
     I plugged the suit into the port and Windows-Home declared cheerfully:
     - New device was detected! Do you want to install it?
     - Yes.
     My main  suit will be  drying for at least three days. Let Windows-Home
better install the old suit properly.
     -  Movement  sensors...  test   passed...  pressure  imitators...  test
passed...   power   consumption...   test   passed...   critical  overloads'
limitation...  test  failed! Warning, the given  virtual suit model  doesn't
conform  to acceptable  safety  standards!  Discomfort  is  possible  during
virtual contacts! It's not recommended to...
     - Proceed with testing. - I ordered. All Chinese made suits suffer this
drawback - unacceptable one from the  point of view of Western Europeans  or
Americans. If the concrete  slab squashes  me  in virtuality, the suit might
react too eagerly and leave a pair of bruises on my body.
     To be honest, I don't care much.
     - Testing complete. I recommend to cancel device installation.
     - Complete installation. - I said putting the helmet on.
     - Are you serious? - asked Windows-Home.
     - Yes.
     - Device installed, - agreed the program with grief.
     deep
     Enter
     The wind blows stronger, I shiver stepping back from the steep. My head
is wet and it's not too comfortable to stand here.
     Especially being alone.
     I pick up  the thermos and pour myself some mulled  wine, take a couple
of sips just to warm up a little. We yet will come here again, together with
Vika.  I really  hope she liked it  here,  there's  not  too many  places in
virtuality that I like unconditionally.
     - See you, - I say to the river, to  the wind and to the autumn forest,
then pad to the exit.
     If I  walk to "Labyrinth" I'll just kill the rest of  the time and  the
divers will finish their attempts to save Unfortunate.
     For some reason I'm sure they'll fail.


     The first thing I see entering the 33rd level is Anatol sprawled on the
grass. My  first thought is that  even a  professional can fail  but  Anatol
raises his head and waves to me.
     Unfortunate is also here - in his corner.
     - Hey Gunslinger! -  it is obvious  that  Anatol is not going to change
his horizontal position into vertical one, - Crawl over here!
     I sit down nearby and nod questionably.
     - We're gonna refuse from that... - Anatol nods towards Unfortunate,  -
...assignment.
     I stay silent, letting him to relieve himself.
     - I don't believe in karma, - says Anatol,  - If one  brings the guy to
the  exit with such a care as if  he's a crystal vase but he  still dies, it
means he wants it himself.
     - Oh?
     Anatol lowers his voice to whispering:
     - Look, you  have your own reasons to save him... go ahead and try. But
think first -  he's in the  Deep for  two days.  Have  you  seen such heroes
before?
     - Yes.
     - Hoarse voice, walks like  a robot, understands  everything  from  the
third attempt... Right?
     I look at Unfortunate and shake my head.
     - So, it means that he eats and drinks, he visits bathroom  and orients
himself in what's going on.
     Anatol rises a little and squats.
     -  Gunslinger,  this  guy thinks we're idiots.  Either  he's here on an
assignment from  the management checking how  we're  doing our  job  or he's
another diver, just as we are. Or both at the same time.
     I  have  nothing to say. Of course Anatol  is  right.  There's no other
options from the normal logic's point of view. But I just have some problems
with 'normality' as of late.
     - Crazy came  to  see the  management,  - says  Anatol,  - Either  they
confess  that  they  are  checking  our  abilities or  they  stop  demanding
impossible from us.
     - They'll conclude that Unfortunate is a diver.
     - See?
     - This is a  very  comfortable  version  Anatol.  Some  diver trickster
making fun of entertainment industry and his colleagues... Of course, nobody
would shut down "Labyrinth" because of such a trinket.
     -  Gunslinger, I dragged  him through  the  whole damned level, -  says
Anatol tiredly, - I've shoot all guards in the mirror hall...
     I nod, it's sure possible with his gear and experience.
     -  You know what happened next? - an anger appears in diver's  voice, -
He dropped his carbine. And it shoot him right between the eyes!
     I stay silent. What  can I say?  Unfortunate doesn't want to  leave the
level...
     -  I'm  completely  exhausted... - Anatol spits on the grass, - I can't
even look at this asshole anymore, not to mention to save him...
     - Anatol, nothing is done without reason.
     -  Then what does  he tries to achieve? Huh?  Well, I'll  tell you.  He
wants us to cancel our contracts! To get the warm place himself! Alone or...
in a pair with somebody. With the diver who will kinda save him!
     He looks into my eyes and I take the challenge.
     - You accuse me of double play?
     Divers  never  frame divers. It's too  little  of us. That was the main
purpose of the Code,  that's why we meet three times a  year neglecting  our
usual caution and mutual distrust.
     If the  divers start fighting each other in Deeptown the whole Net will
suffer while the Net's well-being is the most important thing, it has enough
enemies in the real world beside that.
     - I don't know, - Anatol  lowers his gaze,  - Maybe not. I'm sorry. But
you're being framed too. Who ordered you to save Unfortunate?
     - The anonymous. I have a channel to  communicate with him,  but I fear
it's for a single use only and too well secured one.
     - Can this anonymous guy be diver?
     I shrug.
     - So make  your  conclusions. We have already failed, you've stirred up
the whole "Labyrinth" but you'll flop too. Then  some Unkie will arrive from
nowhere, will save Unfortunate and get the contract.
     Anatol  stands  up, unties  the armor  on  his chest  and  offers  in a
business-like tone:
     - Fire.
     - What?
     - Kill me.  Then you'll be able to get  all  my  gear. Or you're  gonna
fight the war with the carbine?
     I hesitate and Anatol shakes his head:
     - Gee Gunslinger, you're just like Unfortunate himself...
     He presses the plasma gun to  his chest and pulls the trigger.  A short
blow,  blood  splashes out but he's  still  alive.  Huge is  the strength of
"Labyrinth"'s divers.
     - Fuck this! - croaks Anatol and shoots again.
     The armor is bloodied all over but I try to ignore that. I  take it off
of him and pull on myself, then I pick up weapons and ammo.
     Either Unfortunate doesn't look at us or he just doesn't  react to such
an unusual gear exchange procedure.
     I  pad closer and sit down beside  him. Everything is like in the first
time: lowered head,  dull eyes  behind the mask. Is he really the diver, now
sitting by the computer with a sandwich and a cup of coffee? Glancing at the
screen from time to time, ready to jump into the Deep at any moment - and to
start to take me in...
     - Aren't you bored here? - I ask. One second pause... Interesting, what
did he use it for: to think of the answer or to start the deep-program? Then
Unfortunate says hoarsely:
     - I don't have a choice.
     - Why  not?  Let's  exit  "Labyrinth".  Have  you  ever been  in "Three
Piglets"? Or in "The Old Hacker"?
     Unfortunate shakes his head.
     - It's much  more interesting there,  - I  say. We sit side  by side, I
hold BFG-9000 on  my laps,  ready  to  burn any enemy  at any  second. We'll
definitely  pass with such a gear. We can't fail. But  I'm  not in hurry for
now, - Thank you by the way.
     - For what?
     - You covered me in that mirror hall.
     Unfortunate takes off his respirator. I suddenly notice how strange his
gestures are. Some rare softness and fluidness - as if every  movement is  a
pleasure for him. Narcissistic actors act this way sometimes but unlike them
Unfortunate doesn't irritate me.
     - Does it require any thanks? - he asks with irony.
     - Yes, - I reply, - Of course.
     - Wouldn't you do the same?
     - No, if I were you.
     Pause. Looks like Unfortunate is surprised.
     - Why?
     - You're in trouble. It's you whom I must get out of "Labyrinth".
     - It's not me who is in trouble, - Unfortunate shakes his head.
     - Are you a diver? - I ask directly.
     - No.
     - Listen man, stop taking me  in. You're  in the deep for more than two
days. You must be dying of thirst and hunger by now.
     - Thirst is not the most terrible thing.
     - So, what is more terrible?
     - The silence.
     - What?
     - The silence, Gunslinger.
     He looks into my eyes and I don't pull away my gaze, our faces are very
close.
     His eyes become alive,  there's no more dull  helplessness in them. The
black deepness... the endless darkness as if  I look into the sky where  all
stars came  out simultaneously, into  the  maelstrom of darkness, the silent
one that drags into itself, beyond the border of worlds.
     - The Silence, - he whispers.
     I can feel  it,  this Great Silence which he tries to tell me about and
it's good he  doesn't  say  a word now. Any words  are  helpless,  they only
scratch  the layer  of the Silence too weak  to  break through it  and  only
hinder to comprehend it.
     The Silence.
     Whoever you are  Unfortunate, you know more about it than  anybody else
in this world.
     One more  second -  and I'll  fall into  the  Silence, will  understand
Unfortunate.
     I don't want to understand him!
     - That's what I  fear of... - he  says  and  the delusion disappears. I
just sit beside him, two drawn guys exchanging vague phrases.
     Is it possible  to get crazy in the Deep  I wonder?  Maybe I'll be  the
first?
     - Why did you kill yourself? - I ask.
     - When?
     -  Anatol  pulled  you  through, you  dropped  your carbine  and  shoot
yourself into forehead. Do you want to tell me that it was an accident?
     - Accidents don't exist.
     - Then why?
     - Anatol won't be able to get me out.
     -  Why?!  - I shout. The  talk of  two deaf people, answers that  don't
explain anything.
     Unfortunate doesn't reply.
     Ah well, so be it.
     Enough riddles for me, I'll just get him out of here. He won't have any
choice - not any except to leave the level.
     - Get up! - I shout, grab Unfortunate by the shoulders  forcing  him to
stand up, pull his pistol out of the holster, discharge it and throw away.
     - Go! March!
     He doesn't argue  - geez, if  he would even try to... I'll drag him out
on my own shoulders if necessary.
     He won't have any choice.

     We pass the Disneyland,  I shoot the  monsters not sparing the ammo,  I
have more than enough for this level.
     The  rocket  launcher  gets  red-hot  of constant  shooting, I  burn my
shoulder even through the armor. Nevermind.
     We see  the  kid that flees  from  three  quick  demons on the car ride
again.  This time  he's not black  though  but  Latin-American.  Gee,  those
American racial  complexes... Unfortunate stops dead  and  we have to repeat
the short duel with demons and  the machine-gun spider. Then we move to  the
building  the  kid pointed at. This time Unfortunate  holds him really tight
and he can't break free. I enter the door instead of him. The hall is filled
with half transparent shaking wineskin with teeth almost completely. Rockets
pass through  it  without  blowing  up.  I burn the beast  using plasma gun,
wasting two energy cells.
     A  couple is twitching in the next room, tied with a  sticky  cobweb: a
man and a woman. They are guarded by a petty monster who even doesn't try to
attack me  but rushes  to kill the prisoners instead.  I  shoot it  with the
carbine  and  free  the  kid's  parents  with  Unfortunate's  help.  Further
everything happens along the standard scenario:  the tale of dreadful  alien
invasion, advises on passing the mirror labyrinth and  the solemn  gift: the
plasma gun. Programs are  primitive,  they even don't  notice that I already
have this weapon. I yawn  taking the gift. The rejoined family  walks  away.
Everything is disgustingly vivid -  the kid walks between his  Mom  and Dad,
clinging  to their hands... One  should assume that they'll successfully get
out of the Twilight City.  I glance at Unfortunate -  he's quite serious, as
if he have really saved three lives.
     We proceed towards the  mirror labyrinth, I still don't give any weapon
to Unfortunate. The least I need now is the trick  with falling and shooting
winchesters.
     - Okay, -  I command, - You  will stop  by the hall entrance. You  will
wait for me to  call for you. Then we quietly come to the computers, and you
get your ass home, outta here. Okay?
     - Yes.
     - Do you understand me? You won't do anything stupid, will you?
     Unfortunate looks me in the eyes.
     - Stupid - is to cover you?
     - Yes! I'll sort everything out by myself and you will get out of here,
understood?
     - Understood.
     Oh, I don't believe in his sincerity...  but I have no other choice. We
pass  mirror  corridors,  I  tap  Unfortunate on the  shoulder  by the  hall
entrance. He stops obediently.
     -  Wait here.  Wait for me  and I'll be back, -  I say.  I make  a step
towards the entrance but can't help it and turn back to him.
     - Look... whoever you are... I'm so tired.
     Unfortunate nods.
     -  I'm  sick of this insanity, - I go on, -  Promise  me that you won't
jump out into the shooting. Promise me that you won't go anywhere. I want to
get you out and to return home.
     -  I'll  do  everything as  you  say,  - pronounces  Unfortunate and  I
suddenly believe him.
     - Thanks, - I whisper before storming into the hall.
     And the fiery carousel starts.
     The Alien  Prince's Guards fire at  me from thirteen balconies, I shoot
back - point- blank. BFG-9000 burns  three mirrors  at  once,  the  hall  is
filled with silvery smoke. Bullets drum against my armor knocking me down to
the floor. I shoot while  falling down,  rotate quickly on my  back as if in
the forgotten dance  of  my youth  -  "break", then shoot  three more times.
Three mirrors, three mirrors, three mirrors...
     The last reflecting  edge, and  now  I  see the real balcony  with  two
monsters on it, washed over with green blood. My BFG have  seriously damaged
their  scaly  bodies while  my armor is  still fine,  even  if crumpled  and
red-hot, but still reliable.
     The last  shot - the  fiery  blast,  the scratching  sound of secondary
discharges... Monsters scream dying, turning into whirls of black ash.
     And the silence falls.
     The mirror hall is burned to the ground and ruined,  just the  computer
screen triumphantly glows in the midst of the mess.
     - And the silence  came... -  I whisper rising on my  knees. Thanks for
the armor Anatol, many thanks... - Hey Unfortunate!
     The quiet sound  from the corridor - a hesitating step... and two short
popping sounds - carbine shots.
     I don't need any explanations.
     And I don't need any comfort.
     I drag  myself  towards  the entrance, step over  Unfortunate's  bloody
corpse and look into the reflective infinity of the corridor.
     Alex is standing surrounded by his ghostly  twins lowering his carbine.
He has remains of the armor on him, the face covered in blood, the carbine's
barrel points down at its reflection on the floor.
     - I'm out of ammo, - he says.
     I throw away BFG, pull the gun  from behind my belt and push the barrel
into Alex' forehead with such force that he shrinks back.
     I even don't have anger anymore.
     Alex waits for the shot silently.
     - Sit down, - I say lowering my weapon, - Sit down, you bastard.
     He sits down, I sit by him on the floor and the body of Unfortunate who
was so unlucky again blindly stares at the ceiling.
     - Why did you kill him?
     - I... wanted to kill you, - says Alex, -  I was after you. I feared to
be late, I haven't noticed that he was unarmed.
     - Okay, then why me?
     Alex smirks.
     - You shoot me down on the first level, have you forgot?
     - No. And this is the only reason?
     - But we had a deal to go together, hadn't we?
     Oh Lord, why do you punish me?
     - Do you want  to say that you weren't  going to shoot me  yourself for
the spare cartridge?
     -  I  was  considering that, - confesses Alex  calmly, - But  I had not
decided yet. And you killed me.
     At  this point the laughter  gets me,  I fall  on  the  floor, nudge my
helmet into Unfortunate's leg, hit the floor with my hand.
     - You freak! - I shout, - Dumbass!
     Alex feels hurt for some reason.
     - I had not shoot you! - he shouts, - But you had!
     -  Man,  are you screwed!  -  I say,  - Fucking  avenger...  unfinished
Zorro...  I'm  diver! Do you understand? The guy whom you shoot down  is for
two days in the Deep already! His timer is off! He will croak if I don't get
him out! And you, with your complexes... idiot, idiot...
     - Diver? - Alex repeats dumbly.
     - Diver! - I don't  care about our eternal conspiration now, - I'd spit
on this  "Labyrinth" from the 40th floor! I'm trying to save the human - and
you're playing war games, sucker! How old are you, kid?
     Alex doesn't reply at once, but does anyway.
     - Forty-two.
     I get the next laughter attack.
     Here it is, Piter Pan's kingdom, the island of eternal kids.
     The war games' lover, entering his fifth decade.
     There's  no age in  virtuality. Both a  solid aged  businessman and  an
immature youth who managed to get to the computer with modem at  work  - are
equal.
     Everyone has a right to  run  along drawn labyrinths remembering  kids'
rules of honor and shouting, "Not fair!".
     Everyone can play noble  heroes and brave  knights forgetting  that the
life is much more complicated than ten Old Testament commandments.
     - I'm really sorry, - says Alex, - I didn't know that you're doing such
an important job...
     Oh Lord, how funny... No, nothing serious, I've just dropped in here to
pee.
     - If I can help somehow...  -  says Alex in muffled voice, - ...to  pay
for the time you've spent...
     - You can't buy  the time. - I reply. It would be really better if Alex
was keeping to act like a young programmer... - The guy in whom you've stuck
your fucking bullets is now dying somewhere of hunger and thirst!
     - I'm really sorry, -  Alex rises and pads to me. I look up at him, not
even  trying  to stand  up. - It's just that you were  acting in non-ethical
way. You had shot me without any obvious reason.
     It's useless to talk to him...
     - Maybe I was wrong, -  his voice gains some strength, - But you should
understand that  your initial conduct was the reason for  all that followed.
Obviously, you're younger than me...
     I look at the ceiling, at the dead bony Unfortunate's face.
     -  Though,  you should understand like I do  that we are in the  unreal
world,  the  one that  doesn't  exist,  -  pontificates  Alex, -  This  is a
dangerous  illusion...  people can easily  lose their life's guiding points,
their moral norms, they can submit to the feeling of complete license. Maybe
my  actions were not completely right but  I always  try to keep usual human
categories. "Labyrinth" is a game but it embodies eternal  ideals. Ideals of
chivalry if you want, the fight of the good against the evil.
     Yet  another illusion fighter. Geez,  how many of those do I remember -
the people who tried to make the  Deep the exact copy of the real world. The
funniest thing that the most noisy one among them was sci-fi writer...
     - You were acting not  honestly from the very beginning, - says Alex, -
and here... is the  sad conclusion. You know diver, it was always like this.
From the very world's creation. All the history is the living example!
     - ... And in the boiling cauldrons of past slaughters and troubles... -
I whisper, - ... there's so much food for those petty brains of ours...
     Alex shuts up.
     - Have you squared your accounts with me? - I ask, - Go ahead, tell me,
have you? Or you also want to shoot me by yourself? Come on, do it!
     I throw a pistol to him and outstretch my hands apart.
     - I...  didn't  mean that... -  mumbles Alex, - If you would just admit
your being wrong, it would be quite enough...
     - I  admit  it, - I  say,  pressing the  rocket launcher's tube opening
against my chest, - I admit it. I should had waited for you to shoot me. Now
you're satisfied?
     Alex retreats one step, waves his hands in protest.  Obviously he's not
satisfied with such an outcome, he haven't yet justified himself.
     Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours...
     The trigger is so hard, I barely managed to pull it.
     Blood on the helmet's screens.
     And complete silence inside me.
     No, I haven't pulled the unfortunate player from the Deep, and  haven't
tried to outwit my unprincipled colleague. It's just how it IS.
     The virtuality itself have risen against me.




<ul><a name=30></a><h2> * PART 3. Man Without Face * </h2></ul>


     I was present at the birth of virtuality, I was one of the first to try
Dibenko's  program and I  don't have any common person's mystic fear of  the
computer at all.
     Calculating machines can't be intelligent.
     Vika might dream  about  self-born electronic mind - I can't believe in
that.  Everything  that's  going  on  in the deep is nothing  more than just
mutual  interference of various programs. If anything goes beyond  the frame
of the possible, it means that some person is standing behind that.
     But who, who can be behind eternal deaths of Unfortunate?
     A good  diver or just  any experienced Deep inhabitant are sure capable
of faking their  death again and again. All those dropped carbines is a bull
but  why the Net  itself plays up to Unfortunate? Why have  Alex managed  to
catch up with us exactly at the moment when Unfortunate was left unattended?
Is it just a coincidence?
     Even  more, two professionals driving Unfortunate to  the exit couldn't
guard him against coincidences either?
     I can't believe in that.
     I'm sitting in the "Labyrinth"'s  cloak room after reentering the Deep,
humiliated  and defeated,  a loser diver  who  thought he's more intelligent
than the others. Abyss-abyss... how easily did you squash me. The  fight  is
lost if the enemy haven't shown up.
     Not without reason had  Man Without Face promised me such a  reward for
the Unfortunate's rescue. He knew much  more than he said. Keen shooting and
good reaction won't help here.
     That means, I have to stop banging on the drawn  door either. It's time
to look for the real way out.
     I throw  the  armor and the rest of the gear into the closet, enter the
shower and squirm under  ice cold jets for a minute. Then the anger comes to
replace helplessness and confusion.  Great. Hello,  anger.  You are  what  I
really need. Enough of games according to the rules.
     I dress and enter the column hall.
     - "Labyrinth"'s  administration requests Gunslinger  to visit  Security
Service manager, - rings out in the air immediately, - "Labyrinth"'s....
     I'm  being watched upon when I come to the door which Giullermo  passed
last time we met. I push it - unlocked.
     This  time the  administration building  is  busy.  I was  let into the
common space of "Labyrinth"'s sysops - I can see them and vice versa. Hardly
I'll interest anybody here though. I pass the corridors looking at the glass
doors -  the terminals are behind them, guys and girls sitting by. Big halls
are  behind  some  doors,  with   scale   models  on  top  of  huge  tables,
"Labyrinth"'s levels' scale models - hills and ravines, buildings and ruins,
rivers and blazing  fires.  People walk  around them  lazily. There, one guy
leans above  the model and  pours  some nasty greenish  slush  into a  small
stream. The stream starts bubbling.  The guy  nudges his coworker nearby who
glances at defiled landscape and shrugs.
     So this is how levels are constructed. Or  rather  their skeleton which
then  will live  its own electronic life, inhabited by monsters and players.
It will excite imagination of "Labyrinth"'s habitues for several months then
it'll be changed.
     - Are you Gunslinger?
     The girl approaches me quietly and unnoticed, she's blonde and cute.
     - Yes.
     - Let's go, Mr. Aguirre is waiting for you.
     I follow her. In general I know what they'll tell me now but why not to
spend several minutes on formalities?
     Guillermo stands  by the window into "Labyrinth",  the dark  silhouette
against  the  blood-red blaze.  Everything is  well thought  through in  the
triangular shaped room - the office's owner seems small and lost against the
window but draws attention at the same time. The visitor is  on the crest of
the pyramid and feels himself important involuntarily... and uncomfortable.
     - Oh, Gunslinger! - Guillermo moves to meet me in energetic pace, - Sit
down, sit down...
     - You cancel the contract? - I ask directly.
     Guillermo stops and rubs his nose bridge.
     - Mmmm... yeah... Have you talked to Anatol, Gunslinger?
     - I have.
     As if he didn't controlled our talk...
     - Gunslinger, you agree with our divers' opinion, no?
     - No.
     - Why?
     - Will it change anything anyway? - I ask in return. - You have already
decided to give up with the rescue.
     - I didn't decide. - says Guillermo, slightly accenting on "I".
     - But you cancel the contract anyway?
     Guillermo sighs.
     - We appreciate your attempts to help... very appreciate.
     His speech becomes  noticeably  incorrect  and I understand:  Guillermo
doesn't use interpreter  program, he knows Russian,  and knows it damn well.
It's pleasant to  know  but I'm not surprised: Russians  make a considerable
part of the players, maybe because our famous native lack of system is still
alive...  and many  companies pay  for  their employees' fun instead of  for
their work in the Deep.
     -  ... But  there  is  an opinion that now we  encounter  the action of
hostile diver. Proceeding with rescue means supporting his plans. Right?
     I nod. There's no confidence in Guillermo's voice but I have nothing to
oppose to "Labyrinth"'s divers' words either.
     Yet.
     It's useless to argue.
     - The company will pay  you a  bonus, - says  Guillermo, - We even  can
argue about the amount... a little.
     He smiles friendly and a bit slyly.
     - The amount is up to you., - I say.
     Guillermo  looks  at me intently then sits by  his table and  draws the
check. The gold plated Parker in his hand, the checkbook was issued by Chase
Manhattan.  The amount doesn't strike me as much as  it  could happen before
Al-Kabar operation but it commands respect nevertheless.
     -  Thank you, -  says Guillermo solemnly, handing the check over to me.
It's  nothing  more than  just a  formality,  the  money  have already  been
transferred  to  my secret  account given  in the contract  but  anyway it's
pleasant to hold the nonexistent check in my hand.
     I nod and shake Guillermo's hand. That's it, I  can get out. The little
boy  was given  a candy and kicked out of  the  adults' company  which plays
serious games.
     - For the  good parting?  - Mr Aguirre  gets the bottle from  under the
table, the real  French  Armagnac. It  doesn't cost  much  more than Coke in
virtuality  but the gesture itself is pleasant,  as if Aguirre has  no doubt
that the taste of this drink is familiar to me.
     We touch glasses and I make a small sip. I'm not a big lover of cognacs
and  brandy but it's flattering  to be  considered  a connoisseur  of  noble
drinks for a minute anyway.
     - I can guess how you will spend this money, - says Guillermo suddenly.
     - Well, how?
     - They'll return to the "Labyrinth"'s account, - Guillermo smirks.
     - Nope.
     He raises his eyebrows in surprise.
     - You will give up? Yes?
     - I'll rescue Unfortunate but I have enough money for this. As for this
check... I'll return it. In order for you to change the amount.
     Guillermo nods, he  was expecting my insistence and is  quite satisfied
with the promise.
     - Good luck, diver.
     - If something  unexpected  happens in "Labyrinth"... could  you please
notify me? - I inquire, - Unofficially?
     - Your address, - says Guillermo in business-like manner.
     I  give him  my business card with  the Net address,  it's  not my real
'coordinates',  just  a  mailbox where I can get  the  letter for Gunslinger
after supplying the password.
     - Do you want me to call the taxi? - asks Mr Aguirre at parting.
     - Thanks Willy, it's not necessary.
     I  stop the Deep-Transit's cab a couple of blocks away.  Not that I was
afraid of shadowing but it's better not to change good habits.
     - Al-Kabar block, - I order.  This time the driver is a nice red haired
woman with tiny wrinkles around her eyes, excellently made face.
     - This address doesn't exist, - she disappoints me.
     - Al-Kabar. 8-7-7-3-8.
     - Acknowledged.
     The car starts, streets flash  by. I  ask Vika to change the  masculine
look of Gunslinger to the ingenuous mug of Ivan The Prince. One second - and
the white-clad hero is reflecting in the rear-view mirror.
     Pictures, just  pictures and nothing more. Now  Deep-Transit's programs
toss my  comm  channel from server to server,  preparing  to  connect  me to
Al-Kabar - to bring me to the horsehair bridge with the genie guard. Nothing
more than pictures. The Deep can't have its own intellect!
     But despite  anything,  I  don't feel  myself  so confident  in  my own
thoughts.



     The desert meets me with its  hot breath and the genie - with deafening
roar:
     - You dared to come back, the thief of thieves?
     Good program... with memory.
     The  genie tears his legs from the sand,  makes one step, then another.
The  hair  bridge  stretches and  rings  slightly  but  does  not  tear yet.
Something  new -  Al-Kabar's programmers  have  added mobility  to the guard
program!
     - Stop! - I shout raising my hand, - I came to Friedrich Urman! I'm not
in your mercy!
     The giant  fist quivers  above my head,  sparks  scratching between the
fingers.
     -  Unfamiliar  virus  detected! -  whispers  Windows-Home  in  alarm, -
Attention! I turn the "Web" on!
     The space  covers with slight mist, the antivirus  program "Web" starts
to cut off a part of incoming information trying to  guard the computer from
the  virus. Not an ideal defense, a  good  virus will slip  into my computer
anyway but I don't stop Vika - she's in panic... if this word is appropriate
here. The genie's shape flows and becomes blurry.
     - Who are you? - roars the monster, its voice is distorted too.
     - Diver! - I shout having nothing to hide this time.
     - Wait! - orders the  genie. Sparks on his palms go off and  Vika stops
the "Web".
     Nothing else to do and I wait. The monster is motionless, just its eyes
sparkle examining me with a strong, almost physically felt gaze. It was just
a joke last  time - I  was let into  the mousetrap because they were sure  I
won't  be  able  to  escape.  Now,  having  their  butts  kicked,  corporate
programmers are able to  cast all creations  of their fantasy on my head and
I'm  sure that among them is a lot of those that  might terrify not only me,
not only Maniac but even the old guy Lozinsky himself. It's a  perfect  time
to remember tales about viruses that destroy the hardware...
     - Go ahead! - the monster becomes alive again.
     I step onto the hair bridge.
     Abyss-abyss...
     Now not two cartoony guards meet me but the whole crowd with weapons.
     If  I  were escorted  like this last time  I'd never be able to steal a
megabyte file.
     The guards drive me along the streets in the icy silence, I expect that
I'll be taken to the same veranda as it  was before but our procession moves
past it, right to the gloomy gray building.
     They are  what,  going  to  imprison  me? It's  ridiculous,  divers are
invincible. It's possible to prevent us from stealing files but  not to lock
us in the virtual world.
     Some guards stay outside, four others take me into the confinement. Two
in  front of  me,  two others  behind my back, swords  unsheathed. Oh,  they
definitely  will  set a  virus  in  my machine,  in full  volume.  Those who
happened to survive winchester's crash would understand  me. Once, in a tiny
and almost unprofitable operation I managed to catch a  very cute virus upon
my stupid head. It mixed  the  FAT and partition table of my hard drive in a
uniform cocktail. Maniac spent  the whole day trying  to recover the remains
of data  from  the dead winchester and saved almost  everything while  I was
bubbling some nonsense about pirated  game CD which  I had  caught the virus
from.
     If even those dumb guys managed  to infect my  computer with such nasty
thing, I'd better not even  try to imagine what those guys from Al-Kabar are
capable of.
     The door  slams heavily behind my back, closing. The confinement  is in
pitch darkness, I walk by touch, being pushed in the back. Obviously my comm
channel is narrowed to its limit to prevent me from stealing anything  else.
All visual images are cut off.
     - Stop! - I hear the command behind and freeze obediently.
     Those  who surround me  can  obviously see  me  absolutely  well  which
doesn't make me feel better.
     - You had the cheek to come here again Ivan?
     I recognize Urman's voice or even the tone of his interpreter, and turn
trying not to goggle my blind eyes.
     - That was the deal.
     - Oh really?
     - You  gave  me the file voluntarily in exchange of the promise  of the
later meeting.
     The pause, a pretty long one. I'm not  lying and Urman finds himself in
a stupid position. It's so good - not  to lie. What  for anyway?  There's so
much truth in this world that lies become unnecessary.
     - What do you want?
     - What do *I* want? Nothing. It was you who asked me for next  meeting,
so I guess you have something to offer?
     Silence again. Obviously Urman wasn't expecting me to return  after his
attempt to trace me. I add just in case:
     - Don't try to trace my channel by the way. Otherwise I'll leave.
     The silence becomes too  long and  I can mentally see Urman ordering to
his guards, "Hey, kick his ass..."
     -  Restore  his  channel  completely,  - orders  Urman. -  And stop the
surveillance.
     The  bright  light.  I  narrow  my  eyes  studying the  insides  of the
confinement through half-closed eyelids. Gloomy heavy walls, tiny reflecting
glass windows behind the bars on top of them. The table and chairs around it
located in the center of the room.
     - This is a meeting hall, - explains  Urman. He's dressed in a business
suit with a tie. Maybe his dress is automatically  adjusted according to the
interior,  I've heard  about such  tricks. -  Here we conduct the  Board  of
Directors' and some other meetings.
     I see, the most secured place in the corporate virtual space. One won't
escape from here as easily as from the veranda...
     I have nothing to run away with though: I came absolutely unarmed.
     - Leave us, - Urman continues ordering.
     The guards submit immediately.
     - Thanks Friedrich, - I say.
     Urman nods silently and  sits in  one of the  armchairs,  I set  myself
nearby.
     - So... Have you sold the... apple? - inquires Urman.
     - Yes, thank you.
     - I'm really glad for you.
     It looks like he is not really angry and this makes me suspicious.
     - I hope it haven't too much complicate  the financial situation of the
corporation?
     - No, not really.
     I look at Urman questionably.
     -  I  forgot to tell you last time  that the cool medicine  has  a tiny
drawback, - notes Urman, - A side effect.  We found it almost by chance... I
suppose that Mr Shellerbach and Trans-Pharm-Group won't run into it.
     I start feeling uncomfortable.
     - Don't worry diver, it was not your responsibility to test  the safety
of the drug,  - laughs Urman. - Nothing fatal, by  the way... neither cancer
nor terratogenious effect... but the patients won't be happy.
     Al-Kabar  have made a  little insurance...  I wonder what  side  effect
might the cold reliever have? Changing the skin color into green, impotence,
baldness? Urman won't tell.
     Well, from now on I'll cure  my cold with aspirin only for the rest  of
my life.
     - Okay, let's forget mutual offences! - offers Urman generously.
     I nod.
     - As I told you before,  I have an interesting  offer for you... - says
Al-Kabar's director. - A permanent employment.
     - No.
     We look into each other's eyes. They say  the eyes is the mirror of the
soul. The question is whether our virtual bodies do have souls or not?
     - Some divers do have permanent  contracts, -  notes Urman, -  So... it
means it isn't forbidden?
     - No, it is not but there's a certain difference between working for an
entertainment center or a virtual investigation bureau and the work for you.
In a month or two or three you'll 'calculate' me.
     - And you fear publicity so much, Ivan?
     - Sure I  do.  We are the alchemists of the virtual world, the wizards.
No  normal princeling would  ever let the  alchemist out of the  comfortable
dungeon... so that he couldn't invent gunpowder for the enemies.
     - So  sad... -  Urman  doesn't argue. - In  many  points  you're right,
Russian  diver. Excuse me but I know that. Your  voice  was processed by the
analyzer and it was definitely not the interpreter program.
     I don't argue with him either, such a peaceful and nice talk, we are so
loyal to each other - what a beautiful look.
     - Well then -  I offer  you a  single time collaboration!  - says Urman
cheerfully, - The work is easy and we pay well.
     -  Do  you  really  think  it's  so easy  to get Unfortunate  out  from
"Labyrinth"?
     The bull eye! Right in the center! Urman's face twitches, then he takes
his emotions back under control, just a  tic under his left eye remains. One
to zero! No, five to zero!
     -  Please  explain  me   what  do   you  mean?   -   asks  Mr  director
unconvincingly.
     - After you.
     Either they'll kill me now or will open their cards.
     Urman certainly can stand the blow.
     - One of our corporation's fields of business is demographic control of
Deeptown.
     I shake my head - I didn't get it...
     - I mean the number of  virtuality's inhabitants at any moment of time,
with exact precision, by district, building, space in space like ours.
     - Why? Who gave you the right for this?
     - It  was a  common decision, approved a year ago. - shrugs Urman, - In
order to compare the load on separate servers, to tie these figures to exact
time of day, all this allows to coordinate  the work and to reduce the  cost
of virtual space usage. AOL was one of the main customers, smaller companies
had joined too.
     And again my neglect to open information puts me in a spot.
     - We  were controlling according to the number of input-output  signals
on  servers,  - Urman  goes  on,  - It's  very  simple  and  reliable,  very
efficient. Servers report the figures every two minutes. Nobody's rights are
violated  while we can know  the total number  of people in virtuality. It's
not a surveillance, just statistics.
     I nod.
     - The number of computer supported  objects  in  each space fraction is
being controlled in parallel. Thus we  know  how many people present in this
or that part of virtuality. We get reports  every two minutes as  well. It's
easy to understand that if we total the number of all active  objects in all
parts  of  virtuality we'll get the already known  figure -  the  number  of
people that entered the Deep.
     I understand.
     - The figures didn't match?
     -  Yes.  There's one  person  more  in  virtuality  than  it should be.
Computers can see him, he functions in  cyberspace but he never connected to
the Net.
     Urman rises, waves his hand and the huge screen unwraps on the wall, on
top of concrete and steel mesh. I rise too. This is  the map of Deeptown and
its suburbs looking like sewn of tiny  patches.  Each patch is a server that
supports this part of space. The fine red 'rash' is on top of patches, these
are gates, phone lines which are used to enter the Deep.
     Looks beautiful. All bourgeoises are window-dressers.
     -  We  can  check  the  data  by districts,  -  informs  Urman,  -  For
instance...
     He steps to the screen, reaches it  and points at Al-Kabar's block with
a finger. The numbers 1036/1035 flash up on the display above the screen.
     - Is it clear?
     - Your servers  support  1036 people in  your  space, including me. And
everybody except me are connected through Al-Kabar's own channels.
     -  Sure. It's  too risky to let the secret  information to pass through
somebody else's lines, even if those are owned by  most reliable  providers.
We have our own channels in 12 cities where our employees live.
     - But you can't detect Unfortunate like that!
     I pad to the map, find "Three Piglets"  on it, bethink just in time and
poke my finger to the  nearby  'institution'. I  was there  just a couple of
times and didn't like it, too noisy and pompous.
     63/2
     - This is the more common picture,  right?  There are 63 people hanging
in  the  restaurant's  space but  only two used  its  own  phone  channel to
connect.
     Urman nods.
     - We detected "Labyrinth" by other means.
     I don't consider that it's a cunning and not very friendly interlocutor
before me  anymore. I'm really curious how to figure out the means they used
to detect the person that never entered the Deep.
     - Okay... It's not feasible  to trace every and each connection signal:
too expensive, too time consuming and also forbidden.
     Urman looks at me with  such  smugness as if it was him who  solved the
problem instead of ordering to do it to his specialists.
     Let's think, it's useful sometimes.
     Here  we  have a flow  of  electronic  impulses. It's not important now
where it came  from. This  is just  data -  the simple 3D image of a person,
Unfortunate.  It enters  the  computer  that serves the  "Labyrinth"'s  33rd
level, either through the modem  or directly into  CPU. The computer  places
the image to  the beginning  of the  level and gets prepared  to control its
movements,  to broadcast its voice to other players, to calculate the effect
of its shots, to move the gravels pushed by its feet. Well, and of course to
send the images that the player sees with his left and right eye, the sounds
that he hears, the pushes he feels through the virtual suit...
     Stop - where to send if he never entered the Deep?
     The  glitch  happens here. The computer processes Unfortunate's actions
but doesn't  know where they  came from, and where to send  the results. Can
this be reflected on the server's performance figures? It should but on very
specific ones, something like the ratio between the  volume of CPU processed
data and the data sent/received through the modem. One should look for  this
information  beforehand in order to find the  server with an uninvited guest
in several hours...
     - You were expecting him, - I say, - You knew that he will come!
     - We  assumed such possibility, - specifies Urman, - The person able to
enter virtuality by himself should have appeared sooner or later.
     - Without a computer? - I  say  these ravings  which - how funny - will
not seem the ravings for anyone far from computers and networks!  This is as
ridiculous as to  imagine somebody who can connect  directly  to  the  phone
line, it's just plain stupid.
     But  Urman  might  be  all  but stupid.  He's a common  millionaire who
extracts incomes  for Al-Kabar from  everything:  from  the  Earth's bowels,
retransmitter satellites and runny noses.
     - We  are not alone  to work on  alternative means of interactions with
computers, - says Urman, - Keyboard, mouse, helmet and suit - all these  are
the remains of  pre-virtual  era. The next step is direct  connection to the
visual and hearing nerves. Plugs... - he  rotates his finger by his  temple,
either doubting  his sanity  or trying  to  illustrate the socket  implanted
behind  his ear.  - But  this way  requires  too much work on  the society's
mentality. It's much harder to break people's  psychology than  to drill the
skull and to plug a chip  into the  brains. If we could avoid that...  if we
could to just enter virtuality... the world would turn over.
     - And you want to turn it over so much?
     Friedrich is serious.
     - When  the  world turns  over my  friend,  being the  first who stands
upside down is the most important thing.
     I stay silent, I  have nothing  to say. Would I want to enter  the Deep
without computer? Without Vika behind my back? Without the fear  before  the
virus weapons? Without interference on the  phone  line and without  eternal
pursuit for modems' speed?
     Funny question, of course I would! But I just don't believe in this.
     But I really want to believe.
     - As far as we know, the divers on contract with "Labyrinth" have tried
to drive Unfortunate out, - says Urman carelessly.
     I nod, their intelligence works well. Just what wouldn't the dollars do
if applied in the right time and in the right amount!
     - ...And  also someone, known as Gunslinger,  - adds Urman, - Also  the
diver, I assume?
     - Yes, it was me.
     Urman nods.
     - Then I expect the promised explanations.
     Maybe  the  best thing at this point would  be to whisper "abyss-abyss"
and to vanish  but I just can't do that after Urman's sincerity. The hole in
the skull is really much simpler than the hole in one's life principles.
     - Soon after our first meeting I was forced to meet...
     Urman raises the eyebrow.
     - Yes, that's right, *forced* to meet a person whose name I don't know.
He offered  me  to sort out the situation that  emerged  in  "Labyrinth". He
didn't explain any details. Only later did I understand that he  was talking
about Unfortunate.
     - We call him Swimmer, - notes Urman, - in analogy with you gentlemen.
     - Basically, that's it, - I say. I really hate to be interrupted.
     - Was the reward promised to you?
     - Yes.
     - A big one?
     - A huge one... - I can't help myself and add: - I'd say that you won't
be able to offer me more.
     Urman  is very serious, the talk became a business one  but he  doesn't
yet argue or try to prove Al-Kabar's coolness.
     - How had that person found you and why exactly you?
     - He organized the dragnet for the divers and I... had exposed myself a
little.
     - Do you have any ideas of his personality?
     -  Absolutely  none,  - I  say honestly but  maybe not honestly enough:
Urman is silent,  looking  into my  eyes  questionably. Maybe  my  words are
analyzed by the lies detector and somebody reports the results to him...
     - Just one more detail. He  knew about my visit...  to  you. And he was
well informed  about the talk that  took place. The fact that  you wanted to
offer me the same job was also known by him.
     Urman  holds the blow. Hadn't he hold enough  of  them in his life? But
the  shaking  eyelid can  be  seen on the  mask of tranquility. It's  always
unpleasant to learn about the spy by your side.
     - Thank you, diver.
     I  smile leniently. What a  trinket... Let  the two  spiders  twitch in
their cobwebs...
     - Can you tell anything about Swimmer?
     I shrug.
     - Nothing  special. Just a  person. Sometimes  there  was an impression
that  he  has  Deep-  psychosis, he  takes what's  going on  too  seriously.
Otherwise he's quite adequate.
     Urman  nods. It looks like they have  managed to plug  to "Labyrinth"'s
computers seriously and to control the events. This makes me to ask:
     - Have you tried to trace Un... Swimmer's signal anyway?
     - There's no signal at all.
     Either Urman suffers  the sincerity attack  or  is really interested to
persuade me completely...
     -  "Labyrinth"'s  servers do not broadcast Swimmer's data,  to  neither
direction. He... hangs on the level by itself.
     So it's true... the human who entered the virtuality directly?
     - "Labyrinth"'s administration still tries to trace his comm channel, -
throws  Urman  in,  - but  according to  our experts  they'll make the  same
conclusions in five, or at most eight hours. Then the real panic will start.
     I can  imagine.  The  level will be  isolated  or maybe even the  whole
"Labyrinth  of Death" will be  freed of players. The  direct tunnels  to the
33rd level will be hacked hastily, if they don't exist yet doesn't mean that
it's  impossible  to  create  them. All  monsters will be  turned  off,  all
buildings will be frozen so that Unfortunate wouldn't be accidentally hit by
the fallen  brick.  Then  the  crowd  of psychologists, hackers,  officials,
Anatol  and Dick -  all  they  will flow into the empty level, will surround
Unfortunate with  care and endearment, will  bring him to the exit on  their
hands...
     I can assume for sure that they won't need my help then.
     - Do you agree to collaborate with us?
     I look at Urman, he doesn't seem to joke.
     - I'm already working for somebody whose name I don't know.
     - He  might  promise you very much, that mysterious Mr X,  but  have he
rendered you any assistance?
     I shake my head.
     - If  you  are really Gunslinger, you could  realize  that the ordinary
methods are  not applicable to Swimmer. A couple more attempts  won't change
anything. And  then "Labyrinth" will be isolated and the... ride's... owners
will start solving the problem.
     He pronounces the word 'ride' with some obvious defiance.
     - Whoever hired you, he did it not because of your diver's talents.
     - Then why?
     Now he have confused me.
     - It  would  be much easier  to buy "Labyrinth"'s divers  or to hire  a
group. Yes, it's hard to figure your  real  names but it's quite possible to
meet  you and offer you  a job. This is how you earn your living  after all.
Your mysterious  employer was attracted by something  more serious than just
an ability to exit virtuality.
     It seems I have all reasons to bloat in pride but I start feeling  even
more worried instead.
     - And I think, - says Urman thoughtfully, - that he was right.  Swimmer
is the job for you. The main one in your life and  I can help you to achieve
a success.
     Hardly can he offer me the Medal  of  Complete  License. Whatever else,
but *such* things  can't be bought, but the bid  is big and the reward might
be very-very huge.
     Why  would I  need the  Medal if I can  stop  my unlawful activities in
virtuality for the rest of my life?
     - Have you signed the contract? - asks Urman.
     - No.
     - Just a verbal agreement?
     - No.
     - What worries you then?
     I  stay silent. I have no  idea why do  I cling  to Man Without  Face's
offer.  He forced  me to meet  him,  he  had sent me to "Labyrinth"  without
explaining anything. And his promise might be just a bluff too.
     - I need to think.
     -  All right, -  agrees Urman. - It's almost guaranteed that  you  have
five more hours... obviously you'll visit "Labyrinth" once more?
     I nod indefinitely.
     - I'll undertake my own measures,  -  says Urman, - You will definitely
notice them diver and will be able to make your choice.
     - Vague, Friedrich. {<i>In Russian 'vague' and 'foggy' is the same word</i>}
     Urman  frowns in confusion  while  the interpreter program figures  out
that I'm not talking about the weather.
     - Why on the Earth I'm so valuable to you?
     - You'll find that  out dear Ivan  the Prince.  Oh by the way,  what is
Swimmer's nationality, what do you think?
     - Russian, - I reply mechanically.
     Urman nods mockingly
     - Maybe-maybe... See you later, diver. Think and make your decision.
     As these words are spoken, the doors open and the guards enter but this
time their swords are sheathed.
     - You'll be escorted to the bridge, - informs Urman.


     Either I'm not watched or this is being done skillfully enough for Vika
to raise the alarm. I ascend the wall under the guards' looks and  step onto
the horsehair bridge.
     How  many  meters will I be able to walk without exiting  virtuality  I
wonder?
     One step, another - the thread shakes under  my feet, I feel dizzy. The
blue bands of  rivers  and hot orange  glow  of  lava lakes  are hundreds of
meters below, between conglomeration of cliffs.
     - Hey diver, you're staggering! - the mocking call from behind.
     I'm not just staggering, I'm falling down already.
     Maybe this is how Moslem  sinners  fall down trying to  pass into their
Heaven, to tender houries and the mountains of rahat lakoum...
     My  feet slip, I  fly, grab the  thread and  it indifferently  cuts  my
fingers off. The air blows into my face  coldly and strongly, inviting to my
short  journey,  the  cliffs rotate  below, growing and showing needle sharp
crests. When I touch the rocks, Al-Kabar's server will report that I'm under
terminal accelerating forces and the exit deep-program will be launched.
     But I'm not interested at all in what colors  will be  my death painted
by my imagination.
     Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours...
     Blood on the screens, a familiar image.
     I took off the helmet, leaned onto the table and pulled the phone cable
from the socket.
     - Communication breakdown! - said Vika, - No dialtone! Check the plug!
     - It's alright, - I mumbled plugging the cable into place, - Restart.
     - Seriously?
     - Yes.
     Blueish color  and  the falling human figure on the  screen.  And nasty
feeling in my soul.
     I'm  stuck in the  very serious  matter.  If Al-Kabar, "Labyrinth"  and
those who stand behind Man Without Face start  fighting... Oy!.. It's better
not to fall between such  millstones. The best thing now  would be to forget
about  virtuality for a couple  of weeks, to play ordinary  games, to  drink
beer with Maniac, to  upgrade  the computer, to travel somewhere  to Antalia
{<i>the Turkish resort, very popular in  Russia</i>} where it's still warm, to swim
in the sea.
     Of course, I'll have to forget about Vika, the real one, and for a long
time.
     To bid a farewell to the dream about the Medal of Complete License.
     And certainly, to cross Unfortunate out of my memory.
     Who is he anyway to worry about him  so much? Homo Computeris? Computer
human, able to enter virtuality without any phones-modems? So what? It's not
worthy to  hope  that  his ability  - if it really exists -  is so  easy  to
acquire.
     All  kinds  of  specialists will  study  him,  make  encephalograms and
measure all possible and  impossible parameters.  Unfortunate will be placed
before various types  of  computers, they will turn modems on and off, bring
him to  the phone  lines and hide him in underground bunkers.  And they will
demand - enter the Deep! Tell us what you feel! What feeling do  you have in
the thumb of your left  foot when  you  enter virtuality and  how does  your
stool change after three days in the virtual world... Thus will he spend the
rest  of  his life somewhere in the heavily guarded estate in Switzerland or
in the  Texas desert,  in some  CIA  research  center. One very valuable and
respected guinea-pig.
     Maybe he's Russian though, a Russian citizen. If I throw the info about
him in the open Net or to the proper authorities...
     I  even laughed of  my own naivety. So what? Will the ole'  good Russia
really  send  its  carriers and tank squads to guard Unfortunate?  Wasn't it
enough  talented programmers  taken  out of the  country  - say, 14-year old
Sasha Morozov, a guy from Voronezh was flown out by the charter flight. Just
maybe our intelligence service would gather the remains of  its past bravery
and would intercept Unfortunate just in order to lock him forever in its own
research center somewhere in Siberia or the Ural Mountains.
     When the Deep was created, the Freedom was its banner.
     We  are  independent  of all corrupt  governments, shabby religions and
Puritan  moral. We are free in everything - and forever. No  information can
be secret - and  we have a  right to  discuss whatever we  want. Freedom  of
travel can't be  limited - and  Deeptown will never know any  borders. We'll
fight  for  our  right  to have all rights. We'll purge only  those from our
ranks who will rise against the freedom.
     Lord, how naive and enthusiastic were we!
     The  people of  the new cybernetic  world, of  the  free and  unlimited
space!
     The people  reveled in the freedom, playing with it as a kid risen from
the bed after the long illness, cheerful and  proud by ourselves. The Deep's
interests - everything for it, for the name of it, forever... amen.
     But  why do I still  believe in all these funny  slogans with  the same
enthusiasm as I had being a kid, believing in communism?
     Why do I want to believe so much, despite everything?
     Breaking the laws, trashing someone else's computers, stealing  someone
else's 'intellectual property', not  paying  taxes  to  my  poverty-stricken
country, not trusting anybody except  a  handful of friends -  and still  to
believe in something warm and fuzzy, clean and eternal? In freedom, kindness
and love?
     Maybe I'm just from the breed that can't live otherwise.
     And well, nobody really prevents me from believing in  freedom further,
after I change my entrance channels and the Net address.
     It's so simple - to believe.
     I  was looking  at the 3D mesh of Norton's table,  at the neat lines of
directories  and  subdirectories.  Three  gigabytes,  all  completely  full.
Service  programs, viruses-antiviruses,  pieces of  Vika's  "consciousness",
audio files and games, stolen data and new  books, unpublished yet. Here  is
"Hearts  and  motors  - in the travels again" by Vasiliev, here is  a  fresh
mystery by Lev Kursky,  prolific like piranha (?), here is Oldi's novel that
have made so much noise. I can go out now, buy lots of beer,  print a couple
of books on my old LaserJet and land  on the sofa. To sleep  - as  much as I
can! And those Mr Urman whose real face I'll never  see, and Mr Without Face
whom  I'll never see all the more can  feel free to  fight over  Unfortunate
with Willy-Guillermo...
     I never liked stupid people and kamikaze.
     I  picked  the phone  from the case of my  'five' and  dialed  Maniac's
number.  I  was lucky  again, he  was  neither  hanging  in  virtuality  nor
sleeping.
     - Allo!
     - Shura, it's me.
     - Ah... - Maniac lowered his tone a bit.
     - Are you busy?
     - Well... a little.
     - Writing a program?
     - No, peeling potatoes... Galya is cooking.
     - Congratulations.
     - With what? - Maniac pricked up his ears.
     - With your reconciliation!
     - Ah... yeah... okay.
     I'd better not abuse his  time, especially  after  the recent rejoining
with his spouse.
     - Shura, tell me please,  is  it  possible  to  enter  "Labyrinth" with
weapons?
     -  You mean the virus? Isn't BFG enough for you? - Maniac is  obviously
amused, - Your kidding. This is a space within a space, created with exactly
defined purpose. It's easier to smuggle the virus into the Pentagon, then to
pass through "Labyrinth"'s filter with it.
     - Wasn't it you who made the filter for them?
     - No, - confessed Maniac with regret, - Not me. But I  know who and how
had made it.
     - So how?
     - Your  image  is copied  when you pass the  portal. If  you  have  any
programs with  you, any  programs, those are cut  off. Just your exact  copy
passes into the "Labyrinth"'s server.
     - And there's no way to bypass? - I inquired helplessly.
     - Think.
     - Don't I have to think too much lately? - I growl, -  Shura! Just tell
me, can I break through the filter?
     -   Only  walls   can   be  broken...  by   foreheads,  -  said  Maniac
instructively, - What happened?
     - Very lousy situation. Extremely lousy.
     - Lousy for whom?
     - For all the Deep. And for one good guy.
     - And what about you? -  asked Maniac directly and I  remembered "Three
Musketeers" involuntarily.
     - Complete shit, believe me.
     Maniac didn't reply at once, he even began to whistle something.
     - Shurka!
     - Will "Warlock-9000" be okay for you?
     - What is that?
     - A local virus. As usual.
     - Will it pass the filter?
     - Maybe.
     - Shura, don't I distract you too much?  I mean... from  potatoes. -  I
said, possessed by the sudden guilt.
     - No, I'm finishing already...
     I don't like cordless phones, it's enough radiation for me already from
my dear computer. As for Maniac - on the contrary, he can't imagine his life
without  them. And now also, he stands pressing the phone  to his ear with a
shoulder, tearing the peel off potatoes.
     - Pour it in for me.
     - Just to pour it in?
     - Yeah, - I asked gathering all my impudence.
     - Hold on,  it's not that  easy. What apps do  you  use  to create your
images?
     - Various ones... "Bioconstructor"... "Morphologist"... "Guise".
     - I see. What personality will you use when using the virus?
     - Personality #7, Gunslinger...
     - What is the file's extension?
     - Huh? Extension? Hold on...
     - Fire  the  terminal  up, - said  Maniac  tiredly, - Set the  complete
access for the password... say, "12345".
     - One-two-three-four-five, - I repeat dumbly.
     - In numerals! - specifies Maniac, - I'll tune everything by myself.
     - Thanks!
     - Not that fast... You'll owe me beer...
     Maniac sighed one more time  and threatened  before  putting  down  the
phone:
     - I'll call in 5 minutes. Your old girl in on already, waits for me and
is as docile as a schoolgirl. Is that clear?
     I rushed to the computer. In three minutes Vika agreed to submit to the
one who calls with the  password "12345" and  moved over to the  kitchen  to
cook myself a  supper. I haven't  even filled the teapot yet  when the phone
rang in the room and then connecting modem started whistling softly.
     I'm stupid after all... and kamikaze.
     Though, it's ridiculous  to love myself too  much,  I  can afford to be
stupid for some time.
     I just had time to drink some tea with jam found in the sideboard, then
refilled  the mug  and  returned to the  room. Maniac was just disconnecting
from my computer having left the burning red line on the screen: "Took  some
your old junk to read and  play  virus plugged in instructions by voice in a
minute".
     Maniac have carelessly omitted all punctuation.
     Exited  into  Norton,  I found  the  file of Gunslinger's  image  (it's
extension was most  trivial: .clt), and started to compare  it to the other,
unchanged images. Nothing have changed that I could have noticed.
     As expected.
     Maniac called in  five  minutes and  quickly explained what and  how  I
should  do. I could only shake my head when I got just what did he do to  my
image "#7".
     Obviously,  "Warlock-9000"  was something he was preparing  for a  long
time,  kept  for the very special  cases. If  this thingy is used even once,
hundreds of plagiarists will follow.
     - Beer, beer and  more beer... - I said turning the  phone off.  Nobody
can tell though whether I'll be able to provide him this beer or not.
     I was going to raise such a storm in the Deep which it haven't seen for
quite a while.
     The storm it deserved.


     - The terminal is on, - reported Vika. I  clicked the  connection icon,
and was on "Russia On Line"'s server in several seconds.
     The address left by Man Without Face I remembered by heart: some Polish
server which doesn't  really mean anything. It's just a  router, the  signal
will pass a couple or more countries on its way to Man Without Face.
     There was no video support on that server, no drawn muzzles or animated
photos on  the screen. A severe styled menu in Polish and English, some  ten
more languages supported, including  Romanian and Korean... no  Russian. Our
brotherly nation doesn't  favor us too  much, alas. I replied to  operator's
greeting and  asked  to  establish  connection  with "Man Without  Face" {<i>in
English  in the original</i>}.  The  operator switched to the  Russian  keyboard
driver in  half a minute and  asked  me  to name the addressee in my  native
language.
     "—¥«ê¢¥ª �¥§ ‹¨ä ", - I typed in.
     They started to throw me from server to server. The first two were open
ones,  I couldn't tell anything about  the  next  three. Then  I saw "Please
hold" on the screen. In Russian by the way.
     I was holding for fifteen minutes.
     First five minutes quietly and modestly, then - getting a beer from the
fridge and putting the  old  "Nautilus" album in the CD-player. Good  singer
Butusov is... until he starts trying to write the lyrics himself.
     I remembered my dream, where was a singer on the stage and poor Alex, a
prophet  dream in some sense. But why did I imagine Unfortunate as a singer?
Never had I any familiar musicians in  my  life, and  risked  to sing myself
only in complete solitude.
     "Who?"
     I pulled myself to the screen and typed without much thinking:
     "Me"
     "How goes, diver?"
     "I suppose you know that."
     I would give very much to find out who is he - Man Without Face.
     "Yes."
     "I can't handle it."
     "It's your problem."
     "Not only mine."
     A short delay - either Man Without Face was thinking or there was a lag
along the lines somewhere.
     "What do you want?"
     "Help."
     "I can't help. Everything you need is inside you."
     If he was  here,  a real person, I would  say something to him  that is
possible to say  only or even better not to say at all. So I said that aloud
but the Net has its own norms of communication and my fingers typed:
     "Who is he?"
     "You were told already."
     The spiders.  The  spiders,  stretched  their  thin  threads into  each
other's  dens.  Urman  watches  after "Labyrinth"  while  Man  Without  Face
controls Al-Kabar.
     "Was that true?"
     "Maybe"
     "I CAN'T HANDLE IT!" - I typed in CAPs.
     "Pity."
     And almost  instantly the line  have  appeared  in  the  bottom  of the
screen: "Addressee have disconnected."
     - Connection broke! - confirmed Vika, - Do you want to reconnect?
     - No, - I replied. For some reason  I didn't have any doubt: the Polish
server won't connect me with Man Without Face again.
     Maybe he feels  offended that  I've told  about  him to Urman. Maybe he
have just lost faith in my abilities.
     The result is the same in either case.
     - Vika, am I smart? - I asked.
     There's almost 1000 keywords stuffed into Windows-Home. Sometimes  it's
possible to make really funny talks  with the computer... almost intelligent
ones.
     - What answer would you like to hear? - deviated Vika as usual when the
words were not formulated as an order but were unclear to her.
     - The honest one.
     - I don't know Lenia. I really  wish I could  answer but I really don't
know.
     - Stupid you are, Vika.
     - And you're a boor.
     I laughed. If anybody not familiar with modern  operating systems could
hear me he would decide for sure that my Pentium is intelligent.
     - Sorry, Vika.
     - That's okay, I'm not angry.
     Intellect and its fake... Where is the border between them? We  already
talk to our computers, they greet us and wish  us  good  night.  Many people
including me spend most of their time in virtuality. But  it's not a victory
of  the human  intelligence,  just  a fake  of  the  victory, bright colored
banners and fireworks above the void. Higher  processor speed, more memory -
and the computer gets human look and feel. But nothing more...
     And  Unfortunate - he can be a program too. Just as cunning as Maniac's
virus,  penetrated through  the  filter, rooted itself  in the 33rd  level's
server, the one able to support the talk and to shoot the monsters.
     - Shit!! - I shouted.
     It's  so simple! Just a hundred of phrases said  sometimes in the right
time,  sometimes irrelevantly. The  program  that  learns on its own  words,
returning you your  own thoughts, obediently following its naive rescuers...
Sure it doesn't need any comm channels.
     What did I tell Unfortunate, what did he reply? I strained my memory.
     I  don't  know...  It might  be a program. Then  both Al-Kabar and  Man
Without Face were too wide of the mark.
     Good if I'm right, the riddle is solved quite simply.
     The Silence, Gunslinger...
     I shivered, remembering the void that rolled over me after his words.
     A program?
     Unfortunate, carrying the drawn kid with such care...
     A program?
     - I can't understand a thing, Vika, - I said, - Absolutely nothing, and
you can't help me.
     - Can I help? - replies Vika inopportunely.
     - No!
     - Who can then?
     I was silent for a while before replying.
     - The real Vika. The Deep!
     - Deep program start?
     I put my hands on the keyboard instead of an answer.
     Deep
     Enter.
     The  darkness  on  the screens is lined by falling  stars, the  rainbow
spiral  whirling  before  my  eyes,  erasing  reality,  pulling  me  towards
Deeptown's skyscrapers.

     The first second is the most difficult one. The room is the same, but I
know, all this is an illusion, a mirage.
     - Is everything okay, Lenia?
     I rotate my head. The room is okay. It's me who is different.
     - Personality #7, Gunslinger.
     - Acknowledged...
     This time my  appearance changes painfully  long,  nothing can be done,
it's an inevitable cost of the weapon.
     - Is everything okay Lenia?
     I stand up and look at my reflection in the mirror.
     - Yes. Thanks Vika.
     I open the fridge looking for soda. Sprite is over, only Coke has left.
It'll do.
     - Good luck, Lenia.
     - Thanks.
     I drink  the most popular beverage in  the  world  greedily which - how
funny - was created as a diarrhea relief... Urman estimated that I have five
hours more, now only four have left.  I can almost feel how somewhere in the
great distance, on  other  continents, the various officials' brains screech
in  strain, starting to comprehend  the Unfortunate's phenomenon.  Very soon
the  33rd level will be shut down, very soon  the hunt for  Unfortunate will
start. It's not important  whether he's a human or a program,  I'll  get him
out.
     -  Call the taxi, - I say leaving the apartment.  I  descend in a small
clean elevator and open the doorway.
     An old  Ford is waiting  for me, the driver is  a sleek young  guy in a
white  shirt, an exact copy of the one  that  I killed two days  ago  before
penetrating into Al-Kabar. I even feel shame looking at his friendly smile.
     - Brothel "Any Amusements"! - I growl.


     It looks like  Vika made Madam to  establish  a special  status for me.
When I enter  the lobby, I see  the three men in there. All three pull their
heads up,  in all three's eyes is confusion and fright.  They don't see each
other, two of them are even overlapping  in space looking like some kind  of
ugly siamese twins.
     These two  are  stately  blue  eyed  brunettes,  standard  bodies  from
Windows-Home's kit, obviously  put  on for  disguise. The  third  one  is  a
swarthy robust  guy with a cleanly shaved  head. The  common feature of  all
three is their look, the one of somebody caught being busy with pressing out
pimples.
     So, I'm now what, have the same rights as the brothel's employee? I can
see all three customers, enter the service areas...
     - Hi... - I say raising my hand  limply. All three  nod quickly. One of
them puts  aside  the green album with artificial  negligence, the other one
casts  the purple one  aside. Only the shaved guy continues to look  through
the black album stubbornly, curiously studying the pictures.
     I approach the  guard,  he opens the door  before me  obediently and  I
leave the lobby sparing the visitors from their soul tortures.
     Nobody is going to escort me but I  remember the way.  The corridor  is
empty, some doors are opened.  Bursts of laughter can  be  heard from behind
one of them. There is a small pavilion surrounded  by blossoming sakura, the
gentle  spring  sun  shines in  the sky, the cone  of  Fuji  is seen  in the
distance.  Two  girls are  drinking tea inside, noticing me they  wave their
hands cheerfully:
     - Hi Gunslinger, want some tea?
     -  N...no,  - I mumble and walk  away quickly. An absolutely naked girl
steps out from the other door, without even a hint of shyness.
     - Vika is  busy! - she says, -  Maybe you'll stay with me  for a while?
I'm boooored!
     There's no hint  in  her  words whatsoever and the thought about having
sex  doesn't  excite  her  more than  the  process of inhalation-exhalation.
There's  something dreadful in the situation itself... in all those cheerful
and friendly young girls.
     I  suddenly  realize what  do they remind  me of,  some old sci-fi book
about merry young people  who are busy with their favorite  work, who  spend
days  and nights at  it,  they are friendly, they are always  ready to  help
their friend, they are unable to say a single bad word about each other...
     It's like a distorted mirror, the false reflection. The evil had put on
the dress of good and as strange as it may seem, it fit!
     - Thanks,  but I'd better wait  in  her  room, thanks again... -  I say
smiling desperately.
     The  girl pouts sorrowfully and  disappears in her room.  I go  further
until my look meets with the black kitten's on the picture.
     - Meow! - I whisper softly  pushing the door. The kitten opens his tiny
maw, mews in return and freezes again.
     The  mountain hut is  empty,  just  the  wind  from  the opened  window
flutters  the  short curtains. Leaned against the window-sill, I  watch  the
mountains for quite a time.  No,  this is impossible,  to  create the  whole
world absolutely alone and not for fame and money, not at an order, just for
herself and even never enter it!
     To  create it just  in order to know that it exists, right here, behind
the window: the sparkling snow on  the mountain crest, the endless blue sky,
rocks on the slopes, the black  moss under  pine trees, birds soaring in the
skies  and  squirrels  scurrying about in  the trees. The world  of silence,
cleanliness and serenity, the world where the word 'filth' is not invented.
     I think that Unfortunate would like it. I really hope he will like it.
     - Lenia?
     Vika enters quietly and it takes me by surprise.
     - I'm sorry... didn't they tell you?
     She shakes her head.
     - I  just  wanted to be with you...  for a little time,  - I start make
excuses involuntarily, - Are you... all right?
     Vika nods.
     - You shouldn't dive in the Deep so often,  - I  say approaching her, -
have you at least had some snack?
     - A little... It's a flood of customers today.
     She doesn't  look aside, she got used to consider  this a work but it's
something wrong  with me. I can  feel  a cold lump  in  my chest, quick  and
pungent like a snow in the frost. I swallow some air and say:
     - Do you really have to work so much... Madam?
     Vika goes to the window and asks without turning back:
     - How did you find out?
     - I felt it.
     - Leave Leonid. Leave forever, okay?
     - No.
     - Why the hell do you pester me?  - shouts Vika turning back, - Why the
hell would you need a prostitute as a friend? Get out! I like that,  okay? I
like to  fuck a hundred of times a day, to change bodies, to order the girls
around and to pretend that I'm one of them! Is it clear? Is it?
     I just stand there waiting for  her to vent it out, then pad closer and
stand by her side by the window.
     I can't talk now and can't touch her, but it's dangerous to stay silent
either, though I have no choice and I wait for I don't know what.
     The mountains start and the  floor begins to shake under the feet. Vika
shouts clinging to  the window-sill, I grab her  by the shoulder and set the
second  hand against the wall. The earth  is  quivering,  the white mountain
caps  start flowing  with  a  white  smoke,  stretching  down  tentacles  of
avalanches. The huge rock whirls down by the window.
     - Mommy... - whispers Vika sinking on the floor, looks like she is more
excited than scared, - Duck, Lenia!
     I fall down beside her and just in time - a good load of stony shrapnel
blows into the window.
     - Fifth degree at least! - shouts Vika, - Seventh!
     - Eighth! - I suggest. Hardly had she ever seen  the real  earthquakes,
otherwise she wouldn't be so cheerful now.
     The hut's floor  is  still  shaking  but much less  now, with  a  small
convulsive shiver.
     - Cool,  - whispers Vika sprawling on the  floor. I catch  her look and
touch her cheek gently, - Don't be mad at me Lenia.
     - I'm not.
     - The customers... piss me off sometimes.
     - The Cap? - I remember.
     - Exactly.
     - Who is he?
     Vika shrugs.
     - I don't  know. He  wears different  bodies and  doesn't tell anything
about himself. He only... - she smirks, - always wears a cap. That's why his
nick.
     - Is he a sadist?
     - Yes, maybe... but a special one.
     Her lips whisper a short obscenity.
     - You what, accept any customers  here? Even  those who  make you climb
the walls?
     Vika stays silent.
     - I thought you sort out the worst idiots. If it's possible to identify
Cap beforehand...
     - We accept everyone.
     - What is it, a kind of the company honor? "Any Amusements"?
     - You might assume that.
     Looks  like the  earthquake is over, I rise and look  into the  window.
Avalanches still move, the river below is blocked by landslide and  fills in
slowly, searching for the new bed.
     - It calmed down,  - I whisper involuntarily,  as if my words can  wake
the nature up again, - Vika, why did you make the earthquake?
     - I don't  have anything  to do with  it. This world lives by itself, I
don't have any control over it anymore.
     - Not at all?
     Vika glances at me, rises and studies the changed landscape.
     - Absolutely. The world becomes real only when it gains freedom.
     - Just as a human.
     - Sure.
     - Do you believe in freedom so much?
     - You don't have to believe in freedom. When you have  it, you can feel
it yourself.
     I think I expected her to say these words.
     - Vika, what if some man... a good man is  in trouble... If he can lose
his freedom forever... would you agree to help him?
     - I would, - she  replies  calmly, -  Even if he's not that good a man.
This is a principle of a sort if you want.
     - I need to hide somebody.
     Vika shakes her head in some funny manner, so that her hair scatter  on
her shoulders.
     - Lenia, what are you talking about? Hide where?
     - In virtuality.
     - What for?
     - He can't exit.
     - You're talking about the one in "Labyrinth"?
     - Yes.
     - Lenia... - Vika  holds my hand, - How long  ago were you in  the real
world?
     - Half an hour ago.
     - Really? Don't you need some help  yourself? I have... - she bites her
lip, - one familiar diver. It's true, they really exist!
     How funny...
     - Do you want me to ask him to meet you?
     - Vika...
     She calms down.
     I'm not used  to such care, to  be honest. This is my  profession -  to
take care of people who got lost in virtuality.
     - I'll help, - says Vika, - But you're wrong... I think.
     I don't have time for arguments now.
     - Thank you. Are your security systems reliable enough?
     - Quite. Do you understand something in that?
     I nod. Of course, I can't create the security program  myself but I had
to  break those  so  many times  that  it's high  time to consider myself an
expert.
     - You can talk to the Wiz about that.
     - Will he tell me?
     - Not to you, and neither to me, but to Madam...
     Vika hesitates and looks at me as if asking to leave. I go to the door,
but she calls:
     - Lenia.. Don't. I want you to look.
     She  pads  to the wall, waves her hand and the  boards part, opening  a
small door.
     It's a light behind it, a cold bluish lifeless light. Vika's silhouette
stays  in the  doorway for a second, then disappears inside and I follow her
even if I don't want that at all, like hypnotized.
     It's a shed. Or a morgue. Or Blue Beard's museum.
     Shiny  nickel coated hooks stick  out from the walls, human bodies hang
on them, almost reaching the floor with their feet, girls for the most part,
light  and dark haired, several reddish  ones,  one is completely bald. Also
several middle-aged women and a couple of old ones, several girls and boys.
     All eyes are opened and empty.
     -  This  is my  costumier room,  -  says  Vika. I  stay  silent,  I can
understand that anyway.
     Vika walks  along slightly rocking bodies, looking into the dead faces,
whispering  something as if in greeting. Madam is  hanging somewhere in  the
end of the first dozen. Vika looks back at me  making  sure I'm watching and
snugs close to the splendid body of  the brothel owner, hugs it as if in the
outburst of perverted passion.
     Nothing happens for a second, then - I can't catch the moment of change
- Vika and Madam change places. Not Vika but Madam backs from the helplessly
hanging body.
     - That's it, - says Madam in her low voice.
     -  Why... in such  a disgusting way? -  I ask,  - These  hooks...  this
morgue... why? Vika?
     Madam looks at Vika, nods sadly:
     - Vika my dear, why? Should we explain to Lenia?
     Vika, threaded on the hook by her nape stays silent.
     - In order to never  forget, Leonid. Not to forget for even a  second -
they are not alive.
     I look at Madam, far  more calm and wise than Vika, and if  to approach
it unbiased - much more beautiful.
     - You had to see it, - says Madam.
     - I have.
     We exit the 'human meat warehouse' through the other door, the one that
leads into Madam's  room. This is a  completely different  world. There's  a
noisy and crowded beach behind the window, the hot sun in the  sky, the room
itself is full of luxurious old  furniture, books  are  scattered everywhere
along with  opened candy boxes, clothes, cheap jewelry and golden bracelets,
half-empty perfume bottles,  playing  cards.  The huge bed under  the  plush
canopy  is uncovered,  the slipper is lying  under it. A  variety of started
bottles is in  the sideboard,  the dusty guitar  hangs on the wall,  Persian
carpet on the floor is bitten by moth and is stained with wine in patches.
     - Now you can try to guess which me is a real one, - says Madam.
     I ain't going to. There's no other truth in the world except the one we
want to believe in anyway.
     We don't  stay in Madam's  room for  long and I'm glad  about that very
much, it's too stiffly in there.
     - Lenia, sometimes I tend to think that you're just a young boy, - says
Madam, - one can't be so naive after all.
     - Why not?
     - It's too hard to live that way.
     - Nobody had promised me it'll be easy.
     I walk by Madam's side thinking  about how could we look from the side.
A pale and tall Gunslinger fits to be Madam's son in his  age but there's no
resemblance between them. Maybe  it must look like a disguised aristocrat 's
visit to the cheap brothel.
     - Steep stairs here, - warns Madam.
     - I remember.
     We enter the recreation area and the girls under umbrellas  greet Madam
with  cheerful  squeals.  The gay  splashing in the water just  by the shore
quickly stands up and waves his hand. The tousled head of Computer Wiz pokes
up from behind the bar and ducks back down quickly.
     - You  see,  Vika  is  not  here,  -  says  Madam  to  me loudly,  then
protectively puts her hand on my shoulder, - Girls, Gunslinger will wait for
his girlfriend here! Don't hurt him!
     The general meaning  of the answers summarizes to the idea that they'll
hurt me for sure  but I'll like  that. Madam waves  her finger at the girls,
then  goes  to  the  bar.  The Wiz  appears  at  once,  as  if  feeling  her
approaching.
     -  Talk  to  Gunslinger,  -  Madam  asks  him  gently,  - He  has  some
questions... answer all of them.
     - Absolutely all? - inquires Wiz.
     - Absolutely.
     - Well Madam, don't say later that I forced this out of you.
     - I wish it was necessary... - sighs Madam.
     I'm waiting for Wiz  by the table which stands a little aside  from the
others, the girls don't need to hear our talk.
     -  Champaign! - declares  Wiz, approaching me, -  Hi Gunslinger! You're
drinking champaign, right? I don't, it's too many bubbles in it,  my stomach
rumbles after that!
     He moves in  an odd  manner, very  smoothly as  if  being on asphalt. I
glance at  his feet, they don't touch the sand: the shabby  slippers are  on
Wiz's feet, with tiny wings  growing from  their sides  that  hammer the air
quickly.
     - I'm drinking champaign with the girls only, - I refuse, - Do you have
vodka over there?
     -  Everything is there! - Wiz plops  the  bottle of  caustically violet
colored liquor on the table  and runs away  with unclaimed Abrau-Durso. Just
in a minute he  returns in  the same  gliding manner  with a bottle of Ursus
vodka, a crystal pitcher filled with water and a package of Zuko.
     - Here, mix that...
     I  never  tried Ursus  but it's a good vodka as they  say.  Hoping that
subconsciousness will work out the  taste for me, I pour in a cup. Wiz grabs
the pitcher and mixes the beverage by himself using his own hand as a mixer.
     We're in virtuality after all... mo germs here. I swallow  the vodka in
one shot and take a mouthful directly from the pitcher, then ask:
     - Where did you get this cute footwear from?
     - These slippers? Ah, made  them myself today... was sick and tired  of
bogging  in the sand. You like them? You  see, in Deeptown it's possible  to
walk on the floor only. So I had to glue a piece of floor to the soles. It's
no problems now: walk on air as long as you want, until tired!
     Wiz laughs and makes several small steps, ascending almost to the table
level, then crosses his  legs, falls into the armchair, opens the liquor and
drops to the bottle with a smacking sound.
     - Superb thing! - he declares, - Sweet-sweet! Real Cura ao!
     - Do you spend the whole day here?, - I inquire.
     - Whole day? Ha! I exit this place to eat something, and pardon me,  to
visit bathroom!
     - Madam says, all security here depends on you.
     - Wrong word! Everything depends on me here.
     - May a stranger enter here?
     - And how could we earn the living if we wouldn't let them in?
     -  I'm not about that.  Is it possible  to penetrate into the brothel's
service areas?
     - Institution's! This is not a brothel, but Institution! No, it is not.
     - Absolutely?
     Wiz sighs and becomes more serious.
     - Are you hacker or lamer?
     - A 'newbie'.
     - Okie, I see... The absolute security doesn't exist. The closer you're
to the absolute reliability,  the less comfortable you feel  in  virtuality.
It's a quadratic dependence here  - your  ability to receive and to transmit
data falls as the security level becomes higher. The most important thing is
to find the  optimal ratio between comfort and security. Our security system
was created with  the  elements of  artificial  intelligence. When  breaking
attempts are detected, the  warning is broadcasted, additional passwords are
implemented, dummies are activated...
     - Dummies?
     - Autonomous mobile security programs, phagocytes. I call them dummies,
they are all dumb. Why don't you drink?
     I pour myself more.
     -  If an intensive attack  happens, - Wiz goes on, - then the degree of
security  grows  unlimited,   up  to   the  complete  encapsulation  of  the
Institution. Of course it never happened before, but it's meant to work this
way.
     - So you want to say that the security IS ideal after all?
     Wiz  hesitates,  the  vanity  which  he  obviously has  struggles  with
objectivity.
     -  No... If  the big group of professionals  would  plan the  break-in,
they'll  be  able to enter before the defense starts to work in full volume.
But who on the Earth would want to do that, huh?
     I  understand  that it'd  be  stupid  to expect  any different  answer.
There's a sword for any shield.
     - Thank you, Wiz.
     - Ah, don't mention it! - he waves his hand, - Do you want to make your
own security system? Drag it in here, I'll help. Or better  yet, let's go to
your place!  - Wiz fires  up, - I'll do everything  myself,  I'm so bored of
sitting here!
     I shake my head, he guessed wrong.
     - I'm just interested in how it's handled here.
     - Ah, you're the auditor? -  starts Wiz,  - Hushhh... I've got it,  I'm
quiet... Why haven't Madam told me immediately?
     Who might audit the brothel I wonder? What for? Very interesting... but
I don't dare to question Wiz any more.
     - Okay, time to  go... and Vika  must have freed already. - I say.  Wiz
becomes solemn and serious instantly:
     - You watch it,  don't hurt her!, - he warns, - she is... a great girl,
I'd kick anyone's ass for her.
     Wiz sighs and looks at the sea dreamily.
     - I  have  just  wanted to score her but  you  were  the first...  - he
confesses, - You know, she  had a great crush on me...  or maybe  even still
has... but don't worry, I never take girls from my friends.
     Some  time  ago I  thought  that  the  soap  opera  computer  guys  are
completely  fictional  characters. Hah! If  it just was really  so. They  do
really exist.
     - But don't you even think to approach that blondie! - he adds, - She's
so desperately in love with me, she suffers that for almost half a year...
     The poor girl laughs aloud hugging her friend, not suspecting about her
ill fortune.
     -  Or maybe I'd go after Natashka... - thinks  Wiz, - they're  all such
lovable types here!
     He  picks up  his  liquor  and moves towards the  laughing blonde in  a
dancing walk, while I use the moment to get out.


     I  must  have  done  a couple  more  turns on  the  spiral stairs  than
necessary and  descend  into  the  lobby.  The recent visitors  are not here
anymore, they must be enjoying the life's pleasures already.
     Just one  guy  stands by the table browsing through  the  black  album,
short and stooping, with a face like of a famished marmot, with long strands
of hair breaking loose from  under the cap that's hung low above his eyes. I
almost pass him going  to the door  into the service area  when I get it. In
the meanwhile the guy had put the album back and started to move towards the
door.
     - Hey, Cap! - I call him.
     He stops and turns around slowly, his eyes are empty and as cheerful as
the ones of the boiled fish.
     - You're Cap, - I repeat.
     No reaction whatsoever, the guy goggles at me absolutely blankly.
     -  I don't like  you!  - I say with a sudden joy,  - Do you hear  me? I
don't like you at all!
     - 'Haha' three times, - replies Cap averting his pale gaze and turns to
the  door again.  He doesn't have any curiosity at all. He's a compatriot at
least.
     -  Stop! - I shout into his back and he stops, waiting indifferently, -
You shouldn't return here anymore, - I say.
     Cap smirks - the first emotion on his face, but it looks so mechanic as
if I'm talking to a program instead of an alive person.
     - What do you want here?
     Looks like it's the question that he's ready to answer.
     - Some collective psychology research.
     - Conduct it elsewhere.
     His pale eyes examine me from feet to the head.
     - Do you work here?
     - No.
     - You're mutant then.
     I feel myself lost after such a weird characteristic and Cap explains:
     -   The   loss   of   social  and   ethical  orientation.   Personality
decomposition. What an inevitable and disgusting metamorphosis.
     Already opening the door, he adds:
     - Boring...
     ...Vika's voice reaches me by the exit:
     - Leonid, wait! Don't!
     It's quite difficult to get  back to my senses. I realize that my right
hand clings to the belt and the left one squeezed in a fist. I look at  Vika
feeling how my fury slowly fades.
     - Was it Cap? - I define just in case.
     - Yes.
     - I think I'm starting to understand your reaction.
     - Have you cooled down already? - inquires Vika, - Good boy. Let's go.
     I'm  already  feeling uncomfortable  of my recent  outbreak. Strange, I
never thought  it's so  easy to  start me, by in  general quite  meaningless
words.
     - Who is he, Vika?
     She feels that she'll have to answer this question.
     - Nothing special. Just a person  who  thinks  he has  a right to judge
everyone around.
     - Virtual prostitutes for instance?
     -  Not  only.  I  know a  couple  more  places where Cap  conducts  his
experiments.
     - He said something about psychology...
     These words amuse Vika for some reason:
     - The person that is unable to  be creative always tries to justify his
destructive behavior. Very often this is done in a form of aloof watching of
the world's imperfections, especially ones such as our brothel...
     We enter the door from which the black kitten is smiling, and Vika goes
on:
     - Psychology is a very simple science according to the general opinion.
People aren't able to hammer the nail in by themselves or to rhyme  at least
a couple of lines never doubt in their ability to understand  - and to judge
others.  In  extreme  cases it becomes  the  essence of their lives  and the
source of self-confidence.
     - Who are you, Vika?
     - A psychologist. PhD, if you want to know.
     She  sits down,  sweeps the gravel  from the table.  The room obviously
needs cleaning after  the earthquake. Since there's  no second chair here, I
just squat nearby.
     - And your Thesis' subject is?...
     - "Abnormal  behavioral  reactions'  sublimation  in the  virtual space
environment".
     As if in apology, she adds:
     - It's common to formulate this way.
     I see...
     - You're studying  those like Cap? - I ask,  - The real hunter for  the
fake ones?
     - No, and for  a long time by  now, Lenia. It was interesting to  study
for half a year or more. But now - all they are similar, that Cap and others
alike. All pathologies are the same and if you know one psychopath,  you can
guess the behavior of thousand of them.
     - Then why?..
     - Because they exist. The  destruction that comes out  of them can hurt
just a couple of  people here. In the real world  they'll leave  a trace  of
broken lives, poisoned  love, ridiculed  friendship  after them.  Maybe even
blood. But here they are harmless, all their arrogance, animal reactions and
self-conceit is just a dust, dust on the wind.
     - But it's hard for you here!
     - So what? It's not real me who is hurt but a drawn one.
     - Vika...
     - I  beg you - don't meddle  in the  Institution's business.  Otherwise
Madam will cancel your access.
     She smiles and I feel confused.
     - Okay, I'll not meddle in the Institution's business inside it.
     - What about outside?
     - This is a matter of my personal freedom.
     Vika parts her hands.
     - Leonid, how old are you?
     - What about exchange? - I ask quickly, - Information for information?
     Nobody  does advertise  their biographical  data in virtuality but Vika
doesn't have any idea how much am I not used to it.
     - Okay Leonid. I'm 29.
     Before I answer, I have time to rejoice.
     - 34.
     - I'd never think that, I'd give you just a little more than twenty.
     It's not necessary to mention that my fears were quite opposite.
     - Virtuality is deceitful.
     -  No, virtuality is like an ice, we  freeze into  it once and forever.
It's impossible to take off our first mask. We can invent hundreds of bodies
afterwards, but that, very first one will be evident always.
     - Madam was your first mask?
     Vika picks  the purse from the table,  takes the  cigarette from it and
lights it.
     - Yes Lenia.  We  had  got  a grant for the  research  of human  sexual
behavior in virtuality, the Westerners were a little crazy  about that... at
least one third of all information in  the Net was  tied to sex somehow.  So
I've  invented   this  personality  -  a   brothel  owner,  self  confident,
experienced, the one who saw everything in this life.
     - You were successful, - I admit.
     Vika exhales the smoke and asks with a slight irony:
     - Maybe I'm really like that deep inside, how do you know?
     - I don't care.
     I'm lying of course but Vika doesn't argue.
     - Did Zuko reassure you?
     - Almost.
     - He's a good specialist. You can confidently bring your friend here.
     I look at the watch, there's still some time left.
     - It's not that easy, Vika. It's very important to guess right and come
to fetch him in time.
     - You hackers  are funny folks, - says  Vika.  How interesting. Geez! I
was considered a cool programmer.
     - Will you allow me to sleep here for a while?
     - What?
     - To sleep. I'm in the Deep for almost 24 hours while it'd be better to
work with a 'fresh' head.
     Vika - how wonderful - approaches this business-like.
     - Do you want me to wake you up?
     - Yes, in two hours.
     - Sleep, feel yourself at home, I'll wake you up myself.
     She pats  me on  the head, the gesture  that would fit Madam better but
I'm pleased  anyway. She nods at the bed  and exits  through the  door  that
leads into costumier room. In a minute Madam will come  out  and will go  to
order the girls around.
     In  the meantime I do  something not  very polite, I get a spool with a
thin thread from my jacket's pocket, the little weight is tied to the end of
it.
     The wind doesn't calm down outside the window, the thread is waving but
I  let it go to the end  nevertheless. When the  weight  touches the slope I
glance at the thread: each meter is marked with red paint.
     Seven  and a half meters  (~24  feet). Bed sheets  won't  help here. Ah
well,  there must  be  some  ropes  in the brothel,  at  least in the  rooms
intended for sadomasochists.
     I throw the spool outside feeling a little uncomfortable but convincing
myself that most likely Vika would allow this little experiment. Haven't she
said to feel myself at home anyway?
     I plop  down  at the narrow bed,  right on the  comforter  and close my
eyes. But  just before  I  allow  myself to fall asleep,  I  exit virtuality
anyway and order Windows-Home to wake me up in two hours.
     The  sleep  comes  almost  instantly. For  some  reason  I hope  to see
something prophetical and with  a plot again, like as it  was the  last time
when Alex shoot Unfortunate but what I see is a complete mess.
     The  rainbow shining above  Deeptown, its  blinding bright flashes look
like deep program, but this rainbow is built  of ledges, it's  the  biblical
stairway to  Heaven. I walk along it just as Computer Wiz in his slippers. I
realize that the colors have different density - I  fall  in being on violet
and blue layers, lean against the green ones  slightly and  step against the
yellow ones confidently. The city below me is colorful and bright, I can see
it through the multicolored mist.
     I  even know in  my  dream  why do I ascend  into the sky. Somewhere up
there is a crystal  dome  of the Deep which had divided the world in  two. I
must break it,  either using the Maniac's weapon or with  my  bare hands, no
matter.  The crystal would crack and stream  down on the city, in a blinding
bright star rain, because  the stars  are undoubtedly made of crystal,  of a
pungent crystal that reflects the light of our eyes.
     And then something would happen; maybe the stars  will burn us or maybe
they'll have time to cool down and will fall right into the hands set below.
I don't know for sure what do I want.
     It's just most important not to make a mistake and  to strike right  in
time. This time had already been defined, the time when I'll be able to turn
the barrier into millions of crystal stars, it have almost come, the time...
     - It's time... Time, Leonid.
     I open my eyes accompanied  by  Windows-Home's whisper,  a couple  more
seconds passes  until I  finally  realize  where  am  I. A moment later Vika
enters.
     - You're awaken already?
     I nod, sit down on a messy bed and rub my  forehead. The head is heavy,
I had to either sleep more or not to sleep at all.
     - I'll make coffee, - says Vika.
     Leaned against the wooden wall I watch her. She takes a small sack with
coffee out of the dark sideboard, dark  not  because of dirt  but because of
its  age, then grinds  the beans with a small  manual polished brass  coffee
grinder, lights the fire  with experience.  I can smell the  dry pine  wood,
boiling coffee and some abstract, not  medical cleanliness... either the one
of a water in a mountain stream or the one of the hot sand under the sun.
     So good.
     I can whisper my rhyme and exit into reality, to make a real coffee and
even to spice it with remaining cognac, to wash my face with a cold water.
     I'll be damned if I do that.
     Everything  is real here: the clean air, the live water, coffee grounds
on  the  bottom of  a  cup, Vika's  caring  look.  Outside there's  only  an
abandoned dusty room, dampness and rotten water from the faucet.
     ... Too often do I feel that  suicidal wish to become just as everybody
lately ...
     - Some cognac? - asks Vika and pours me a little cup of Achtamar.
     - I have five more minutes, - I say, - Then... it'll be time.
     - You'll return not alone?
     - I hope so.
     -  Take your friend by the hand when you  enter, in  this case he'll be
given privileged status too. I'll ask Wiz.
     - Thanks.
     - You'll thank Madam for that. Everything depends on her.
     - We're good friends with Madam, she'll allow that. - I smile.
     I have time to  drink two cups of coffee and two cups  of cognac before
my time really runs out.
     I have to go.
     Vika starts to clean the room when I exit, and involuntarily I remember
fake  families that started to appear more and more  often  as of late,  all
these  couples  that live in different  cities renting common  apartments in
Deeptown. They say that they  love to do  house work, to vacuum clean and to
do laundry -  as if imitation of common  life would make their union a  real
one.
     "Do you have a family?"
     "Yes. My  wife is a  prostitute, we  have  a small mountain  hut in the
brothel. You're welcome to visit us, she'll make a great coffee. It's always
clean in our place, even after the earthquake."
     I start feeling dread, just because such picture doesn't irritate me at
all.
     The situation requires an urgent solution, any solution.
     I lag along the street to the entrance portal, pass by a small pavilion
of some airline  company with a bored operator inside. The beggar is perched
by  the  pavilion,  this  is  also some new  phenomenon - paupers in virtual
space, they weren't here just a month ago.
     The  beggar  is clean  but ragged  and scraggy, his  figure  is  a  bit
transparent and moves jerkily  -  it's how  they  try to demonstrate the low
modem speed and the weakness of the software.
     - Help me... - moans the beggar. {<i>In English in the original</i>}
     - The God will give, - I inform him.
     - Mr Hacker, at least one dollar... - cries the beggar behind my back.
     They say that the majority of those beggars are Russians. They say that
none of them needs money, this is just  a  new fun for the "New Russians", a
rare amusement, to beg,  to be in the pauper's skin for some time. It's like
a fashionable  and  effective psychic  therapy.  Maniac once swore  that  he
managed to glue  a  marker  on one  of such beggars who turned out  to be  a
director of a big bank.
     - I worked for Microsoft, - mumbles the beggar lagging behind, - Once I
called Windoze a buggy proggy  and praised  OS/2. Bill Gates  had personally
fired  me the next  day  and  included me  in the  black list. I was a  cool
hacker... Look how low did I sink...
     -  What interruption is your modem hung to?  - I  shout turning back to
him, - What does the display of the  message "Press this button to begin" in
Windows-Home  depends on? Three best ways to freeze  Windoze?  Who  invented
texture graphics? The best protocol for the modems manufactured by....
     The beggar flees.
     Looks like Maniac was telling the truth.
     But at  least these amusements are less  dangerous than  the car  races
that were stylish among Neuve riches a year ago. That was the reason for the
private cars to  be forbidden  in  Deeptown,  after which  Deep-Transit  had
triumphantly occupied the transportation service niche.
     The encounter  with the beggar amuses me and by the time I approach the
"Labyrinth"'s portal I have a completely different mood: a battle-like one.
     The crowd is  dense as  usual, "Labyrinth" is still  functioning  which
means that everything was calculated correctly, but the fear to run into the
shut door at the last second  doesn't  let  go  of me. I  elbow through  the
players in hurry and only when I type in my  code and enter the 33rd level I
finally calm down.
     Let's begin!
     I'm Gunslinger!


     It's windy  on  the level. The metal cabin of "American Hills" squeaks,
rocking,  half  slid  from its  rails  and hanging  above the  very  head of
Unfortunate.
     Great, one more mean of death is found.
     - Hey! - I shout, approaching him, - It's me!
     Unfortunate raises his head, maybe it's a good sign.
     - Bored?
     I  sit  down by his  side  and  Unfortunate  takes  off  his respirator
himself, looks at me tiredly and hopelessly.
     - Are you a human or a  program? - I  ask directly.  Unfortunate shakes
his head: go ahead and understand the negation the way you want...
     -  Do you know that you've got the nick 'Unfortunate'? -  I say, -  But
you know man,  even biblical Iov was more lucky  than you! Your bad  luck is
something really unique!
     Finally he replies:
     - This is not only my... bad luck.
     - Do you want to say you were rescued bad?
     I'm talkative and bucked up like after a good drink, I need to stir  up
Unfortunate a little and, as stupid as it might sound, I need to become sure
that he's not a program.
     - I was rescued well. It's that just nobody could cross the border.
     - What border?
     - Of consciousness.
     Unfortunate  is patient  in his explanations, but  so what?  They don't
clarify anything.
     - Let's go away from under this shit, -  I nod at the rocking cab, - We
have very little time.
     - You won't  be able to  anyway... - whispers Unfortunate but stands up
submissively and moves aside.
     - We'll see, we'll see...
     I'm waiting  for I don't know what... for the action promised by Urman,
for the level's shutdown?
     - Unfortunate... may I call you that? Do you like poetry?
     Silence.
     The  program might imitate the talk, making answers from my own  words,
but no program can create anything by itself.
     -  "My uncle's a  man of honest  rules",  -  I  recite, - Go  on!  Huh?
Unfortunate?
     He looks back at me with such an irony that I feel uncomfortable:
     - "... When seriously fallen ill..."  Say  Gunslinger,  do  all Russian
divers know only Pushkin by heart?
     - Anatol'?
     - Yes. He "remembered the wonderful moment".
     I  could just  laugh at my own stupidity, at all those clich s hammered
into  mind. Instead I ask, feeling as something  breaks  inside, either  the
notorious 'border' or just a common sense:
     - Well, what did Dick read you? Shakespeare?
     - Carroll, - the answer comes from behind.
     Dick stands close, Anatol in some 5 meters away, with BFG at the ready.
     - Just as you, I sat by his side, - says Dick, - I sat down...
     He sits facing indifferent Unfortunate and says: {<i>in English here</i>}
     Twas brilling, and the skithy toves
     Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
     I wait in fascination, and Unfortunate goes on:
     All mimsy were the borogoves,
     And the mome raths outgrabe.
     From the  huge distance  I hear  Windows-Home squeaking in warning  and
whispering:
     - Impossible  to translate! It doesn't present in  the main dictionary!
Impossible to translate!
     Dick looks up at me and asks:
     - So Unfortunate is Russian according to your opinion?
     Didn't Urman ask the same question?
     - Who are you? - I ask Unfortunate. He smiles and rises, - Who the hell
are you?! - I shout.
     On vstal pod derevo i zhdet
     I vdrug graahnul grom...
     - says Unfortunate.
     Anatol laughs and goes on:
     Letit uzhasnyj Barmaglot
     I pylkaet ognem!
     {<i>a part of one of Russian translations</i>}
     A real psycho clinic, and I'm the dumbest patient in here.
     - Get out diver, - orders Dick, - The rescue games are over, everything
is much more serious than you might think.
     As if in confirmation of his words, a thick mechanic siren roar sounds,
so strong that  my  ears  start aching. Then the silence falls, only alarmed
monsters boo, scream and chirp. A  female voice falls from the sky, covering
all sounds:
     -  Attention!  Vnimanie!  To everybody  located  on the  33rd  level of
"Labyrinth of Death"! You must leave  the  game area immediately! This is an
official warning! You have 30  seconds to exit the  game area!  You may  use
your  weapons to commit suicide and to return  to the  "Labyrinth"'s  column
hall.  All necessary  explanations will be provided, reimbursements will  be
paid. Attention! To everybody...
     -  Do you need  help?  - asks Anatol aiming his BFG  at me,  - Or maybe
you'll do it yourself?
     -  You'll  hurt Unfortunate too, -  I  say and Anatol nods,  throws BFG
aside and takes the rocket launcher instead.
     But right at this moment  I tear out the leather Gunslinger's belt from
under my overalls. It's  just an ordinary  belt -  as long as it stays on my
body.
     Once in my  hand, the leather strip shrinks with a  boom, stretches  in
length, enveloping itself into blueish sparks. Maniac have made Warlock-9000
in  a form of lash. One  stroke - and the lash outstretches, greedily trying
to break free from my hand, the end of it strikes against Anatol's armor.
     The blue fiery stream flows along the lash, sucking into Anatol's body.
This is a real battle weapon, for it there's no difference between the armor
or  bare flesh. The diver  disappears in  the swirl of  purple flames, falls
through the ground. The whirlpool doesn't calm down though. The fiery crater
buzzes, slowly becoming wider.
     - You! - shouts Dick, - You've smuggled the virus!
     Our faces  are colored  by  the blue  glow,  Unfortunate  looks  at the
growing twister in enchantment. I just nod, the words are unnecessary.
     - Fifteen seconds... - says the voice from the sky.
     -  You've  hit Anatol! You've broke  the  Diver's Code!  - Dick doesn't
attempt to take the weapon and I'm glad  he  doesn't: I don't  want to  kill
him.
     - Everything is much more serious, - I repeat his own words.
     The  new sound comes -  the sound  of  breaking glass,  crashing walls,
squeaking of the metal being crumpled.
     The  silvery  ring falls  down  from the purple  clouds,  the  darkness
following it,  as if the giant  glass  is  covering  the 33rd level. I would
think that this is how the level's  encapsulation looks like if there wasn't
terror and confusion on Dick's face.
     Al-Kabar have entered the game.
     But  Dick  blames  me in everything,  he  tears  the carbine  from  his
shoulder - and I  react without thinking. The  lash hits his neck, beheading
him with enthusiasm of unemployed butcher.
     One-two! One-two! The grass ablaze!
     Vzee-vzee... the grazing sword...
     - says Unfortunate.
     I grab him by the shoulders and push towards the  fiery crater. The new
twister grows where Crazy Tosser was behind our backs.
     - Why? - asks Unfortunate.
     We must hurry  up. Now, when "Labyrinth"'s and Al-Kabar's hackers fight
over  the  33rd  level it's  a high  time to flee.  Warlock is  not only the
killer, it's also a tunnel drilled through the Deep.
     - In order to return! - I shout pushing Unfortunate into the blue flame
and jumping after him.
     The fire.
     We are falling.
     The spiral of blue fire is a tunnel wall, the violet mist is its flesh.
     The  foggy mirrors appear under our feet, we break them as we fall, the
faces in the mirrors are like shadows, the spaces like pale watercolors.
     Ruined  railway  station  of the first level...  the  hospital  of  the
21st... the Cathedral of the 50th! I even can see  the grinned muzzle of the
Alien  Prince, a  fiery blink from his  on-shoulder rocket launcher - but we
have flown by already.
     Deeptown street - faces of passers-by, the hood of a taxi, the ad "Only
after you work for..."
     The  bookstore  - the rainbow  of covers,  the girl in glasses  looking
through  the magazine, rustling of pages like thunder in my ears, the guy at
the cash register...
     Blue lightings crawl along my arms.
     Unfortunate in the cloud of greenish fire.
     A supermarket - an orange jam jar blinks past my eyes - empty.
     A pet shop - a white bunny in the cage.
     Are there hallucinations in the Deep I wonder?
     "Warlock" must calm down, the counter of passed spaces is built into it
but Maniac didn't promise that it'll work properly. He didn't have a  chance
to test the virus.
     A valley, unbelievably flat, burnt, four vehicles crawling across it...
     Either clouds  or just a sea  of white  down,  crystal  trees until the
horizon, white-haired old man in the ground long chlamys looking after us un
confusion, sounds of harps...
     The purple and black whirl,  low rumbling roar, sulphurous  stench  and
steel sparkling in the dark...
     Blue discharges pierce through us, every hair on the skin scratches and
stings as if rooting into the body...
     A  green  clearing  with  a small puppy running  across it,  crazed  by
enthusiasm and energy, yelping behind our backs.
     Stop Warlock, stop already!
     A stormy sea, the  stars in gaps between the clouds, salty taste on the
lips, a tiny yacht sliding  down  the wave, a boy  naked down  to his  waist
clinging to the cordage, harpoon in his hands....
     A  twilight,  round hall, the walls built of screens,  the seat looking
like a throne...
     This  mirror doesn't break, pulls  us inside itself - and throws out on
the cold  marble floor. No  time to check the bones,  I jump up raising  the
lash to strike.
     But it looks  like there's no obvious danger. The solid middle aged man
is perched on the  throne, dressed  in something unbelievably luxurious  and
military type at  the same time.  His chest is covered with  decorations. He
doesn't seem  to see us - all his attention is drawn towards the creature on
the biggest screen. The creature looks like a huge red ant.
     -  We must join our efforts!  - pontificates  the  man, -  Together our
races could...
     I help Unfortunate to stand up.  We fell  into some game server, that's
not bad.
     - Humans have made their lying nature evident! - snaps the ant from the
screen, - We will disperse the very memory of you like a dust in the wind!
     The screen  dims, the man presses his  hands against his face and rocks
from side to side.
     - What is this? - asks Unfortunate.
     - A game, - I explain looking around  in a search for an exit. There is
a  door but it doesn't seem  like it's  possible  to just open it. The  room
looks as a command bunker of some sort  of a missile base, as it is shown in
the movies. The austerity of the interior is only spoiled by a torn hole  in
the ceiling - some purple mist  still flows down from  it along  with mirror
splinters  that  fall from it  and shatter into dust on the floor. "Warlock"
still works, clung to several nearest servers.
     - What is the game about?
     - Star wars.
     I  pad to  the man,  the steps to the throne  are made of crystal: it's
very slippery and damned uncomfortable.
     - Hey, human race savior! - I tap the player on the shoulder.
     The man  straightens on the throne, the  miser man's tears  well in his
eyes.
     - Deneb! - he orders. The screen  flashes,  the officer appears  on it,
the number  of his decorations  close to  our  player's. - Colonel! Move the
squadron to the Sol's orbit!
     - But Emperor, our planet is defenseless...
     - The main thing is to retain  the  cradle of the  human race! - speaks
the Emperor abruptly.
     The colonel nods, suffer on his face:
     - Your order will be fulfilled, Emperor!
     I block 'Emperor's' view with my hand. Maybe he doesn't see us? But the
man pushes my hand aside and mumbles:
     - Interference... communication unreliable...
     Oh  Gosh!  Just  see  how did I find some work  for myself  suddenly...
Deep-psychosis  at its  height.  The man just doesn't  WANT to see us - this
wouldn't  fit into  stereotypes of the  simple strategic game  he's  so deep
into.
     - How to exit? - I shout, - Exit!
     He  outstretches his  hand, pushes some  button. He doesn't take  us by
consciousness,  but unconsciously he's ready to do everything to get  rid of
'interference'. His  movements are limp and unsure: at least 24 hours in the
Deep. The door rumbles behind my back, opening.
     - What's the matter with him? - asks Unfortunate.
     - Deep psychosis.
     I turn back to the door,  we must hurry: 'Warlock' must  have left some
traces, they will be detected sooner or later while the poor Emperor's timer
is on most likely.
     - Are we leaving? - asks Unfortunate.
     Yes, I did break the Diver's Code when using weapon against  Anatol and
Dick but I'm diver anyway, the Deep's guardian. Who will do it if not me?
     - Vika! - I command.
     - Lenia? - the  voice of  Windows-Home is dull and muffled, the machine
is overloaded and doesn't have any more strength for goodies.
     - The standard set of gear.
     Pause,  a  very  long  one -  then the pockets start feeling heavy with
load.
     I rip off the remains of the overalls  from me - was it tattered in the
fall  through mirrors? - and  stay in  the Gunslinger's costume, I wrap  the
lash carefully and it turns into a belt again.
     - What are you gonna do? - Unfortunate is curiosity itself.
     - Drag him out!
     Now  I need to intercept the comm channel that connects the player with
his computer at  home, then  to  break the security system,  hardly it's too
complicated - obviously  the  guy is a typical  'newbie'. Then I'll have  to
either run the exit deep-program or to just nullify the timer.
     I take sunglasses from the left pocket and put them on, the darkness is
almost complete, just one sparkling orange winding thread at the base of the
throne can be seen. Here it is, his channel. I look around the  room and see
my own navel-string, scattered on the floor in rings and disappearing in the
tunnel  gnawed  through  by  'Warlock'.  That's  bad,  it means  we  haven't
connected to  the player's  server but  entered from nobody  knows where. My
channel now may circle  through the different  continents,  jump up  through
satellites,  slide  along  fiber  optics along the  ocean floor...  Too many
spaces have we  passed on  our  way from  "Labyrinth"... and they are  still
near:  I can see flashes of light in the tunnel,  dimming  pieces of threads
fall from it from time to time.
     And  there's really no signal coming from Unfortunate, or there  is but
too well  hidden for my simple scanner:  just a  dark silhouette watching me
working.
     There's a little metal box in  my right pocket, I open it - a sparkling
emerald beetle lies on the soft padding, moving his paws. I  pick him up, he
tries to break free aiming at my own channel. Oh no pal, not there...
     I put  the beetle at  the throne base and step back. The beetle freezes
for a moment quivering his head, then dives into the orange thread.
     Now  we'll wait  and hope  that  there's only a standard  antivirus set
installed on the Emperor's computer.
     - Who?
     For a moment it  seems  to me that I hear Unfortunate's voice:  just as
smooth and unemotional, but when I turn around, it's four of us in  the hall
already... if  to consider the  'Emperor' as a real events' participant. The
glowing white thread is  hanging  from the  tunnel, a long writhed figure on
its end. Its contours are  distorted,  movements are  jerky and erratic. The
guy  looks around but  hardly can he see what's going  on.  Lord, from  what
distance have he fallen from, how could he  survive the tunnel journey? Well
done 'Warlock', nothing I can say...
     -  None of your  business! - I growl as  aggressively as I can.  If the
anonymous is  just a common Net user he won't be  able to hinder me. But the
guest  obviously doesn't like my  reaction,  he  outstretches his  hands and
flexible glowing cord starts crawling towards me. Not to me to be  exact but
towards my channel.
     Very  funny.  Nobody  could make  such situation  on  purpose - to drag
I-don't-know-  whom out, starting  to  rescue an  idiot  with deep-psychosis
half-way, and on top of that all to bump into a hacker with a set of service
programs.
     At least good that  his  channel is extremely narrow,  barely  alive. I
take and pull on 'gloves', grab the cord and tie it in a knot, then advise:
     - Fuck off. I'm diver.
     Usually  this works  instantly, but the guest  either considers himself
the coolest in the Deep or doesn't believe me.
     - Whoever you are, even Papa Carlo! - he replies.
     {<i>Papa  Carlo  - the  character  that  substituted  Gepetto  in  Russian
retelling of 'Pinocchio' done by Alexei Tolstoy. Mentioning  Papa Carlo as a
Very Important Person in a talk bears a stressed sarcasm.</i>}
     The second cord is faster  and tries  to  squirm from my  hands,  small
clips grow  on its end.  I  catch the cord  almost by  my very  channel  and
squeeze  it  with pleasure. The 'gloves'  knock  the program  down without a
hitch.  I wish I could do the  same  with the 'guest', but the gloves  won't
work here  and  I'm  too  reluctant  to  use  'Warlock': it  works  way  too
powerfully, I even didn't  expect such an effect.  Also Unfortunate  circles
around the hacker, having lost all interest in me. The former doesn't notice
him, obviously  looking through  the  scanner too, seeing the comm  channels
only.
     - Look, what do you want? - I ask, adjusting to the guest's vocabulary,
- I'm working!
     - Me too.
     The  wooden voice of the guest  irritates but it's a miracle that I can
hear anything at  all:  his channel's  thread is thinned  to its limit,  the
figure starts  quivering, the head rolls at its side, the nose slides on his
cheek but the hands become longer for that. The view is amusing and my anger
disappears.
     -  Listen you freak... I'll have to drag you out too some day! Get off,
the 'newbie' might croak!
     Finally he understands that it's serious, he stops pursuing my  channel
but  gets  something  like  a  flashlight  instead  and  casts a beam on the
'Emperor'. Some semi-active scanning program. Let him watch, there's nothing
secret in my methods.
     - The customer's system under control. - whispers Windows-Home.
     It's impossible  to  tell  beforehand how will the insides of the other
computer look like if one looks from the Deep, so I prefer the simplest way.
I nudge the 'newbie' - he rolls down  from the 'throne', sits  on  the floor
clumsily.  I take his  place, take  'gloves' off and grab the orange  thread
with bare hands, pulling it.
     - Vika, terminal!
     The  screen  unwraps   before  me.  A-ha...  "Virt-navigator",  a  nice
operating  system  but  the  one intended for somebody  with  an instinct of
self-preservation, not for the 'newbie'- experimentator. It's  a  penny deal
to turn off the timer on it.
     And  so this loser ruler of the galaxy  did... he have already spent 28
hours in virtuality!
     I'm  too lazy to mingle with the timer, so I just find the  urgent Deep
exit  file  and  run it.  Deep  program doesn't  submit  at  once, asks  for
confirmation. And they call it 'urgent exit'...
     The  "Emperor" moans quietly and  grabs his head, tries to walk towards
the door. I jump from the throne, wrapping up the terminal with a wave of my
hand, grab the man by the collar and push him towards the throne, ordering:
     - Take the helmet off! Shut down the machine!
     - I... I didn't mean to... - mumbles the 'emperor'.
     - I'll mail you the bill for your rescue, - I cut him off, - exit, now!
     The man's hands jerk to his head, then  hammer the air erratically, his
figure dims, the orange thread disappears. I take the glasses off.
     The  hacker  under  the tunnel opening  is  almost ghostly already,  he
rotates his head  slowly looking around. That's  how the legends of  miracle
making divers are born.
     - Let's go, - I say to Unfortunate who still circles around the hacker,
looking up  into the tunnel opening, from where various garbage still  pours
in. - Come on!
     I have  to drag him away by hand, like a kid.  The hacker stays  in the
empty hall, he's  still full of curiosity.  The hole in  the ceiling narrows
slowly and  his channel  will be broken  in around ten minutes. Ah well, let
him sort his own problems out by himself - if he's so damned cool...
     The  door leads us out into a small hall  with seven more similar doors
and an elevator shaft. Somewhere nearby the leader of red ants dreams on his
throne,  the wily plans are plotted by the ruler of intelligent medusas  and
by other game addicts...
     -  Why did  you  glue yourself to that hacker? -  I  ask Unfortunate in
elevator but he doesn't answer.
     Let  him, the most important thing is that I've finally got  him out of
"Labyrinth", just from under the nose of two mighty corporations!
     Elevator brings us to Deeptown's street, I look around. There's the AOL
tower,  long rows of  hotels, the green  of the park - this is  "Giltoniel's
Gardens".  A-ha,  not  too bad: we are on  the border Russian, European  and
American sectors of the city. Unfortunate raises his head and pronounces:
     -‡¢ï§¤ª ¨ �« ­¥¡ª: •ê§®¨­ ‘¨î¨æ  !
     I follow his look: the colorful neon sign is glowing above the building
that  we've just left:  "Stars & Planets: Master of  Sirius".  {<i>Engl. In the
original</i>}
     A famous company, it's worthy to  offer them diver services -  the work
is easy but earnings are stable.
     - Unfortunate, what language is native for you?
     - You don't know it, - he waves his hand.
     I make a guess:
     - Basic maybe?
     We both laugh.
     - Okay,  - I agree, - You're  alive,  you're  not a product of computer
intelligence.
     - Thanks.
     - But who are you?
     Unfortunate shrugs and studies  passers by  with curiosity of  somebody
who entered virtuality for the first time.
     - Take the mask off, - I advise and pull  respirator from him myself, -
No need to scare the people.
     - Will we go anywhere else? - asks Unfortunate.
     To  be  honest,  I  have no  idea  myself. I  was fearing  a  quick and
energetic pursuit which we'll need to  flee with much noise and  blood. Then
we would rush to "Amusements" immediately.
     - Let's walk a  little, - I decide. - Have you ever  been to the Elvish
Gardens?
     - No.
     -  Let's go then.  Not that it's a  super attraction, but.... - I start
talking, but it looks like it isn't my fate to be a guide today.
     The bright rainbow flashes up in the evening sky dimming the stars, the
crystal ringing is heard:  a symbol  of the Net-wide broadcast. It  was used
for only 5 or 6 times on my memory.
     And I can guess what they will convey now.
     - Taxi! - I scream, stretching my hand. A car stops by in an instant, I
push Unfortunate inside and get in myself. The driver - a young curly-haired
black girl - turns to us with a smile.
     I don't  have a revolver  with me now, so I just pull the gloves on and
knock  the  girl  out  with a  fist.  Unfortunate doesn't  protest,  he  can
correctly tell real people from programs.
     - To the brothel "Any Amusements"! - I order and the girl submits.
     The car jumps forward.
     - Citizens of Deeptown!
     The voice is coming from everywhere, nobody can hide from it in a  cozy
car interior or behind the walls of the house.
     -  This is  Jordan  Reid addressing  you,  the city's  Security Service
commissar...
     I know Reid, he's a nice guy even if  an American, one of those  who is
ready to communicate with divers and to tolerate minor offences for the sake
of the whole Net's well being.
     - An important  message is being broadcasted... please pay attention...
- mumbles the girl.
     But I'm attention itself already.
     - A crime was committed on the territory of "Labyrinth of Death" around
half an hour ago, a crime that is threatening the very existence of Deeptown
itself. - says Reid.
     Mother of God! What is that?
     -  Two persons, one of  them  is a diver, are charged of using  a virus
weapon of a  type forbidden by the Moscow  Convention. It  is  a polymorphic
virus with labeled 'Warlock-9000', with unlimited ability for spreading.
     What's this bull? Never would Maniac make such a virus!
     -  One  of  the virus' characteristics  is interception of control over
communication hardware. Al-Kabar  Corporation and "Labyrinth of  Death"  are
among the victims.
     Now  it becomes clear to me. When the fighting  rivals  understood that
their prey had escaped, they united and charged me of everything,  including
destruction of the 33rd level.
     Great. Now just try to prove that 'Warlock'  have  only drilled  a hole
for us and then  died peacefully as any decent  legalized virus should. Even
if to  surrender the source code to the police, nobody would take a risk  to
acquit  me. Who  knows  how  could  'Warlock' interfere  with  "Labyrinth"'s
virtual space?
     - Shit, - I whisper.
     - Is it bad? - asks Unfortunate.
     - Much worse.
     I  pull  my  hand  over the  girl's shoulder,  grab a  phone  from  the
dashboard and dial Guillermo's number.
     -  Now  you  can  see  the appearance that  was  used  by  suspects  in
"Labyrinth", -  informs  Jordan, -  We offer these individuals  to arrive to
Deeptown Security Department  voluntarily.  I would also request anybody who
knows these individuals to contact me.
     Our  portraits  flash  up  in  the  sky, then me  and  Unfortunate  are
demonstrated full height and in motion.
     Looks impressive, especially when I cut off Dick's head with the lash.
     - Assholes, - I mumble ungluing myself from the window.
     Connection establishes in around 10 seconds.
     - Hello! {<i>in Engl</i>}
     - Hi Willy, - I say quickly, - How should I understand that?
     A pause.
     - Ah! Gunslinger? Where are you?
     - In a car.
     I don't risk, the knocked off transportation program doesn't report its
location.
     - A misunderstanding have  happened, -  says Guillermo  quickly, - Come
here, we'll fix everything.
     - Drop your charges first.
     Willy sighs:
     - Gunslinger, this is not in my... aaa... powers.
     - Too bad. I'll call you later. - I promise and put the phone back.
     We  approach  the  brothel and a new problem arises - what to do with a
car? It's not  the easiest task to destroy the program completely. If I  let
it  go - Deep Transit would restore control over it sooner or later and will
figure out our route.
     I'll have to get help from Deep-Transit itself...
     I take a box with an emerald beetle from my pocket, put the glasses on,
then command:
     - Unfortunate, get out.
     I  exit the car after him, throw the  dumb  insect inside  and shut the
door. The result follows immediately.
     Deep-Transit  doesn't guard its cars too well  preferring  to  tolerate
small pranks like my free and undocumented rides, but they mercilessly crush
any attempts to  penetrate  into their  servers.  It's  impossible to defeat
their security with primitive programs such as the beetle.
     The cab  dims and dissolves in  the air  - the comm channel was chopped
off at the very  first  attempt  of the  beetle to  crawl  into  the foreign
computer.
     - Let's go, - I  poke Unfortunate slightly and grab  his hand. If there
are any customers in the lobby now - we're in deep trouble. But we are lucky
- it's nobody there, even the guard is missing.
     -  This is brothel,  - I inform  Unfortunate just in  case,  -  You can
browse the albums.
     He shakes his head.
     - Why I'm not surprised? Follow me...
     We  almost run along  the  corridor.  I expect  employees  to look from
behind the doors again  but it's absolutely silent. Nobody around at all! As
if the brothel died.
     I push the door into Vika's room prepared for that  she'll not be there
either. Unfortunate hesitates behind my back.
     - May I congratulate you Leonid? - asks Vika in an icy voice.
     It's so clean in the hut as if no earthquake had ever happened. I don't
know about others but I usually make such a cleaning  being  in the lousiest
mood  only.  A little boombox have appeared on the table, Vika have changed,
now she's dressed in gray jeans and a jersey of the same color.
     And also, she expects my explanations if to judge from her tone.
     - You have heard the commissar?
     - Who haven't? - Vika rises and I pad back hurriedly. When the woman is
mad, the man better not to resist. - So you've saved your... friend. Have he
saved you guy?
     Unfortunate shrugs smiling, and Vika slows down a little.
     - What is your name?
     - Unfortunate.
     - Um-hm. So listen here pal, don't take your chances, just stay  by the
window and be silent!
     Unfortunate  submits  and  Vika   moves  towards   me.  Oh,  the  wrong
personality have she chosen for that - it's Madam's manner.
     - So, you've saved... So you've fucked Al-Kabar and "Labyrinth"...
     - Vika, they're  lying! - I say  hurriedly, - 'Warlock-9000' is a local
virus, it conforms to Convention's standards!
     -  And do  they lie about the diver too? - shouts Vika,  and  I finally
understand what exactly  did piss her  off, - Do they? Or somebody  else  is
lying?... somebody else!
     I don't have a big experience in getting slaps in the  face, I hold the
aching  cheek  and stand still as a  pole. Unfortunate obediently looks into
the window but obviously he could hear the sound well.
     -  Diver? - Vika is still boiling,  - Diver? And I was so damned stupid
to offer you help! Couldn't you tell me that you're diver yourself?
     - No, - I whisper.
     - Why? You don't trust me?
     I'd  never believe that God created a woman from Adam's rib. Never,  as
well as in that the man was created from clay, but of the different sort.
     The reasons we find for becoming mad are too different.
     - I thought I could lose you.
     - And so you... - starts Vika and silences.
     - It's impossible to love somebody who sees the Deep without illusions.
I know  Vika,  I tried to uncover  before. It... always  happens. You  would
start  to  hate  me.  Imperceptibly.  You  wouldn't  even  notice  what  had
happened...
     I keep talking, already knowing that it's  over. We might stay  friends
but nothing more. No woman  in the  world  would love somebody  who sees her
face as a mesh of color pixels.
     -  Yes, I had  to tell  you, - I whisper,  - Immediately.  I'm sorry, I
couldn't. Would you ever have a nerve to confess that you're diver?
     Vika stays silent, there are tears in her eyes that don't really exist.
There's a wall between us, from now on and forever.
     - No, - she says quietly, - I couldn't either. I... didn't want to lose
you.
     I think I went crazy.
     So what if I hug her tightly and there's no wall between us?
     - My work... it's because of it. It's too disgusting when everything is
for  real. I don't know how it happened... it was too dirty... I  was scared
and had fallen from the Deep...
     - We say - surfaced...
     - Surfaced...
     Unfortunate looks  at the  mountains, he's a  great guy, he can  strand
like this all day.
     - I always surface. That's  why I always take the worst freaks, because
I don't care...
     I have a question that I'll never ask but Vika answers herself:
     -  There, by the river I didn't exit... for the first time in  my life.
Honest.
     I believe her as all men from the beginning of times do.
     Only our faith becomes the truth in this world.


     Vika makes coffee  and even Unfortunate cheers up a little. We sit down
around the table, fresh cream is in the small pitcher, a pile of white sugar
is in the sugar bowl, the full bottle of Ahtamar waits for its turn. Though,
Vika pours the cognac into cups immediately.
     - For your success, Lenia, - she says.
     - Such successes are cheap, - I reply.
     - Why?
     - Net-wide search.
     - So what?
     -  I'll have to leave. This  personality  is exposed and Gunslinger was
seen here.
     - By whom? - Vika says as if she doesn't  understand all complexity  of
the situation. - By my girls?
     - By them too.
     - They won't tell anybody. Or do you think that virtual prostitutes are
loyal to the powers of this world?  You  know, we had  seen them all without
pants... corporations' directors  and companies'  presidents. The people who
usually lash the woman before going to bed don't evoke any pity.
     - According to you they are all perverts.
     - Sure  not,  -  Vika  smiles,  -  But these  are  the guests  that are
remembered. None of our girls would squeal on  Gunslinger. All the more that
you never made orgies and weren't disgusted to sit with us.
     - Are you sure?
     -  Lenia,  all  our personnel  is from  Russia,  Ukraine,  Byelorussia,
Kazakhstan. What do you think,  does the love  towards the government or big
business exist there?
     - I've never noticed such perversions.
     - That's my point. For your success!
     We drink cognac, Unfortunate joins us. His face is emotionless as if he
have sipped some tea.
     - What about Cap? - I  remember  - This is the one who remembers me for
sure!
     - Not that breed. Well defined asocial type... he won't squeal on you.
     - He seemed capable of much to me.
     Vika drums her fingers against the table.
     -  Lenia... Cap  always takes the  red album. This is a special  group,
where  everything  is allowed. Not just  chains,  lashes and petty  sadist's
delights, but any atrocities. Murders, body dismemberment... should I go on?
     - Thanks, that's enough.
     - So,  Cap never does anything of this. He comes to  us to socialize...
to talk.
     - And that's how he pissed everybody off?
     -  Lenia, when the solid unkie orders the red album, brings the girl to
the  dungeon and  rips out her  throat  screaming "I'm a  vampire!", this is
lousy, disgusting but  understandable.  It's just  an illness. When a  plain
looking youth  sits across the girl and  starts a 'sincere talk' with her...
when  he spends money to prove  her in a couple of hours that she  is a slut
and a dirty beast, that she doesn't deserve to live on Earth... this is much
more terrible, believe me.
     - Why? - Unfortunate enters the talk suddenly.
     -  Because it's a curse.  The right to judge and the right to rule. The
right for the Truth. It's  easy  to  sort  it out with a stupid  person or a
beast.  It's  much  more  difficult  with  somebody  who  considers  himself
superhuman,  a  clean, clever  and pure one.  Generals  fighting  for peace,
rulers destroying  corruption, perverts  condemning pornography  -  oh Lord,
haven't we seen enough of them? Maybe this is a kind of curse that overhangs
above the mankind?  When  they  promise order  one should expect chaos, when
they defend life - death comes, when they  defend moral  - people  turn into
animals. You just have to  say - I'm above  that, I'm  cleaner, I'm better -
and requital comes immediately. Only those who don't  climb the pedestal and
never promise any miracles do bring good into the world.
     I can feel that they have become engaged seriously and meddle quickly:
     - Stop!  Vika, let's do without disputes about good and evil! In such a
way it's possible to declare killers and thieves justs!
     - You're a thief yourself, - notes Vika.
     - I help to distribute information.
     - And the pickpocket teaches the  people vigilance. But does the single
mother with many children whose  purse  with a whole  salary was stolen need
such a lesson?
     I  have millions of objections. I  can  try to  explain  that  stealing
somebody else's  files is not the most important in diver's work. Hacker can
be  much  more  successful in that  without  even entering  virtuality,  and
there's  a big  difference between stealing the data and copying it: I never
leave empty  computers  behind.  What  the  hell is  the difference for  the
mankind who will be the first in producing new shampoo or cold reliever?
     But I don't want to argue with Vika.
     - I'm sorry, - she touches my hand, - I'm wrong.
     - Why not? You kicked my butt well...
     - I'm sorry... You see Unfortunate, we have fallen in the world of pure
information,  the world of complete licence. One can fight, lead a dissolute
life, engage in hooliganism. There's no laws ready, and most important - the
human mentality  isn't ready.  There's almost no  punishments in the  Deep -
even if they excommunicate you from the  Net, it's possible to reenter under
the different name.  One can get  into troubles stealing data, but even here
restraining norms are minimal. Go ahead and try to prove to the jury that it
was Mr John Smith who stole a new game from Microprose's server, smuggled it
to Vanya Petrov who released  it to the market in a pirate manner  with  the
help of Van  Xo. It's a world of unprovable crimes and fake deaths. Only the
pain  in the soul remains real - but who would  ever measure  this pain that
slid across the  wires and squeezed your heart?  We have nothing left except
the moral, the funny shabby  moral. And  we  realized that it's so much more
comfortable to be a scum  or  a saint  than  a human... just a human, a real
human.
     - But what  is that -  a human? - says Unfortunate, - Just a  human,  a
real human?
     -  I'd explain you, - I reply, -  If I  was God.  Cut this out you two,
okay?
     - But I'm  really curious, - Unfortunate still talks in  a  quiet, even
somehow indifferent tone but there's a spark of excitement in his eyes.
     - You're the human.
     - Why?
     Really,  why? Wasn't I ready to consider  him nothing more than  just a
cunning program?  I feel  confused but Vika also looks at  me waiting for an
answer and I say:
     - I  don't know. You didn't shoot  people  in  "Labyrinth", you rescued
nonexistent kid... But this is  an extreme stupidity... You  cite Carroll in
original but the human is not just a  crammed load of knowledge... You're in
the Deep for the third day in a row and you're still fine...
     Vika looks at Unfortunate in surprise.
     - And nobody knows how did you enter  virtuality... but  this is  not a
human indication but the opposite...
     He waits patiently.
     - You know, this is  something inside us,  -  I say suddenly  even  for
myself. - You're a human for me... because I'd like to be your friend.
     It seems that Unfortunate is confused.
     - We're all wearing masks here in the Deep, maybe it's for the  better,
maybe it's closer to the  truth. I don't  know. When you  exit into the real
world, you might turn out to  be a very  unpleasant type. But here and now I
consider you human. It's impossible to explain.
     -  Then  maybe  it's for good  that I  can't exit into reality? -  asks
Unfortunate. He looks  at  Vika and smiles shyly, - The thing is, I'm  not a
human.
     Here we go again.
     Insanity, part two.
     Vika smiles examining Unfortunate, and my heart sinks.
     -  Vika... he doesn't lie. He never  lies. - I say slowly standing up -
When he doesn't want to reply, he just says nothing... - I take her hand and
pull her from the table. Unfortunate watches us, sadly and calmly.
     - Was it a joke? - Vika nods to Unfortunate questionably.
     - No.
     - He can't joke, - I confirm. - You really can't exit the Deep?
     - No.
     - Are you a human?
     - No.
     - Who are you?
     Silence.
     - You see? - I almost shout, - He doesn't reply!
     - A minute  ago you called  me a human,  - says Unfortunate, - You even
said that you'd like to be my friend. Was it true?
     Now it's my turn to be silent.
     - You said that  the truth is here and now, - he goes  on, - Anyone may
be himself in the  Deep, without any makeup. Only the  soul... if to believe
in it.
     - Yes! - I say, - Yes, it was true!
     - Then what scares you? My confession?
     I nod.  Vika  snuggles  close and I can feel  how she  shakes. I didn't
expect her to be so scared.
     - Why didn't you tell before? - I shout.
     - I told you enough, Leonid.
     At this point Vika starts to laugh excitedly.
     - You're  crazy, both  of you! You're  not  human?  - she  breaks free,
approaches Unfortunate, takes his hand, - Tell me!
     - What do you define by the term 'human'?
     - A bipedal creature without feathers!
     - I'm NOT a human.
     The nightmare goes  on.  Unfortunate plays his games, Vika is  confused
and I don't  know anymore  how to  break the chain of riddles and omissions.
Computer mind is impossible!  It's not  time yet for it  to be  born.  But I
can't consider Unfortunate's words a lie either!
     The phone ring that tears the silence is like a salvation.
     Vika steps  back  from Unfortunate, opens the door of the sideboard.  A
cordless phone lies there among scattered jars, packages and boxes.
     - Yes? - says Vika without averting her gaze from Unfortunate.
     The voice in the handset is loud and confident, I can hear  it well and
recognize it immediately.
     - I'd like to talk to Gunslinger.
     - Whom? - Vika is genuinely surprised.
     - Gunslinger. Tell him that Man Without Face wants to talk to him.
     I step forward and take the phone.
     - Talk.
     - Firstly, I'd like to congratulate you Gunslinger. Secondly, I suggest
you to come out.
     - No fucking way. - I reply.
     -  Gunslinger,  we have  no time for games.  I'm  standing  by the main
entrance. But this time I outstrip  our competitors for a  couple of minutes
only, no more. Al-Kabar could trace your route. Come out.
     - And what's next?
     - You will get the promised reward and I will get Unfortunate.
     A loud  phone,  a very loud one.  I look  at the blonde guy who doesn't
consider himself a human, at frowning Vika.
     - I think he doesn't want to go with you, - I reply, - I'm sorry.
     - Gunslinger, we had a deal...
     - I didn't promise to give you the guy. I've got him out of "Labyrinth"
and all the rest is our own business.
     - You take too much responsibility on yourself, diver.
     - At least somebody must make decisions, right?
     - Well, you've made yours.
     The voice vanishes.  In  a second the floor quivers,  pushing us to the
ceiling, the log  walls crunch, bending. A  picture with  a  waterfall on it
falls on me and the sound of water returns me to my senses.
     I rise and  crawl along the  kicking floor.  This is not an earthquake,
this is the brothel's walls falling apart, they break the security system so
naively praised by Computer Wiz.
     Though, if nobody broke  into the  hut yet, it means that  the security
wasn't too bad after all.
     - Vika!
     I help her  to stand up,  her face is in blood, the jersey  sleeve torn
off.
     - Bastards, - she whispers.
     Only Unfortunate  haven't  fallen  down, he stands  propped against the
wall, outstretching his hands to the sides to keep balance.
     - I'll come out of the bui... - he starts, but the next explosion booms
and muffles his words, - It's inevitable...
     - Do you want to surrender?
     - No, but...
     - Then stop fluttering!  - I shake Vika slightly, - Are there any ropes
in the room?
     She shakes her head in confusion.
     - We need ropes!
     Vika turns to look at the window, she understood.
     - We could jump...
     - We'll kill ourselves, there's seven and a half meters to go!
     Fortunately Vika doesn't  notice the exactness of the figure, otherwise
I wouldn't avoid a untimely scandal. Women are made of a different clay.
     - On the  third floor...  - she starts, and then the door flies open. I
tear the belt from my body  and  it turns  into lash  with a soft hiss.  But
there's  neither Man Without face nor his  mercenaries in the door, Computer
Wiz hangs  there balancing on  his winged slippers.  The corridor behind his
back is  enveloped in colorful glow,  flashes and as I look at this carnival
blur, something  starts happening to me - my movements slow down, lose their
precision...
     -  Wow, 'Warlock Nine-thousandth'! - screams the  Wiz cheerfully seeing
the lash in my  hand, flows into the room, shuts  the  door  and  my  sudden
fatigue disappears. - Vika, where's Madam?
     - I'm for her!
     -  Brothello is  under attack! - Wiz is  still  having  fun - The first
floor was freakin' swept out to hell! The braker is on but they move anyway!
     He flies to me, grabs my sleeve and asks excitedly:
     - Saw this illumination? So  much junk info is flowing to their modems,
any computer would choke! Well,  except the  good  one... Vika,  so  where's
Madam?
     - Can we hold out against this?
     - No, sure not! Cool profies are working! But never mind, everything is
being logged, we'll  file such a protest - don't  worry... Where's Madam,  I
won't start active systems without her order!
     Vika's  body flickers,  she  broadens in  her chest and hips, the  face
melts like  wax. So  that's  how looks the diver from the side  when exiting
virtuality and changing body.
     - Fire up everything you have, - orders Madam.
     -  Oh! Ah! - Wiz thrusts  his eyes open in theatrical surprise. Can  he
ever stop playing I wonder? - I knew, I knew that!
     His hands are busy not with a show though, he gets a small console from
his pocket and starts typing in some commands.
     - We won't hold out anyway, Madam Vika!
     - We must get out, Wiz.
     - Madam! - Wiz presses his hands against his heart, - I can't help with
that so quickly, the diver is necessary here!
     -  It doesn't  anything to do with divers, - I wave my hand towards the
window, - The rope is necessary!
     - To hang  yourselves up? -  laughs Wiz. He crosses his legs,  falls on
the floor and starts pulling off his slippers not stopping to chatter - Geez
how funny, that  weirdo on the third floor, you know, the  one who likes sex
for three, he never tells anything about himself, was  so scared that jumped
out of  the window! He fell into the pool and now  splashes  there screaming
that he can't swim and he's the State Duma deputy and we must save him...
     He throws me the slippers.
     - Take these, the power is unlimited, you'll descend  all three! Madam,
why didn't you ever tell that Vika is your mask, I'm not tattler, I wouldn't
tell anybody!
     I pull  the slippers  on, the wings quiver excitedly and thresh against
my fingers. Funny: Madam is Vika's mask for Wiz, for me it's vice versa.
     - Oh, what a load of scandals will we have now... And who  are you man,
huh?
     Unfortunate  doesn't  reply,  maybe he feels dizzy  too,  just  as  me?
Computer  Wiz  looks  like   a  multitasking   operating  system  which   is
simultaneously busy  both  with buffoonery and a  serious work.  I  can't do
that.
     - Thanks, - I say trying to stand up. Wiz  nudges me under my elbow and
holds  while I'm balancing in  the air getting  used to  it. The feeling  is
absolutely weird,  this  is  not  a  jet  knapsack  which  is  used  on some
"Labyrinth"'s levels, but a real walking on air.
     - Just  like on stairs,  - whispers Wiz,  -  Like  ascending-descending
stairways.
     - Wiz,  how  much more time do we  have? - Madam  looks around the  hut
business-like, hangs Vika's purse on her shoulder,  then starts pulling jars
and packages from the  sideboard and throwing them out  of the window with a
basketball player's moves. I doubt we'll have time to pick all this stuff up
but I don't argue.
     - Just for a little parting kiss!
     -  Then let's  postpone it until  our  next meeting. Please Wiz, try to
hold them as long as you can... Chatter with them or something...
     - I'll try... - confuses Wiz suddenly, - Well... I don't know how...
     -  Vika,  return into  your  body, -  I  ask  examining Madam's  mighty
dimensions, then approach Unfortunate who still clings to the wall.
     - Man, I  don't care who you are, a human or a program. I tend to agree
with both!
     He looks into my eyes silently.
     - I don't want to give you to  those freaks. I'll try to rescue you. Do
you believe me?
     Unfortunate stays silent.
     - I still want to be your friend, - I say, - Whoever you might be.
     He makes a step towards me, I add:
     - Please... Let's not give those bastards a pleasure to get us!
     I think I've said something wrong.
     - Good - regardless of the evil? - inquires Unfortunate.
     - How else?  - Wiz enters the talk suddenly. He have  plopped  into the
armchair, crossed his legs and became suddenly serious, - If there's no  any
starting point - everything becomes senseless.
     Unfortunate silences and obediently pads to the window  with us. Vika -
not  Madam, but Vika - have already  climbed the  window-sill and looks down
with a strange expression.
     - You what, fear heights? - I ask a bit too late.
     - Come  on, don't  lose the time,  huh! - shouts Wiz behind us. I  turn
back to look  at him - his fingers  are  threshing against the console while
the roaring  starts  behind  the door  as if of the  Boeing on  the  runway.
Somebody's scream is  almost muffled by the roaring. Flames scurry along the
wooden door.
     - Wiz, what about you?
     Computer Wiz smiles and takes something from his pocket that looks most
like a chicken egg.
     - I have this.
     - What's that?
     - You'll see. - promises the Wiz.
     Vika and Unfortunate  hang  on my shoulders so simultaneously  that  no
other command is required. I step over the  window-sill and place my foot on
the air. The air holds.
     The wind hits me on the side, the river noises some 100 meters below, I
start feeling dizzy. I must exit, exit the Deep.
     But I just... don't want to see Vika's face as a colorful pixel mesh.
     Initially  I was going to descend onto the slope but now I see it won't
make  sense: the  path is  blocked with boulders... damned earthquake! I  go
forward and down, above the slope, the canyon,  the roaring mountain river -
to the opposite slope, covered with green thickets.
     -  I even fear to fly  planes... - whispers Vika.  I avert my look from
the chasm below and look at her.
     - Hold on, baby...
     - Have you... surfaced?
     - No!
     She shuts her eyes for a second, then raises her head:
     - Lenia, exit! Don't torture yourself!
     Yeah, right... keep waiting.
     I'm of a different clay.
     - Take  care guys!  - shouts Wiz behind. He must have leaned out of the
window.
     - 'Guys'! - whispers Vika with indignation, - All you males are same!
     - Vickie, and a thousand and a half kisses for you! - goes on Wiz.
     I'm  glad now that he's so  talkative. I still  have  a hundred  meters
ahead to cover.
     I look to the left - Unfortunate's  face is absolutely  calm, he  looks
down in the chasm below with a joyful childlike curiosity. That's whom I had
to let to put the slippers on.
     I have no idea why did Vika be so modest praising  Siegsgord, her space
is not any worse, maybe even more real.
     The  pine tree branches sweep me across  the  face,  the violet colored
cone flows past my eyes. As strange as  it  might  seem, I now  believe that
those exist.
     I'm spiraling  around the  pine  tree descending lower  and  lower. The
cliff with a small hut perched on it was  left on  the opposite side of  the
canyon, Wiz is not in the window anymore.
     - Lenia.. - whispers Vika when it's still a  meter and a half  left  to
the  ground  and unclenches her  hands. Shouldn't  have done that: she lands
fine while me and Unfortunate are in a worse position,  I tumble down to  my
left side, the slippers beat the air convulsively, unable to hold us.
     A small pile.
     Isn't  it too many falls for one day,  especially  in  the Chinese suit
with its weak limitations for hit strength?
     I shake off the slippers that hang  in  the air  before me and stand up
gulping for air greedily and rubbing the bruised side. Unfortunate moans and
squats.
     Vika looks at us with confusion.
     - Was it painful, guys?
     - No, everything is just great! - I growl helping Unfortunate to  stand
up. The dense green canopy is above and the slope in some five meters  away.
The  water rumble  muffles the rustling of needles under the feet.  It's  so
good to be on the solid ground again!
     - Lenia...
     - Passed that, -  I cut  off. I can understand what is  a height fright
after all, couldn't pass Al-Kabar's bridge in the Deep myself. We're  out of
the  brothel,  and this is the most  important thing. We're not in the space
attacked by Man Without Face's people. The mountains created by Vika for her
'own consumption' surround us, the mountains where never was a single human.
The  space within a space, a secret  world  that  lives according to its own
laws, and the hut on the slope is the only door into it...
     The thick  orange-black fire  strikes  from the hut's window,  the  log
walls instantly start burning in a hot quick fire.  Wiz said we'll  see, and
he was right, it's difficult not to notice how the file bomb works. The only
exit into the normal Deep is burning before us.
     - I hope you're there... Man Without Face, - I say.
     - What did he promise you for Unfortunate? - asks Vika.
     I  squint my eyes at the failed trade subject and confess, -  The Medal
of Complete Licence.
     - What?
     - You what, have never heard about it? It's the one Dibenko got for the
creation of the Deep, the right for any actions in the virtual world.
     Vika smiles.
     - It's more than money, - I say, - an absolution of any sins...
     - They swindled you, Lenia.
     - Why?
     - Lenia, the Medal of Complete License is unique only because it exists
in  one  single  copy.  Any  other  created   copy  is  considered  a   fake
automatically and is destroyed. I know that,  I... knew a guy  who  tried to
make a copy.
     The  funniest thing is that I'm not surprised for even a  little bit. I
wink to Unfortunate and say:
     - You really must be a  very  important guy... if even Dimka Dibenko is
ready to sacrifice his main treasure for your hide...
     Unfortunate shakes his head:
     - No, I'm even more important.



<ul><a name=39></a><h2> * PART 4. The Deep * </h2></ul>


     From the food thrown  by Vika through the window, only the glass jar of
jam  and the paper  pack of crackers have survived,  as if in mockery of the
physics laws. The rest of the stuff slipped in the gap or was broken against
the boulders.  In my opinion, it made no sense  to store  any  food  but  we
picked up the jar anyway.
     Maybe it's an inertia of consciousness, the panicked greed of mind that
sees wild nature around.
     - Do you have any plan? - I ask Vika.
     - Why me?  It  was your idea to flee through  the window, - she objects
reasonably.
     - We didn't have choice.
     - We did. You're diver after all.
     I nod at Unfortunate.
     - And who is he?
     Vika have grown tired  of this question  during a single last  hour. We
sit down  on  a soft  grass, in  the tree shade. A  white smoke still whirls
above the remains of the hut.
     We silently watch Unfortunate  who wanders over the slope, touches pine
trees, picks  up some needles and pebbles from  the ground. The city dweller
who  have  found  himself  in  the wild  for  the first time,  an If  castle
dungeons' prisoner who was able to escape.
     -  Leonid,  I  must  have been speaking  too emotionally about computer
mind... - starts Vika, - So - he is a human. An ordinary human who takes you
in.
     - He is in the Deep for three days.
     - Stimulants, or he's a diver too.
     - His comm channel can't be traced.
     - A well hidden one.
     - Two big companies and Dibenko are after him.
     - It's enough stupid people in the world.
     Okkam's blade  is  a  wonderful thing, it  cuts all  mystic  off clean,
together with meat.
     - Vika, you're psychologist... are there any tests for telling people?
     She laughs quietly.
     - Sure not. These were never needed yet.
     - I've seen a method to check in some sci-fi book...
     - Do you really  think that some  scheme  invented by  a  writer  while
drinking a cup of coffee would work?
     -  We should  try  at  least,  -  I'm holding  my  ground,  - There are
institutes that study artificial intelligence problems  after all. They must
have something worked out. There are fans  who invent abstract  tests... for
the future. I'll exit the Deep and will browse the Internet a little.
     - And how are you  going to return? There's no entrance into this space
anymore. - Vika laughs bitterly, -  I  think it's  lost at all,  forever.  A
closed system, it will live in the computer by itself.
     - A good hacker will be able to break a passage.
     - It would be a different world then.  The mountains will resist  until
the end, if somebody breaks in here, they'll lose their freedom.
     I understand her very well but I hate such a prudent pessimism.
     - You'll draw the new ones.
     Vika doesn't feel hurt.
     - Next time I'll draw the sea. The sea, the sky and islands.
     - ... And don't forget an emergency exit.
     - Spaces  live according to their own laws... - Vika stands up. - There
might  be an exit, Lenia. When these mountains were  built,  the program was
searching  for other landscapes, on all open servers. It was stealing pieces
from there... - she smiles in confusion, - And it had left some loopholes, a
tiny ones. If we manage to find one of those, we'll be able to exit.
     - This sounds better already.
     As a very  last resort I have  'Warlock', but it's too risky to use it:
the enemies would notice the trace of the virus.
     - We must get out of here, - decides Vika, - We have 5 more hours until
the dusk. If the attackers  manage to restore the hut, it'd be better  to be
as far from it as possible.


     We stop only when the sun disappears in the paling of the mountains and
the orange sheen in the clouds fades. We managed to walk some 10 kilometers,
and this is  much, very much. As for the night - only suicidal people wander
in the mountains at night.
     The last quarter hour we  spend  gathering brushwood. Fortunately, it's
plenty of  it around, we're on the border between the forest  and the Alpine
meadows. Together with Unfortunate we drag in the small pine  tree fallen of
the wind and I tear the small branches from  it, scratching  my hands,  then
arrange them in a cone pile.
     - That's enough, boys, - decides Vika. She lights a cigarette and makes
a fire quickly and with experience.
     The supper  is  very  symbolical -  raspberry  jam  and  dry  crackers.
Unfortunate  doesn't care at all:  he chews with an  appetite  of electrical
mincer.  I can't down a  single piece, I  wish I could  have  a big chunk of
fried meat with hot sauce and green peas,  with a couple of bottles  of cold
beer. And  all this  is so close! One just have to exit the  Deep,  reenter,
come to "Old Hacker" or "Three Piglets"...
     Me and Vika glance at each other without an agreement.
     I'm not  sure  whether  she  dreams of pork  with beer or of trout with
white wine, but not of a cookies with jam for sure.
     - Tastes good, Unfortunate? - inquires Vika.
     - Um-hm.
     - What do you eat usually?
     - Nasty things...
     Her patience ends instantly.
     - Now hon, listen to me...
     Unfortunate  pulls  his  hand  back  from  crackers  and looks  at Vika
questionably.  We  are on  one  side  from the  fire,  he's  on  the  other.
Opposition.
     - We've got a problem, - starts Vika, - And this  problem is you. Maybe
you  don't understand the situation we have now completely... well, I'll try
to define it then. Correct me please if I make any mistake, okay?
     Unfortunate nods.  When you press somebody, it's very important to give
him an opportunity to object... or at least to pretend to.
     - You were in "Labyrinth" and couldn't  exit by yourself, right? Leonid
have spent tons of time and money to save you and he did that, right?
     Not quite - "Labyrinth" paid for my work initially... but I stay silent
and Unfortunate nods obediently.
     -  Lenia rescued you and brought you to my place. A reward was awaiting
him, a very big  one if he would  hand you over but he  didn't do that. As a
result,  he's wanted as a  criminal, he's searched for  across all the  Net.
Right? Then my Institution was ruined completely in an attempt to seize you.
It's not that difficult to restore the programs but "Amusements"' reputation
is lost forever. Now I'll have to start everything from scratch.
     - I'm really sorry... - says Unfortunate quietly, - I.... I didn't mean
to bring so many troubles for you.
     - Wait. We're still  on the run. If  you haven't got that already, I'll
explain to you: there's  no ordinary  way to  exit this space.  Exits  might
exist  but nobody  knows whether we'll be able  to find them in  foreseeable
future  or not. Me and Lenia are divers,  we can  leave this  place  at  any
moment but  we  won't be able to return  here,  ever, and you'll stay  alone
here. Maybe forever. That's the situation we have... from  moral and ethical
point of view.
     - I'm so sorry, - repeats Unfortunate.
     - Let's talk about you now? It is you who is the reason for  everything
that have happened after all.
     Unfortunate shrinks but stays silent.
     - You're either human or a creature  of the machine mind. The latter is
doubtful though. If you're human, then  you obviously can enter and exit the
Deep by yourself. Like divers, or even cooler. Right? Otherwise you wouldn't
look so fresh during your fourth day in virtuality. Would you like  to argue
with that?
     Silence.
     - Come  on man, I  certainly assume such  possibility, -  says  Vika, -
After all, a kilo and a half of brains is much bigger mystery than a gram of
silicon in  a chip. I can  imagine someone who managed  to  enter virtuality
without helmets, modems, deep program... And I even imagine  his joy...  and
some shock  from  this event. Why not to  play the fool a little, why not to
envelope himself in a  mystery? Everything is  quite explainable. But try to
understand, it's not  a  joke anymore  -  you make us suffer,  you make  the
conflict harder and harder  to resolve with each  minute. Try to understand,
we can't tinker with you forever!
     -  I... I'm  tired... just tired...  -  Unfortunate looks at  me  as if
seeking support.
     No way.
     - And the last thing - how we can resolve  this situation, - enunciates
Vika,  -  It's  ridiculous to proceed  this way,  lead-time of the  conflict
wouldn't do  us any good. If  you  don't want to  uncover yourself or  don't
trust us  or don't want to spoil such a beautiful legend - just  tell us and
we'll leave. Then the newbies will tell tales of The One Lost In The Deep...
If you consider us trustworthy, explain who you are and why you  started all
this. You have two ways out, it's not that little.
     She falls  silent  and I take and shake her  hand gently. I  never have
enough cool to lead the situation to such clarity, to the 'either-or' state.
     - I... - Unfortunate  stops and looks  at the fire. Brushwood scratches
softly,  sparks jump into the dark sky, - It's my fault. I'm tired, tired of
silence... I shouldn't have done that...
     - What  are  you talking about?  - asks Vika, maybe  in a bit too sharp
tone. But Unfortunate is confused and demoralized now.
     -  Too quiet, - he mumbles, - It's impossible to comprehend beforehand,
never. All sounds became  dead, all colors faded.  Seconds - like centuries.
Billions of centuries. I was warned but I didn't want to believe.
     He swallows some air and stretches his hand towards the fire. The flame
touches his fingers.
     - Neither pain  nor joy, nothing. A Great Silence. Everywhere.  Eternal
Void. And the Void doesn't have any borders... I couldn't resist.
     His hand pats the flame tenderly.
     - I can't explain you anything. Leave.
     I glance  at Vika - now she'll get him... but there's only a reflection
of fire in her eyes, black night and red flames. The Silence Unfortunate was
talking about have touched her too, just as me last time.
     I  rise  and  pull  Unfortunate  from  the fire.  Auto-suggestion is  a
powerful  thing: having burned in virtuality one can expect real blisters. I
make him to squat by the stream and put his hand into cold water.
     - Alrite, - I decide. -  We'll sleep now.  Just sleep instead of taking
each other  in. Me and Vika will surface keeping connection, we  need to eat
normally. As for you... do whatever. In the morning  you'll  decide what you
want after all.
     Unfortunate silently splashes his hand in cold water.
     I  return  to  Vika,  she  is  okay  again  but  all her  passion  have
dissipated.
     - Are you  pliable  to  hypnosis?  - I inquire. Vika snorts scornfully:
it's just a rhetorical question,  there's no hypnosis pliable among  divers.
If we manage to overcome the drug of the deep program,  it's  impossible  to
get us with words.
     - My point exactly, - I say, - We all can play the fool, but what about
dunking an interlocutor into Silence?
     - I'm tired  too, - whispers Vika, -  You know, one  more hour and I'll
talk such riddles that even Unfortunate will be envious...
     -  We'll  go  to  sleep  now.  Then  we'll   surface  without  breaking
connection, to have a snack. Do you have any food at home?
     - Sure.
     - Excellent. Eat and get a nap. We'll come back in the morning and will
decide everything.
     We  do  exactly  that.  I make Unfortunate to help me, together  we get
three big piles of  fur-grove and set them near the fire. The  bed turns out
to be so comfortable that I hardly overcome the idea to neglect the supper.
     Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours...
     The eyelids were so heavy, I hardly managed to  part them. The fire was
dancing  on  the screens, fur-grove was rustling  in headphones  - Vika  was
tossing and turning making herself comfortable.
     - Lenia, are you interrupting the immersion? - asked Windows-Home.
     - No.
     I took the helmet off and looked at the watch.
     Late  evening. Not that late though to make  it uncomfortable  to visit
the neighbors. Beer can wait a little.
     Having unplugged the suit,  I  calmed down  the panicking computer  and
looked at myself in the mirror.
     A clown, with a plug on a belt. Should we scare old ladies a little?
     Tights were lying in the laundry wash-basin. I picked 'em up and pulled
on  over the  virtual suit, rolled the wire  and  stuck it under  the  belt,
covering it with jacket. Not too bad, a normal guy, just a bit swollen one.
     A guitar  was  ringing  in  the stairwell quietly. I  peeked  into  the
peephole and opened the door.
     A company  of youth was perched on the patch between the floors, one of
them sang quietly torturing the strings:
     - Oh the lonesome bird, you're flying high...
     Seeing me, the teens seemed confused for some reason, just the neighbor
from the apartment above asked quickly:
     - Lenia, do you have something to smoke?
     I  shook  my  head and noticed  that  the  guy squints  at  the  tights
distended on my  side, just in the size of a cigarette pack. Hardly could he
guess that some people live with plugs by their belts...
     I rang  to  the neighboring apartment, waited for  shuffling steps  and
suspicious "Who is there?". The  old woman doesn't trust the peephole or her
own eyes.
     -  Lyudmila Borisovna, excuse me for  God's  sake... - I said  into the
door, - May I please make a call from you? My phone is broken.
     After  a minute of  hesitation  the ancient locks started to  rattle. I
squeezed into the narrow opening and the door shut close immediately.
     - The youth sits again? - inquired Lyudmila Borisovna. The old  lady is
70+ old and doesn't risk to argue with young punks.
     - Yeah.
     - Why wouldn't at least you tell them, Lenia! No rest whatsoever!
     No  sounds from the staircase can  be heard here,  the  granny has  the
powerful door but I don't argue:
     - Sure I'll tell them.
     -  And what's wrong  with your  phone, huh?  Didn't  pay  in  time, got
disconnected?
     I nod obediently, admiring her acumen.
     - You like to chat too much, don't you? - growls the old lady. We had a
parallel  number some time ago  {<i>two  phones  connected  to one number</i>}, but
obviously it was impossible to live like this anymore. I paid for the number
split  and also subsidized the granny - a  parallel phone  was a bit cheaper
for  her.  I  think  she  decided I'm an  idiot. But  our  relations greatly
improved since.
     -  Sure, go ahead, call... -  Lyudmila  Borisovna nodded at  the phone.
Obviously she wasn't going to leave me alone.
     Ah well, curiosity isn't a vice...
     I dialed Maniac's number trying to ignore  dirty  dial  disk and sticky
handset.
     - Allo?
     - Shura, evening...
     -  A-ha....  - said  Maniac  in  a satisfied  voice, - Here he is...  a
criminal.
     - Shura, they...
     -  Relax, I'm  sorting this  out. I  have a  license  for  local  virus
creation, they won't pick on this.
     - Have you registered 'Warlock'?
     - Of  course,  at Lozinsky's himself. All sources conform to the Moscow
Convention, so they'll get nothing.
     I feel  relieved a  little. If the  virus wasn't  registered with  some
antivirus creator, Maniac could get in a serious trouble.  Certainly, I  can
be accused of reckless weapon use or of  damage... but they'll have  to find
me first.
     - Were you asked who bought the virus?
     - Sure thing. I gave them your address... the most puny one.
     A couple of years  ago, when I just started to balance on the border of
the law, one diver advised me to buy a  couple of addresses and to never use
them. So afterwards it were these nonexistent 'comrades' on whom all viruses
taken from Maniac were wrote off.
     - I said that you paid a grand for the virus. - Shurka goes on.
     - You know, it'd be right if I...
     - Relax,  I  have 5  requests  for 'Warlock'  at this price  already. -
Maniac laughs joyfully,  - Coolness! I'm  ready  to buy  beer for Jordan for
such an advertisement. The whole Deeptown is stirred.
     - Isn't the sale forbidden?
     - Not yet. They are studying the source. You better  tell me where were
you an hour or a bit more ago?
     - Well... As usual.
     Lyudmila Borisovna coughed slightly, curiosity was fighting in her with
an  old  woman's  greed.  The hourly  charge is the worst enemy of  computer
people and windbags.
     - Okie, in the Deep. I've dropped by, wanted to drink beer with you.
     Maniac hesitates suddenly.
     - You... look out of your door.
     - What for?
     - I rang, then sat on the bench outside, drank some beer, then ascended
and rang again... Then I  left a couple of Holstens under your  door. Light.
Look, are they still there?
     I emitted the sound like the one of an old disk drive.
     - Shura, what do you think, communism was declared this morning? What's
wrong with you?
     - Well, you just look, maybe they're there... - mumbled Maniac.
     - No, they are NOT there! I'm calling from the neighbors'.
     - Ah well... what the hell...
     Sometimes my mind  falters when I deal with  real computer  guys. Maybe
Shurka had confused the real world and the Deep where beer costs peanuts?
     - Tell somebody, they won't ever believe...
     - Those who drank will, - noted Maniac gloomily.
     - Come tomorrow around ten, - I asked, - We need to discuss something.
     - Just don't forget to surface. I'll come.
     - Bye Shurka.
     I  put  the  handset  on  the hook  and  looked at  Lyudmila  Borisovna
confused.
     - Was it too long?
     - No, that's  okay, - the old lady shook her head, - It's the business,
don't I understand? What do you sell at least?
     - Beer, - I said point-blankly.
     - I  liked beer myself...  but is it really possible to indulge  myself
having such a pension?
     - Lyudmila Borisovna, what if I treat you, huh? - I offered joyfully, -
I just have some samples at home!
     This would be the best  way out, otherwise the old one will  definitely
drag  herself to my place to call from my phone... as a compensation of  her
damages.  But the  people  with weak  nerves  should  better  not  enter  my
apartment.
     - Well, if just a bottle... - the old one livens up.
     The youth on the  patch traced me with greedy gazes when I was carrying
a  bottle  of 'Oranienbaum'  to the  next apartment.  Needless to  say,  two
bottles of light beer for four sound loafers isn't serious.


     I managed to find  a callous frank in the freezer's depths. From canned
stuff only the tin of sprats have left, I bought it either in  times of dire
straits or for nostalgic reasons.
     I  was  sleepy to numbness but warmed up the poor frank anyway,  took a
tin opener and  installed two bottles of Pilsen Urquell on  the table before
me. The supper in the candlelight - candles were quivering on the monitor: a
screensaver.  The fire scratching  coming from the helmet was  very much  in
place.
     Let this Deep  go to hell, together with  this Unfortunate! Now, in the
real world, everything  that happened seemed  nothing more than  some absurd
play. If Unfortunate doesn't confess  tomorrow in  the morning,  me and Vika
will exit the mountain space. Forever. Let him tell  his tales to the cliffs
and pine trees - they'll appreciate that.
     I took a mouthful of beer and moaned in pleasure, then started  opening
the tin, cut off the cover accurately, hooked it with a fork...
     And almost fell from the chair.
     A hundred of fish heads was gazing at me with reproachfully.
     Somewhere in virtuality I wouldn't be surprised with such joke,  but in
the real world...
     I rummaged through heads soaked in tomato sauce trying to find at least
one whole fish. Nothing. Very diligently  done. I imagined a fish-factory...
a kind of a floating giant...  or  the  sprats  are tinned on  the shore?  A
conveyor with  this  low-grade  stuff. Girls,  crazed  of  fish  stench  and
monotonous work... Now one of  then takes an empty  tin from the transporter
and starts stuffing the fish heads into it. A joke.
     I really laughed, shuddering and closing the tin back. I had nothing to
eat  but wasn't  mad at  the anonymous worker,  on the contrary,  everything
suddenly have seemed perfectly in place.
     Stuck to the bottle, I finished the first Urquell.
     You wanted  miracles,  diver?  The  computer  mind and people  entering
virtuality directly?
     Come back to  senses, diver! Here  they are, miracles available  to our
world! Stolen beer, sprats' heads  stuffed with eyes, stuffiness and foul of
old lady's apartment, teenage punks in the stairways, annoying drip of water
from the faucet in the kitchen.
     This is -  life. Whatever  stupid  and  boring it  might  be, and there
inside  a   helmet  is  just  a  tale  created  by   machines  and  our  own
subconsciousness. Our electronic escapism.
     I opened  the second  beer, picked up the tin, came out to the  balcony
and  dumped out  tin's  contents into  the wilted front  garden. A  feast is
awaiting stray cats this night.
     - Not ethical! - I  reproached myself. As strongly as in Vika's program
it is stuck into my mind that one shouldn't throw garbage out of the window.
     But,  unlike  the  machines  we  are  able  to ignore  the  bans.  From
balconies.
     As I  was, with  the  beer, I entered the bathroom, unbuttoned the suit
glancing at the bottle. I didn't want to drink anymore.
     - What is this long and cumbersome process for? - I  asked rhetorically
and poured the rest of the beer down into the toilet.
     I lagged to the sofa and turned off the  light. For how much  longer is
it possible to sleep huddled up by the table, with an electronic saucepan on
the  head?  It  was quiet,  very  quiet, and even the teens on the staircase
stopped torturing their guitar.
     Only the computer hummed smoothly and the candles were  blinking on the
screen.
     I  turned  over forcing  my face  into  the pillow  but  the sleep  was
retreating. There,  in the  Deep, the motionless  dead Gunslinger's body  is
lying. Does he miss me? Something, just a little from betrayal is in it.
     - For the last time! -  I moaned, rising. I  put on the helmet, plugged
the suit into the port, laid my hands on the keyboard.
     Deep
     Enter.

     I snuggle close to Vika in my sleep  and she mumbles something, turning
to the other side.  As quiet as her voice is, but I wake up.  Looks like she
sleeps in the Deep too.
     The fire is off.  Maybe the  morning is  close but the darkness haven't
yet  retreated, only red sheen from the dying fire can  be seen. Unfortunate
lies a bit away  like a motionless mat- bag. What if I reach  you and  nudge
you a good deal, huh? Just to see, are you here  with us of exited the  deep
and sleep in the warm soft bed?
     I look up at the sky,  into the black sparkling  crystal. How did I say
that to Vika? "They've stolen the sky from us"?
     Yes, they have, and the  more people  leave here, the further the stars
will become.
     It's not only the stars though. There always will be  somebody for whom
this world will stay  out  of reach: the restless teens who can't find work,
the  girls from  fish packing  plants... Fish  heads, accurately arranged in
rows in tins will come first. Is it just a joke or a silent cry, a  protest?
Fish heads will come first. And only then human heads will start to roll.
     Does  the second  advent  of  machine destroyers  await  us? The  rebel
against machines, more and more incomprehensible and scary  ones for average
citizens, or the way out will be found finally?
     I turn over and look at Unfortunate. If you are the mind of the Net, if
you are the human who have conquered virtuality, then you might be that very
way out, the break through the barrier, the exit  from this deadlock. Surely
Dibenko understands that if Man Without Face is really him.
     Should I play noble hiding Unfortunate? If  he is salvation, a merge of
two worlds?
     I don't know. I'm just an ordinary man, accidentally having this stupid
resistance  against  the  deep-program. This  helps me to earn  my  piece of
bread,  and sometimes  -  it  even  comes  with a thick  layer of butter and
caviar. But it's not me who should save the world or decide what is good and
what is evil for it.
     I don't have anything except that funny shabby moral for which Vika was
grieving, but moral is a  strange thing, it  never gives  answers but on the
contrary, it hinders from finding them.
     It's much easier to be a just person or a scum than just a human.
     I  start  feeling myself  extremely  bitter  and  lousy.  A  provincial
sportsman might feel so, included in the Olympic team and ordered to compete
with the champions. Not my destiny it is...
     And at this moment a sound is born above.
     I turn onto my back looking up into the blackish crystal again, and see
a crack  in  it  -  a blue stripe  across the whole sky, a dazzling straight
arrow rushing down.
     - What is it, Lenia?
     Vika is  already  sitting, casting strands of hair from  her face. When
have she woke?
     Or when have I fallen asleep?
     What is it around us, a dream or reality?
     - A meteor, - I reply to Vika.
     The blue arrow is lower and lower, a thin ringing trill is its train, a
clot of fire at the end - its spike.
     -  This is a star falling, - says Vika very seriously and  I understand
that I'm sleeping after all.
     Unfortunate doesn't move.
     The  crack draws across the sky to the end and plunges into the ground.
The blue strip dims - the sky knows how to  cure its wounds. Only where  the
star have touched the ground, a pale light is glowing.
     - You promised me that we'll find a fallen star, - says Vika.
     Everything is simple in the dream. I rise and give her my hand, we step
over Unfortunate and start descending the slope. It's wrong, one is supposed
to go up to reach the star, but one shouldn't argue with dreams.
     The  blue flame  sparkles  in  the grass,  neither  burning nor casting
shadows.  The star  have  fallen into  the  gully between  two  hills. A bit
further is a conglomeration of  cliffs,  absolutely out of place here, as if
torn from another world. This is  important for some reason  but now we only
look at the star.
     A clean  flame,  a fuzzy fiery ball, very small one, one can hide it in
the hands.
     I stretch my hand, touch the star and feel warmth, as tender as if I've
set my hands under the spring sun.
     - Now I know what the stars are, - says Vika, - These are the splinters
of the daylight sky.
     I'm about to pick the star up but Vika stops me.
     - Don't. It is tired already.
     - From what?
     - From the solitude, from the silence...
     - But now we are near.
     - Not yet. We've passed our path but it's only half of the way. Let the
star believe in us.
     I just shrug, I can't argue with Vika. I want to smile to her but she's
not by my side anymore, only the voice have left.
     - Lenia, wake up!
     What the hell, why...
     - Lenia, Unfortunate is gone!
     I open my eyes.
     Morning, the pink light from the East, scared Vika's face.
     Unfortunate is not by the fire. The sleep is great deceiver.
     - Damned! - I swear jumping up, - When have he disappeared?
     Vika fixes her hair, in the same gesture as in my dream.
     - I don't know, Lenia. I've just woke, and he was gone.
     -  So  here's  the answer, -  I whisper,  looking around,  - Here's the
answer...
     Unfortunate's gone. Fled from the Deep. So everything was in vain?
     No, not everything, I've met Vika because of him.
     - He  had  made  us  to know each  other, - she  repeats my thoughts, -
Thanks for that at least.
     I hug her,  nudging my face into her hair. We stand like this for long,
the dawn brightens around,  the snow  crest of the  huge mountain  sparkles,
ripping the sky. It's no birds here, maybe Vika forgot  to make them but the
mountains become  alive even without  them, filling with rustles of wind, of
leaves and grasses.
     - I'll make  birds  for these  mountains,  - I  whisper, -  If we  ever
restore your hut...
     - I don't want to change  the  mountains, they are free! - objects Vika
immediately.
     - The birds are free too. I'll just set them out through the window and
will say: "breed and multiply"!
     Vika laughs quietly.
     - Okay, try.
     -  What's so hard?  - I summon up my courage - A simple program... I'll
study Bram, will make a  behavior algorithm. I'll draw  various  chaffinches
and  sparrows in  the beginning,  then hawks. Biogeocenosis...  right?  I've
forgotten, I think we studied this in the  fifth form, at the lessons of the
nature study...
     - Biologist you. Maybe you'll set  free Zuko's slippers as well? Lenia,
let's surface  now and go to some  restaurant.  Have  you ever been to "Pink
atoll"?
     - No.
     - A beautiful place, Shultz and Brandt drew it. I invite you.
     - Okay. Let's search before we go though...
     Vika steps back from me and asks sharply:
     - Search for whom?
     - For Unfortunate.
     - He exited the deep, why don't you understand?
     - I do. But let's look for him anyway, okay? Maybe  he  wanted to go to
do pee-pee and fell into the canyon?
     - So he deserves it... - mumbles Vika, agreed already.

     Firstly we pass  the edge of the nearest slope, looking down. Then Vika
searches  the  valley to  the  left from the stream, and  I  - to the right.
Involuntarily my gaze is  attracted  down  into  the gully where I found the
star in my dream: some cliffs can really be seen there.
     But  the business first. I must make  sure that Unfortunate is not with
us anymore.
     I even climb up a little, following our path, it's just for the sake of
it, to clear up my conscience.
     And  there,  in the small crevice which we  easily jumped  over in  the
light of the dimming day I find Unfortunate.
     I stand above the crevice silently, looking at Unfortunate from a ledge
3 meters above him. A couple of minutes passes until he makes sure that I've
noticed him and raises his head.
     - Good morning, Gunslinger.
     I stay silent, I don't have strength even for the anger anymore.
     -  It's  too hard to see in the dark, - utters Unfortunate an amazingly
fresh and genius idea.
     It wasn't that  much to  fall but he was unlucky. Even from above I can
see that  his right leg is swollen and Unfortunate is sitting trying  not to
touch it. I get the slippers from behind my belt, put them on and descend.
     -  I'm sorry, - says Unfortunate when I pick him up and scramble out of
the crevice.
     - Why? - I just ask.
     - So that you wouldn't hesitate. I can't explain anything anyway.
     - You're  fool. Only  suicidal  ones are  wandering in the mountains at
night... or the Black Alpinist.
     - I never was in the mountains before. And who is the Black Alpinist?
     It's  quite a long way down to the camp and I have time to tell him the
tale of the  Black Alpinist and  that company that was dragging ball dresses
and tuxedos to the  mountains, then several real stories.  We approach  Vika
when my store  of the mountain  legends  runs  out. I put Unfortunate on fir
branches scattered by the fire under Vika's icy glare and say:
     - What can be better  than the mountain walk without any gear? Only the
mountain walk with an injured one on the back.
     I wonder, what will she do now.
     - Give me the belt, - commands Vika.
     I couldn't expect that much of aggressiveness.
     - Vika, using 'Warlock'...
     - Shit. You unfinished diver! I need a tourniquet!
     I never was curious whether virtual clothes can tear or not,  and don't
want to try  - the  mountain sun is cruel. So I  abandon the idea of tearing
the shirt for tourniquets and give Vika my bandana.
     She mingles with Unfortunate's leg for a  long time,  shaking her  head
gloomily when he moans in reply to her careful touches.
     - The shin is broken, - she  sets the diagnosis,  - Without  a shift  I
think, as strange as it might be.
     - You're a doctor too?
     - No, just a nurse, but an experienced one. I need more tourniquets.
     I have to sacrifice my shirt after all and the jacket put on  the naked
body  looks  as  a complete  mauve  tone.  We  put  Unfortunate's  leg in  a
self-constructed cast.
     -  Not even a single  idiot, - now Vika allows  herself to vent out her
anger, - not a  single cretin in this world have ever managed to break a leg
in virtuality! What do you have in reality, huh? Do you have a broken leg?
     - No... - mumbles Unfortunate.
     - Thanks God for this at least.
     We  look  at  each  other, our  previous  evening's  battle  mood  have
vanished.  One thing is  to abandon a deceiver  in the virtual  world, and a
different one is to abandon a wounded person in the mountains, and the  fact
that the mountains is a fake changes nothing.
     - Let's go to those cliffs, - I suggest.
     - Okay. I saw them in my dream.
     One glance is  enough and we  don't say anything else. There's  no laws
for  unreality. Whatever  it is, a  dream  or reality - we  descended to the
fallen star together.


     The cliffs are really out  of  place in this  valley. The glacier might
bring boulders, but not such a huge lumps.
     - Looks like  it's really an exit to the different space, - agrees Vika
turning back to me, - Are you tired?
     I shake my  head. To be honest, my hands are tired to  hold Unfortunate
but there's no time for such trinkets now.
     -  If the program had really broken through to  some  foreign server, -
reasons Vika, - then the  channel will  be one  directional. We sure will be
able to exit but if we need to flee...
     -  As  a  last resort,  we  have 'Warlock',  -  I say but  without much
confidence. I'm not too eager to  fall into  blue tunnels anymore: too weird
pictures did I see on my way.
     - Okay, let's go. Maybe there's nothing at all over there. - Vika sighs
and steps forward. I  lag after  her. Unfortunate is silent,  either feeling
himself guilty (which  is right) or doesn't want to hinder. And  this  is  a
right behavior too.
     We move along the narrowing canyon. At some  point I look up estimating
the height  of cliffs. They are obviously higher than it  seemed back in the
valley. Very encouraging sight indeed...
     The  pass  becomes narrower and  narrower, we can't walk side  by  side
anymore. I  start  to  move  my side  forward, this  way  the  risk  to  hit
Unfortunate's injured  leg against  the cliff is less. Maybe  it  would be a
good idea to put the winged slippers on, but this idea came to me  a bit too
late,  now I won't be  able to turn  and bend over. Vika swears  quietly  in
front  of  me  having  problems too, I gloatingly think that Madam  with her
dimensions would be stuck long time ago.
     It  gradually  becomes  colder, an icy wind breaks  into the slit  from
somewhere. This is good, very good!
     - Lenchik! - says Vika in a muffled voice, - Yes!
     I see the light in front of me, blocked by her silhouette.  Vika shifts
somewhere to the side and I step into her place. I hit the Unfortunate's leg
against the wall on my last steps anyway and he moans quietly.
     The canyon brings us to a weird place.
     There are mountains - but different ones. They are not just uninhabited
- they're wild, as  if the life  was here some  time  ago but then something
killed it. A twilight. Maybe it's day anyway but the sky is blocked by dense
lead  colored  clouds.  Everything  is  enveloped  in  desolation  and  dull
melancholy. A path winds down the slope among black fangs of the cliffs.
     - What is this? - asks Vika quietly, - Lenia?
     I gaze around.  No,  this is  a different space for sure, and I think a
familiar one.
     -  The Elves, - I  say, - This  is  some role-playing server. They play
here.
     - Like in "Labyrinth"? - speaks Unfortunate out.
     - No, in a different way.
     - We won't go far here, - says Vika gloomily, - Either we'll  freeze or
the Elves will shoot us incidentally.
     - We'll  freeze first, - I say. My shirt was used for tourniquets and I
carelessly disposed of my jacket.
     - That's okay, at least  your exposed torso looks way too impressive, -
says Vika ironically. Good for her to talk, she has a jersey and Unfortunate
has masking overalls from "Labyrinth", it's quite warm.
     - If we just  had somebody  to impress, - I  stretch  my  hand, - Vika,
there's a path in front of us, we should get there and search for people.
     - For the Elves.
     - People, Elves, Dwarves, whoever.
     The snow is almost knee-deep, we slowly lag along. Unfortunate whispers
guiltily:
     - I don't understand anyway...
     - Do you know who Tolkien is?
     - He's an author...
     - Just please don't recite "The Lord of the Rings" by heart, okay?  So,
this is a  virtual space created by his fans,  role-players. They congregate
here, put on  the bodies  of his characters and play  various plots,  either
Tolkien's or other authors'.
     - A theater, - decides Unfortunate.
     - Well... sort of.
     Unfortunate  silences, completely  satisfied by explanation  while  I'm
still quite far from complete clarity.
     What server  is it? What are the laws of this  particular  world? Where
are allowed exits located through which we could get Unfortunate out?
     I even fear to think about what to do next.
     The path is  well treaded down as if a whole army marched here not long
ago. The snow melts as soon as it touches the path, maybe due to the  magic.
Role-playing world lives according to its own laws, the magic exists here.
     - Where should we go now? - with this phrase Vika sets the command upon
me. It's so fluttering to be trusted... I wish I could justify this trust. I
try to remember role-playing spaces' maps but abandon this idea immediately,
these are drawn by whoever wants to.
     And at this  moment  I hear a quiet  drumming  from behind  the nearest
cliff, either a mad horse with castanets  on its legs or a giant  with  jaws
clattering of cold.
     There's no time to think.
     -  Here,  quick!  -  I  whisper and  dive  into  wilted fir  grove, put
Unfortunate on the snow and press a finger to my lips, - Tsssss...
     Vika  and  Unfortunate  can't be  seen from  the path. I  stand on  it,
outstretching my  legs widely and pull  off the belt. 'Warlock' unwraps into
the fiery lash with a rumble.
     I must  look pretty  scary, a gloomy male naked down to his  belt, with
the shoulders  powdered with snow. I ve modeled Gunslinger's body sinewy and
strong, it's immediately seen that he's a mighty fighter... and this glowing
lash in his hand too... any troll would be scared.
     The clatter comes closer.
     I make a bloodthirsty grimace and wait.
     A little figure, hardly as high as my  chest comes out from behind  the
cliff.
     A giant with clattering jaws indeed...
     The face and build of the traveler is like the child's but something is
definitely  wrong  with  his  hormones: his legs, bare up to his  knees, are
covered  with thick fur. Oh yeah, with such paws it's cozy even in the snow.
A little drum hangs on traveler's chest and he beats on it with sticks as he
walks.
     A hobbit.
     That's good.
     Noticing  me,  the hobbit stops dead on  his tracks, even one drumstick
falls in the snow.
     - Hee-hee... - I say evilly.
     The hobbit doesn't drum anymore but his jaws really start to chatter.
     - Who? -  I demand, stretching 'Warlock'  towards the hobbit.  The lash
starts to lengthen excitedly and I have to pull it back quickly.
     - Harding, s...sir! - whispers hobbit.
     - Who? - I ask again in a normal voice this time. But poor hobbit is in
utter panic now, he even doesn't try to grab a small dagger carelessly stuck
behind his belt.
     - H-harding, kind  sir. S-sam sired Frodo, Frodo sired Holfast, Holfast
sired Harding...
     - You, huh?
     - Me, kind sir!
     - Quite in vain!
     - Yes, kind sir, - agrees Harding obediently.
     - Don't 'sir' me! - I bellow,  - And even  more - I'm not kind  at all!
I'm... -  the  sudden inspiration strikes  me,  -  Conan!  Brave  Conan  the
Kimmerian!
     Hobbit definitely have heard of Conan, he starts to nod frequently, not
asking how the hell had Howard's character got into Tolkien's world. Though,
role-players are  the  folks that are easily carried away and such  trinkets
don't limit them.  I could even call  myself Koschej The Immortal {<i>a Russian
folklore evil character</i>} if my build would allow me to.
     - Where are you going? - I go on  with  questioning circling around the
hobbit. He turns around trying not to lose me from his sight.
     - Catching up with the a-army...
     - What the hell army?
     - The Elvish one... We go to beat the Orcs and the Dwarves!
     - Why?
     - Because they are bad!
     I start to be more and more sure that it's a little kid in the hobbit's
body. An adult would  find more serious arguments and of course would try to
fight.
     - Army... - I say thoughtfully, - Ah, yes! I remember, there was one...
     The  dread  is  in hobbit's  eyes.  He squints at the fiery  lash,  not
doubting the sad fate of the Elvish army anymore.
     - I've heard that you hobbits are marsupial, - I inform, - Huh?
     The hobbit shakes his head in  shock and presses his hands against  his
stomach.
     - Any grub?
     Brave  Harding gives me his rucksack, where I find a couple of cookies,
a chunk of smoked meat, a flask; I soften.
     - Provident you are, hobbit... And what is this?!
     I hook out 'Snickers' from the sack's bottom.
     The hobbit bursts into tears immediately. Yeah, the kid alright.
     I  tear the wrapping from the candy with teeth, bite  off a  half,  the
rest of it I return to the hobbit. He stops crying at once.
     - How  do you think, will you beat the Dwarves?  - I inquire. One can't
just rob the guy and let him go. What about to chat?
     - We  will! - nods the hobbit, - They  make  arrows from yew-tree,  and
these  are  bad! And also they fight in 'hird', and this formation is bad...
{<i>Hird -  a native Dwarvish battle formation, a kind of phalanx, described by
Nick Perumov in his book "The Ring of Darkness"</i>}
     I don't have  even a bit of eager  to  get into details  of the quarrel
between the Elves and the Dwarves.
     - Is a city far from here?
     - Lorien is 5 miles away...
     Something  is  wrong  with  geography here... oh well, never mind. If I
also could find out the server name...
     - Who is ruling this land?
     - Fair Legolas the Elf!
     Alrighty, this information is enough.
     - Go, - I say hanging the hobbit's sack on my shoulder.
     Harding doesn't protest against the robbery. Even more, he shyly asks:
     - Can I go  with  you  Conan? They'll  beat the  Dwarves without me,  I
guess.
     Yeah right... I do really need that... I make an evil grimace again and
whisper:
     - Don't  you know that the hobbit is not only  costly fur?  Also  it is
30-40 kilos of tasty, easily digested meat!
     Books don't  lie,  hobbits really  can run fast: just furry heels blink
away in the snow dust.
     I return to Vika and Unfortunate in the best mood. They heard the talk,
so I don't have to repeat it for them.
     - Here's the food, - I hand the sack to Unfortunate, - Now we'll make a
bed for you and will  exit the Deep.  We'll  return openly,  through Lorien,
with normal gear and will get you out of here. Okay?
     Unfortunate nods.
     - You'll have to wait for three-four hours... -  I say thoughtfully,  -
Is it okay?
     Though we don't have any  other choice anyway. I won't be  able to drag
him under the snow, half naked, for five miles. Together with Vika we make a
bed  from twigs under the old fir tree, put Unfortunate on it and  hand  the
sack with trophies to  him.  A light alcoholic beverage is in the flask, one
better not use it to warm up in the real frost but why not in virtuality?
     -  Let's surface? - I ask Vika, - We'll meet in  three hours... say, at
the entrance into Legolas' server.
     She nods, a moment - and her form dissolves in the air.
     - Take care Unfortunate, - I say.
     Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours...


     I exited right in time, it's 9:45 AM.
     - Immersion  completed,  -  I ordered to Windows-Home  and attacked the
fridge. Without any result, of course.
     - Downloading the mail, - informed the computer.
     Hurriedly dressed, I ran  out to the street. Fortunately it  was almost
nobody in the shop around the  corner, and I was back by 10, just in time to
tap Maniac on the shoulder who was dolefully ringing my doorbell.
     - Gonna down some nourishments?
     - Yup. Will you?
     - Me too. But  later. - Maniac squeezed into apartment before me. While
I was shaking off my shoes, he was by the computer. When I padded to him, he
had already shut  down Windows  and  was  squirting along  the  Norton  cube
marking file by file.
     - What are you doing? - I asked in shock.
     -  Trying to save you  from debtor's prison,  - replied Maniac deleting
programs, - 'Warlock' was rehabilitated: a clean, not spreading virus, never
damaging data. Allowed to use in virtuality. Allowed to be used at one's own
risk...
     My computer have  lost  a couple more files. The winged slippers seemed
to perish too...
     -  ...  But "Labyrinth" and Al-Kabar have hung two and a  half  million
dollars in damages on you.
     I even feel joy of such an amount.
     - Why not a billion? There's no difference, I won't ever earn this much
anyway... and even never steal.
     - Sure... it might  have been billion...  - agreed Maniac  jerking  the
mouse  across the  mousepad, - When did you clean  the mouse last time? Now,
listen  here.  Gunslinger is  no more, and never  existed - on your machine.
Insert a different personality in the seventh position. If possible, provide
alibi... How did you manage to get them so, Len'ka?
     - I've dragged one guy right from under their grasps... Saved.
     - That's good of course...
     Maniac  have stuffed  a diskette into the drive,  started  some program
from it.
     - Now we'll clean your  winchesters so well, there'll  be no trace even
on  the physical level. -  he threatened, - Or, even better, just sell these
and buy new ones. Or throw them into the Neva river from the bridge.
     I felt discomfort. Maniac would never panic without a reason.
     - Got some vodka?
     - Cognac...
     - Not so good, but will do, - he frowned.
     I gave him  the  bottle,  ready for  Shurka  to  pour an  alcohol  into
computer guts, for  the  complete  guarantee  of  success... But he  took  a
mouthful himself,  then extracted  the  ball from the mouse, breathed on it,
rubbed it against his sleeve and put it back. Then he informed:
     - We'll commemorate the sale of three viruses. You advertised 'Warlock'
well.
     - Shur, I need to go back...
     - Gee,  you can't be serious,  diver! - laughed  Maniac without turning
around, - You must hide now!
     - I can't. Impossible.
     He just shrugged and advised:
     - Sell your winchesters anyway.
     - I was going to upgrade the whole thing...
     - Really? Well, so go ahead and sell it with all its guts. Or donate it
to some  kids' club. You won't  earn much  for  this piece  of  crap,  while
kiddies will kick it to death in a week, nobody will be able to restore it.
     Remembering the robbed hobbit I nodded uncertainly.
     Maybe I really should rejoice the young generation with an old comp?
     And just how proud I was when I bought it... Pentium! Two megs of video
memory! Sixteen megs of RAM!
     -  How  can you  live  with  this  video card?  - replied  Shurka to my
memoirs, - Shit, it even doesn't receive TV?!
     For  around  five  next  minutes  I  was lectured  about  cutting  edge
technologies in hardware. Then Maniac  sent me to cook breakfast and went on
with cleaning my machine.
     I was  cooking scrambled eggs - maybe 10000th portion of it in my life.
It's high time to invent single's anniversaries: 1000th tin of canned stuff,
100000th loaf of bread eaten dry...
     -  Shurka, I  only have two  and  a  half hours!  - I shouted from  the
kitchen, - Then I have to work!
     - You'll not be late...
     - I also still need to draw the new personality!
     - Which one?
     - A  fairy tale  one. An Elf or a Dwarf...  No,  an Elf is  better. The
Dwarf will be beaten immediately.
     - Since when are you befriended with role-players?
     - It's  a work., - I said setting the pan by  the keyboard, - I need to
take a walk in their server.
     - Lord,  what  can  you steal there?! They are all  beggarly! -  Maniac
shook  his  head, - Brrr... Texts of Elvish  anthems? The secrets  of wooden
swords' manufacturing?
     - No, I... forgot one thingy there.
     - Ah... - Maniac nodded. Maybe he thought that 'Warlock' had gnawed the
exit into the role-playing  server directly. - Just don't  hurt  them, okay?
They are funny folks, I wandered into those places a couple of times...
     - You set up security for them?
     - Me? For  them? Come  on, there's plenty of  their own  specialists! -
Shurka waved his hand, - There's lots of cool programmers.
     I didn't like this news.
     - Well, tell me at least what 'Warlock' looked like in action?
     -  Well...  a  blue  crater,  sparks and  mirrors  under my  feet  with
reflections of other servers in them.
     Maniac raised his head:
     - Wasn't there an elevator? - he asked in confusion.
     - Come on, what elevator?! Just a hole in the floor...
     - It's always like this,  you invent something and it turns out like...
- growled Shurka, - Shit. Do you have cognac only?
     We poured in a little, touched cups and  drank.  Shurka's programs were
still 'rustling' inside my machine.
     -  I've  tried it yesterday... that  rhyme... -  said  Maniac after the
second cup, - That "abyss-abyss" one...
     I didn't ask  him about results. If  Maniac  could  manage  to exit the
Deep, this would be what we are drinking for now.
     - Lenia, if you ever find out why it happens... - began Shurka.
     - I'll tell you immediately.
     - Geez,  and what a  mess  was it  in one brothel yesterday... - Maniac
changed the topic. - Haven't you heard in the Net news?
     I even felt confused.
     - No...
     -  Some  punks attempted  to  break  the  security of "Any  Amusements"
brothel.  There is one with this name... - Maniac half closed his  eyes in a
sweet and delighted expression.
     - They attempted?
     - Well, they almost broke it but then their security  have just cut off
all channels completely. That  fight  was  worth seeing if Zuko doesn't tell
the bull.
     - Who?
     Obviously  the expression on my face became too stupid. Shurka gazed at
me, then said quietly:
     - A-ha... I see.
     - You know Zuko? Computer Wiz?
     - Don't you tell me you don't know him.
     - Only in the Deep, - I don't attempt to lie.
     Shurka shook his head.
     - You think so? It's Sergey... the one who worked in the bank.
     Uh-oh, what a news.
     I know  Sergey  for  ages.  When I  was  working in that computer games
company,  he was  working there too, but I felt it absolutely  impossible to
correlate the  ever  silent  and  phlegmatical  programmer  with  the  noisy
Computer Wiz.
     - It's him?!
     - Yup.
     - Gosh, what a disguise... - I was only able to say.
     - Well, just imagine if he  would  confess that he works for a brothel!
Isn't it a great topic for jokes? He still keeps everybody believing that he
botches proggys for that bank...
     - Don't tell him that me is me, - I asked quickly.
     - I won't. He didn't  tell me  any details either.  Just questioned  me
about 'Warlock'.
     - Zuko recognized your virus! - I exclaimed remembering Wiz's joy.
     - Well, yeah, I showed him around a month ago... - Shurka narrowed  his
eyes, - Secrecy, damn it...
     - Can he tell anybody?
     Maniac shook his head.
     - Not  this is  the real  problem Lenia. Information has a property  to
slip away.  Some stupid little  blunders and coincidences  like  this one...
They'll find you.
     - Let them try to prove!
     -  Lenia... if you really did stomp on their  tails so hard, they won't
bother  to prove anything. All  of us are tied  too closely. Somebody  knows
that Gunslinger and Leonid is the same guy. Somebody suspects that Leonid is
diver. Somebody guesses  that  Leonid is Russian.  Virtuality is  living  by
information, by truth, rumors, guesses. And the most important thing is that
any information can be easily gathered and analyzed. If  to try really hard,
one can learn everything!
     - So what do you suggest?
     - Get your ass out of here. - suggested Shurka pouring in the remaining
cognac. - It'll be bad that I won't be able to  drink beer with you  anymore
but... if  you're dead, it'll be much worse... Shit, what, what the hell are
you doing?!
     - I'm rescuing a person.
     - One should do it until he's not in trouble himself!
     I  nodded.  Maniac is right.  There's the normal hacker's logic  in his
words, not the one of the self-assured diver who can surface from the Deep.
     Where would I surface if overtaken in the real world?
     Complexes of  physical weakness  are strong  in all  virtual folks.  It
hurts too much to feel that you're God in the virtual world, but just one of
the billions of  ordinary  people in  the real  one. That's why we all  love
martial arts and war games, buy gas and pneumatic pistols, stubbornly attend
sport clubs and pump ourselves up in the evenings. Of course we want to feel
ourselves  as invincible in  the real life as we are in virtuality, sure so.
But we fail to.
     And sometimes one can hear in the Deep:  "Remember that guy? Some punks
had stuck  a  knife in him in  the alley...  got poisoned with fake vodka...
jumped  out of the  window,  didn't  even  leave a note...  crossed  mafia's
path..."
     We remember, we know.
     Only in the world beyond the screen we're Gods.
     - I  need just a day more, I suppose, - I said quietly, - Then I'll get
out somewhere... to Siberia or the Ural Mountains.
     - And don't tell  anybody  where  you go, - nodded Maniac, - Don't even
tell me.
     The cups were empty and he suggested:
     - Should I run to the kiosk for more?
     - I still have to draw the body.
     - Shit. Run 'Bioconstructor'.
     In a minute  we were sitting side by side fighting over control for the
mouse  and  drumming  against the  keyboard. The first  drawn body we had to
reject -  it  was way too provoking: two meter high hefty  chap, with a huge
sword on his  belt. All adventurers would  pester him as Shurka noted  and I
had to agree with him.
     The next  personality was  harmless  and  even  pitiful: a tattered old
beggar...  maybe nobody would  touch him,  but  he won't  be  able to  carry
Unfortunate for five miles  either.  This  time it was me who vetoed without
explanations.
     But  the third attempt was successful. The guy  on the screen was quite
strong but with such a  babylike innocent face that I felt sick. We  dressed
him  in  the ground-long light-green  chlamys  and  hung a rag bag  onto his
shoulder.
     -  A  healer! - said Maniac satisfied,  -  A human, healer. Nobody will
hurt you  there without a reason, neither Elf nor Orc. Medicine is the thing
everybody needs.
     He started to stuff some jars, retorts, dry leaves into the bag, taking
them from accessories menu.
     - Will I be able to heal in the role-players' world?
     -  Sure. The situation there  is like this  - you come in  this or that
image and initially  have some  strength.  For  instance,  a martial  art or
wisdom or  gift of healing. The longer you  live in that world, the stronger
your  abilities  are.  If you  call yourself a healer, you'll be immediately
able to fix small wounds or fractures, dislocations...
     - How  interesting,  -  I said looking  at  my new personality, I  even
started to like it. - Thanks, I would dress as a warrior for sure.
     - Yeah, and would get knocked on the head by some old-timer's sword.
     - Well, and in what image did you go there?
     Maniac was confused.
     - You won't tell anyone?
     - No.
     - I was Ariel the Elvish warrior.
     - Why?
     - Tried to score Goromir.
     For a second I froze. It's none of my business of course, but...
     - Goromir  is a girl, - explained Maniac quickly, - It's a bloody  mess
over there,  girls play men  often and guys play women. I tried to score her
for half a year...
     - Any success?
     - No... Goromir befriended Dianel.
     I don't dare  to ask  who was Dianel in reality: a guy  or a girl,  too
gloomy Shurka's tone was.
     -  If  you meet Goromir there, say hi from  Ariel, - adds  Shurka, - We
parted quite... well. Friendly. Shit.
     - I need the server with the  city of Lorien, ruled by Legolas. Is this
a place where he... this Goromir of yours pastures?
     -  It's  a  'she'!  -  cuts Shurka  off,  -  I Dunn,  haven't  been  at
role-players' for ages. We'll find out.
     He loaded Vika and started to browse through servers using terminal. In
around five minutes the search was successful.
     - Look! "Fair Legolas invites the  wise Elves, the brave Humans and the
quick Hobbits to the great city of Lorien, for the days of  the  last battle
of  the forces  of the Good against the  Orcs and  the Dwarves  have  come!"
They'll meet you with an open hug.
     - This isn't necessary.
     - Uh... what about some more beer? You have an hour and a half more.
     A  beer  after  cognac? Well, but I really  have  a  lot of time,  with
Shurka's help we were through the drawing really fast.
     - Okay, - I decide.


     I  locked  the door  after  Shurka,  fixed  the  door  chain  very-very
accurately, looked into the kitchen to make sure gas is off.
     I didn't feel myself drunk.  Four bottles of beer is nothing and cognac
doesn't count  at all. Some odd wires,  old  slippers, scattered books  were
tangling under  my  feet  all  the way to the computer - Shurka stumbled and
overturned the bookshelf when clung to it trying to keep balance. What could
that mean?
     - Vika, any mail? - I growled.
     - I didn't understand you, Leonid.
     - Any mail? - I repeated slowly.
     - Yes.
     Maybe two liters of dark beer,  drunk in haste is not that little after
all if Vika doesn't recognize my voice?..
     I  suppressed the  fit of guilt and started  to look through mail: some
crap only. I should also take a look at the Bulletin Board.
     Of course,  none of my employers or friends knows  my real address.  If
somebody wants to  contact not just Leonid, but the diver, there's  only one
way  - to  post  an ad at the Bulletin Board which is just a computer with a
modem and lots of disk space to which anyone can connect and read all ads. A
coded label  allows to filter out unnecessary  posts, the code doesn't allow
lamers to fake the messages  and the vague phrases of the letters themselves
will be clear to the addressee only. Complete  anonymity and reliability. Go
ahead and try  to extract secret information  from love affairs, commercials
and idle chat.
     It's not  often that I find messages for me  on the Bulletin Board, but
it was two of them today.
     "Ivan! In the eve of  the forest journey I'll wait for you at the place
where we did division. Gray."
     This  is Romka. We "did  division" in "Three Piglets",  and the  eve of
Al-Kabar operation was a quarter of hour ago.
     I sobered suddenly. Why would Romka look for  me so urgently?  He wrote
the letter this  night. Did  he do it himself  or  at  somebody's bidding  I
wonder? Man Without Face's, for instance?
     The second message was expected.
     "Seventy-seven. Where usual, as usual. Brothers."
     Seventy-seven is my number. Brothers-divers are outraged...
     According to the Code, I told my diver's name (also being the real one,
by the way) to Anatol and Dick.
     According  to  the Code,  they filed a complaint against me: I intruded
into their working territory and used weapons.
     This can't be forgiven.
     - Unfortunate... - I mumbled, - Bastard...  What the hell are you doing
with me?
     Damned the moment when I was lured by the Medal of Complete License and
rushed to rescue you!
     - Vika, submersion, - I ordered, - Personality number seven... Healer.

     I know three Romka's personalities, even four if to count the wolf. But
today he appeared in a new  one:  a little scraggy youngster  in glasses and
with tousled hair. He stands by the bar, gazing around and in no way reminds
an accurate Roman. I  recognize him only when he  drinks  a  glass of pepper
vodka in one shot.
     - Romka?
     - Lenia?
     We shake hands.
     - Wanna drink? - asks the guy.
     - No... I've... already, in reality.
     - Alcoholic, - mumbles Roman.  Yeah, says who? Considering his immunity
to alcohol... - Len'ka, do you know in what deep shit you are?
     - Yes. How deep?
     - A complaint was filed against you... by somebody  called Anatol'  and
Tosser. Details of the charge were not yet made public.
     I nod. - I know about that.
     - What, there are more troubles expected?
     - Tons.
     We often work together, I sympathize the  werewolf and looks like Romka
returns that.
     - Lenia, what's the matter?
     - Think a little.
     Roman frowns and suddenly takes off the glasses nervously.
     - Is "Warlock" your work? - he whispers.
     - Good guess.
     - It means that "Labyrinth"...
     - Shhhhh... - I remember Shurka's words about spreading of information,
- Let's not talk about that.
     Romka calls  the bartender  -  today it  is  a  program obviously - and
refills his glass.
     - Gee  Len'ka, this is cool... - he mumbles, - Man you're in trouble...
Up to the neck!
     I suddenly  understand that the werewolf is  not scared by the severity
of my troubles, neither does he worry about me - he's admired! He's ecstatic
of  such  turmoil of action, of  being  himself lighted by  a sheen  of  the
scandalous fame. If we,  being completely selfish, still can see an idol  in
another diver then I became one for Romka.
     - If you need my help during sorting the things out, you'll get it, and
not from me only!
     Maybe I'll need that... maybe  I'll get it. Roman is a very social guy,
and a recognized leader in a narrow circle of divers-werewolves.
     - I'll have to leave anyway, and for a long time, - I confess honestly.
     Roman blinks quickly:
     - What? From the Net? Are you serious?
     It can't be more serious... I nod.
     - Oh... and how will you live? - asks Romka in confusion.
     Only we, the virtual world dwellers, can understand each other.
     How  can one  live  without the time,  compressed  by the Deep, without
instant travels from  the cool  of  the restaurant to the hot  sand  of  the
beach,  without  drawn  jungles  and  imaginary mountains,  without  endless
boiling flow  of  information, without ancient  anecdotes and  just finished
books,  without  masquerade  of  bodies   and  costumes,  without  hundreds,
thousands of friends and acquaintances living in all parts of the world?
     How?
     One must visit Deeptown to understand what he loses.
     - I don't know Romka... But "Labyrinth" and Al-Kabar...
     He  nods. Everything is clear: elephants  fear mice in  tales only, and
against these corporations we're not even mice, but just plant-louse.
     - Lenia, if you need  money... - says Romka suddenly. - I can return my
part.  You did almost all the job after all,  and it was  you  who suffered.
You'll need it if you're going to hide.
     I shake my head, Romka is a good guy but I don't need such sacrifice.
     - If possible... I'd like to ask you for a different thing...
     - Whatever you need!
     - I'll have to flee, to tangle my traces. I don't want to use hotels...
if it'd be possible to stay at  your place for a couple of months, until the
noise calms down...
     I  don't know myself why do I ask for that. Maybe I just don't want  to
leave  the Deep completely? To be able to watch the  virtual world  at least
through   Romka's   eyes?  To  feel   the  electronic  pulse,   to   swallow
information...
     - I won't be a burden... - I add.
     But looking at Romka's face I understand that the offer didn't pass.
     - No.
     - Sorry. - I shrug, - I understand.
     We fear  each other anyway, it's easier for us  to sacrifice huge money
and to calm our conscience with that than to disclose who we are.
     - You don't understand a thing... - mumbles Romka, -  Do you want me to
give you my real address? A city, a street, a house?
     - No.
     - I really can't  receive you, -  he  averts  his look,  - These are...
family problems.
     We  build  palaces  for ourselves in the  Deep, but what about the real
world?
     For instance, I can accept guests despite the size of my apartment, but
what if for the one  of the  same size Romka  has a wife, mother in  law and
three snotty kids?
     - Understood, - I put my hand on his shoulder, -  I really  understand,
no offence.
     But Romka looks past me anyway.
     - I should go, - I say.
     - Will you be at the meeting?
     - Sure.
     - And where are you going now?
     It's a  great  temptation to  keep mysterious silence  and  this surely
would be the most reasonable choice, but I reply anyway:
     - To scare the Elves a little. I need to go, Romka. See you.
     When I leave "Three Piglets", he  takes one more glass of vodka.  Lord,
this  is  atrocious!  Or  is  he  such  a strong  diver  that  doesn't  feel
intoxicated of so much alcohol?

     Role-players don't advertise themselves much. There are exceptions like
"Elvish Meadows" but  this is more of  a tourist attraction where the  fairy
tales'  characters earn their living... or rather money  to  pay electricity
and phone bills to be exact.
     The server where Lorien is built belongs to somebody in Russia, this is
all that  I could find out without breaking laws, and the company that hangs
there is mostly Russian- speaking.  Of  course I  could  drop by  there as a
tourist  too,  but who  knows how this  would  end? This  is just  like if a
Christian  would arrive  to Mecca  and immediately drag himself  to see  the
Black Rock in boots, hat and with a golden plated cross on the chest.
     No, I'd better  be a newbie who read too much  Tolkien, Howard, Perumov
and all those others who paid their tribute  to the  romantics of swords and
dragons!
     I get out of the cab by the shabby  two floor lopsided  wreck.  I  must
admit that  the squalor of  the building is done  well, it's much harder  to
imitate poverty and desolation than wealth and splendor.
     The  whole street  here  doesn't shock  with  beauty though: some blind
buildings, warehouses, offices closed until better times. Role-players don't
like noise. Vika isn't here for some reason, just some  Elf hangs about  the
entrance:  a fragile golden-haired creature of vague gender and age, dressed
in light-green tights and darker jacket, a bow  and a quiver with arrows  is
behind Elf's back.
     I stop by the door and wait. The Elf squints his eyes at me, then takes
a cigarette and lighter from the bosom.  He inhales then releases a cloud of
smoke. Smoking Elf  isn't a look  for the weak nerved person:  looks like he
would die  after the very  first inhalation, illustrating the  harm nicotine
might cause... Geez!
     - Vi... - I start and cut off, what if it isn't her?
     - Vi-vi! - says the Elf cheerfully, - Both Vi and Mi... Lenia?
     The voice  is changed too, must be a sound correction program. It looks
as if Robertino Loretti have got into virtuality somehow.
     - You? - I ask just in case.
     Vika understands my doubts.
     - Hobbit  isn't  only costly fur! - she informs joyfully, -  Recognized
me?
     - Why the Elf?
     - We're on their territory after all, it'll be safer.
     - And what's your name?
     - MacKerel.
     - What?!
     - A nice Elvish name. I'm from the Scottish Elves.
     I  get  a  slight suspicion that  Vika also  got  a  use  of  something
'cheering up'.
     - So... who are you, he or she?
     -  I didn't draw the  details, didn't  have  time for that, -  declares
Vika-MacKerel carelessly, - We'll act according to situation.
     It's stupid to hang by the building  any longer and we enter. A  narrow
dark corridor, the walls covered by some sort of graffiti of a battle genre.
A white  shining  glows at the  end of the  corridor, a human figure can  be
guessed vaguely behind it.
     - Who are you? - we are called.
     - We heard the summons of fair Legolas and came to help! - I shout.
     - Stay where you are! What are your names?
     - MacKerel of the fair Loch Ness Elves! - declares Vika.
     -  Elenium  the Healer, from  the country  of Tranquilia! {<i>Elenium  - a
tranquilizer drug</i>}
     Vika  elbows me under my ribs  but nothing can  be done  - the name  is
already invented and told.
     The man that hides behind the shining, thinks.
     - Did you come together?
     - Yes, -  answers Vika. She takes the  leadership and I'm glad, I'm not
in the best mood now to play the fool thoughtfully and seriously.
     - And what could befriend the fair Elf and the human healer?
     - In  a  fight  with  the Orcs I  was treacherously wounded with a  yew
arrow! - exclaims Vika. She still avoids defining her gender. - If it wasn't
for the magic powers of Elenium, you wouldn't see me now stranger!
     I stand there with a stony straight mug but it takes a great effort.
     - What will you say Elenium?
     - A gang of foul Dwarves, formed in  a hird... - I remember the tale of
the little hobbit, - treacherously attacked me! If it wasn't for  MacKerel's
bravery, I'd.... I'd...
     I  don't  know how  to  finish and  just cover my face with both hands.
Silent laughter sounds very much like crying.
     The  glow gives way and the old man steps into the corridor.  His moves
are so abrupt  and the voice is so young that  he  doesn't fit for more than
20.
     - I'm glad to welcome the brave Elf and his... her... - he hesitates, -
his wise healer friend! You're safe now!
     - Thanks, - I whisper.
     - You, wise Elenium, get 10 points of skill, five of stamina and five -
of strength, -  informs the old guy, - As for you... errr... MacKerel... you
get 10 points of skill, 10 of stamina, 10 of strength and 10 - of bravery.
     - Hey, why was I left without bravery? - I say with indignation.
     -  Tears don't fit men! -  proclaims the  old man grandly, but MacKerel
backs me up using the obvious fact that the gatekeeper sympathizes him... or
her.
     -  Elenium cries  his  bitter tears in the memory of his  older brother
Seduksen  who  perished   by   foul  Dwarves'  paws!   {<i>Seduksen  -  another
tranquilizer</i>}
     Oy, I think Vika overplays...
     Luckily,  the young  old guy either doesn't know pharmacology or  has a
sense of humor.
     -  Okay, you'll  get  5  points of bravery, -  he decides generously. -
Thus,  enter the fair  city of Lorien  and gather  your  strength before the
final battle!
     Obeying  to his gesture,  we  enter the shining and discover  a massive
iron door at the end of the corridor.
     - Seduksen  the older  brother  you  say? - I  whisper standing  behind
Vika's back.
     - Oh come on, don't be mad...
     Then we enter the streets of Lorien.

     I stand there  for  a couple  of minutes, looking  around. Damned, it's
really beautiful!
     Giant  trees with snow-white rind, dark  green and crimson gold  of the
foliage. Paths paved with white stone. Some kinds of platforms and dwellings
are built in the trees, connected with wooden stairs.
     - Nice work, -  comments Vika professionally, - Fine  fellows, to build
all this just of pure enthusiasm...
     I  could note that she  herself had  built the  mountain world  of pure
enthusiasm but I don't want to remind her  about the  country that  is maybe
lost forever.
     - We need to find an exit, - decides Vika.
     We  walk along the white  path enjoying the surrounding beauty. The air
is fresh  and sweet, slight frost bites our cheeks. There  is no snow, maybe
the Elvish  magic  dissipates the clouds. Medieval music can be heard on the
limit of  hearing. Too  bad there's not many  people around,  everybody must
have left to beat the Dwarves and the Orcs.
     Under one of the snow white trees a fire is set and a grinding wheel is
installed. A  robust hairy man tries  to  sharpen the sword using the wheel,
under the Elf's supervision.
     - Don't just pass by, travelers! - calls us the Elf and we stop. -  Are
you new around?
     Vika nods.
     - Aren't we related, the Highborn one? - asks the Elf Vika.
     - No,  my fair brother, - she waves her hand,  - Tell us please how can
we leave the city and catch up with the army.
     The Elf frowns.
     -  Your skill isn't  too  high. Stay with me,  learn to sharpen swords.
Just three hours - and your skill will grow up five points!
     Yeah right, what a joy - to rotate  nonexistent  grinding wheel to  get
nonexistent skill!
     - We're in hurry, - says Vika.
     - Then ascend this mallorn, - the Elf  nods towards one of the trees. -
Just 6 hours of physical exercise on the stairs - and you'll get 7 points of
both strength and stamina!
     It  seems to me that  the Elvish sword sharpener  is simply bored.  His
ward obviously finishes getting his 5  skill points and the Elf will have to
sit here alone.
     - It's a pleasure to listen to your speech, oh Highborn Elf, - declares
Vika, - But we're anxious to be in the battle.
     - Then go there! - the Elf waves his hand gloomily and goes for the man
with a sword, - How do you sharpen it? Look just what are you doing! Is it a
sword or a silverware, huh? I won't count your skill!
     We leave in the said direction hastily. Gee, it's austere here.
     Lorien's charms fade somehow.
     -  And I  thought they only  do swordfights here... -  whispers Vika in
surprise.
     - No, they also study Elvish and Dwarvish languages, sharpen swords and
daggers, study medieval economics, write ballads and legends.
     - Oh yeah, tons of useful experience indeed...
     - Sure, you  wish  you  could just  shut all  RP servers... - I suggest
spitefully.
     - No, this is their  right,  - Vika doesn't yield to my  provocation, -
it's just a bit dull. Yet another chewing gum for the brains.
     - Well, do you know how many more  subcultures  of this sort exist?  At
least these don't do drugs or organize revolutions.
     - Lenia,  I  don't dream of uniformity. Everyone finds fun according to
his taste. But all this is escapism, the flight from the real life.
     -  Or course  it is. Stamps collecting  and playing poker, big politics
and tiny wars with the neighbors -  all this  is  the  flight from  the real
life. There's no  common valuables in the world, so one must find some tiny,
very tiny goals. And to sacrifice his life to them.
     - Ya know, this way one would want to even believe in Communism.
     - Well, why not? The beautiful and big goal. And as for sacrificing the
life for it - this is a tradition actually...
     MacKerel the brave Elf looks at me sadly.
     - Lenia... Elenium... What about you, do you have any goal in you life?
Any goal? Not to just steal a couple of grands, not to have fun with friends
in restaurant, but the Goal?
     - Yes, - I say honestly.
     - Is it a secret?
     I pause for a second.
     -  You know...  I'd like to never need to get the keys  from my  pocket
when I return home.
     Vika in her Elvish mask averts her gaze.
     -  It's  very-very  small  and ridiculous, -  I  say,  -  It's not even
sharpening  of  nonexistent swords...  or studying psychos  in  the  virtual
space. And of course it's not communism or world-wide revolution. But I just
want to ring by my door - and it would be opened.
     -  I want this too  sometimes, - answers Vika at last,  - But I already
had to come back home when the door could be opened. And... it wasn't always
fun.
     Get it diver, right on the face...
     - Lenia,  let's go,  we must get Unfortunate out.  -  says MacKerel the
brave warrior.
     So  we walk to the wall that girds  Lorien.  It's more  crowded here: a
dozen of recruits earn their strength points under the supervision of Elvish
sages, fencing with their swords and shooting at targets. Buyers  walk along
the  row of  shops where the merchants  earn their  skill points. They maybe
earn something too. A tattered artist draws portraits of all who wants them,
a magician  (probably  a  petty wizard)  juggles with  fiery balls. The life
boils up. A  guy with  the guitar,  a human but  dressed in the green Elvish
costume sings:
     A traveling minstrel knocked into the castle gates
     And a young maid opened the door for him...
     A little group of listeners doesn't look too enthusiastic, so the  bard
cuts the ballad off, looks around and shifts to  some terrible kind of local
chastooshkas:
     Once an Elf named Legolas
     Hit nazgul right in the eye!
     That's why poor old nazgul
     Nearly drowned in the river!
     The crowd likes this awkward little song much more, they applaud, throw
small coins to the minstrel and laugh. We pad off silently.
     - Do we need anything? - Vika points at the shops.
     - What about money?
     - Look in your pockets.
     I put my hand into the pocket and really find 5 copper coins there.
     -  These are automatically  given to  everyone who  enters,  - explains
Vika, - I heard about that.
     In one shop, after an excited bargaining with the merchant,  we buy two
flasks of local wine and two short daggers. We're not going to fight anyway,
so we don't need all  those swords, spears  and halberds that are being sold
in the shops, but attraction to weapons is something  genetically  etched in
the man's  organism.  Under  reproachful Vika's  gaze  I  wander  along  the
displays studying the means of extinguishing of  my kind.  It's dark in  the
shop, but burning  candles  are installed  under displays'  glass  near  the
weapons. The light reflecting  in the  blades  is bloody red. I remember the
flower sellers who put candles in their aquariums with flowers in winter.
     Life and death are so close, their dresses look almost similar.
     Two people sit by the table  in  the corner of  the shop,  not familiar
ones, I almost pass them but then stop.
     A short robust guy dressed in white is unfamiliar, but...
     - ...  Puke inducing stuff! - says  the  robust one  behind  my back, -
Cheap and cheesy. Not a dime worthy. Complete degeneration in everything.
     I suddenly feel a disgust like I  felt once being a kid, long time ago,
when swimming in the river I surfaced and saw a  huge toad on the bank right
before my eyes. The guy behind straightens a  cap  pulled low over his  eyes
and goes on:
     - Your  RP was unusual before,  it contained  some healthy element. Now
it's total bullshit and crap.
     - Look,  it's too much... - replies the  one who  sits with Cap,  - The
youth needs to have some fun...
     - I always tell what  I think. I tell  the truth. - declares Cap flatly
and I suddenly understand: this is not a figure of speech, not a mistake. He
really thinks so, he doesn't divide himself and the truth.
     Ohmygosh...
     - That's why nobody loves you, - objects Cap's interlocutor.
     - Ha. Love  is  a lie  already.  When you record everything in dynamic,
this becomes obvious.
     The merchant  across  the display notices that I  froze  above  it  and
livens up. He  pads to me and pushes  his  finger into the glass under which
the sword lies.
     - A very, very good weapon! But you can buy it only if you already have
100 skill points!
     Cap harps on behind my back:
     - The game lowered to the needs of the herd, it had lost its developing
role. Strength points, minstrels, magicians... Crap! Think about it.
     - Do you want to look at the sword? - asks the merchant politely.
     I  cast a  glance  at  Cap.  His interlocutor, one  of the famous  role
players obviously, asks:
     - So what do you suggest?
     - The  situation is  absolutely  clear already,  - declares  Cap, - I'd
prefer to look whether you'll be able to find an adequate solution...
     - No, thanks, - I say to the merchant, - I'm still way too far from 100
points.
     I exit the shop, into the  fresh air, to awaiting  Vika. Looks like she
haven't noticed her former customer.
     - What were you looking for there? - asks Vika.
     - For a life.
     - Found it?
     I shrug, - Doesn't seem so.
     When we proceed to the city gates, past the minstrel, past the magician
and fencing recruits, I suddenly understand a strange thing.
     There's  a  lot  of truth in Cap's words, in the ones  he  tells to the
girls in brothel or to the Elves in Lorien.  The truth is  the  disguise  of
cynicism.
     Maybe this  is a goal as  well - to consider oneself the Truth. To step
through the Deep as a proud prophet of it, sweeping a dirt of peoples' vices
from white  cuffs  with  disgust, to suffer for  the Truth and to accuse the
lies.
     And all this is because of one single reason - of being unable to  love
people.
     I see this world and it's funny for me to see the kids sharpening drawn
swords,  studying  Dwarvish language and selling the void. But  it's not yet
IT...  One more step is required, a very little one - a bit further. Not  to
love.
     Neither mysterious Unfortunate,  nor the  silly little hobbit, nor  the
virtual prostitute Vika, nor the merchant in the shop, nor the minstrel with
guitar, nor Romka the werewolf, nor Man Without Face...
     Nobody.
     It's so simple after all, they  all are full of drawbacks. One  can  be
mad  at  all of them, and  to despise all of them... No, not that. Not to be
mad but simply not to love.
     I feel like opening some kind of heavy and narrow door and looking into
another world, the sterile white one, frozen down to absolute zero, dead and
clean as the computer CPU.
     - Vika, - I whisper, - Vika...
     Why do we go to rescue Unfortunate? Why is all this long and cumbersome
process?
     - Vika...
     She looks  me in the eyes and I can see her  through the  Elvish image,
under golden curly hair and pale aristocratic face, a usual and real one. My
Vika. The one who doesn't need any explanations.
     - Say "love", - says she.
     I shake my head. I can't, I'm still there, in the cold whiteness of the
mocking truth. Truth and love are incompatible.
     - Say "love", - repeats Vika, - You can do it.
     I make my choice.
     - I love, - I whisper weakly.
     - Friends and foes...
     - Friends and foes... - I repeat.
     - And I love you, - says Vika.
     A wonderful city Lorien is, nobody laughs at the Human and the Elf that
hug each other by the city gates.


     It's good to walk along the winter road if the whole army marched there
before you. The snow is tread down well, it's impossible to get lost. Tokens
of noisy, incoherent and fussy life can be seen everywhere.
     A pine  tree,  with arrows poking out of it. Either a spy was suspected
by the Elves or  they just argued whose eyes are keener  and  whose  hand is
stronger. Most likely the latter.
     The traces leading a bit to the side, two  piles of  tobacco ashes. One
can just see  two leaders stepped away to have a pipe while the army marches
by. One of them was a wizard with a staff  and the other - a warrior  with a
sword. Here are the traces: the round one of the staff and the narrow one of
the sword sheath.
     Here was a short stop, the snow is well tread to the left from the road
and just lightly  touched to the right. Oh  sure, the Elves step  so lightly
that the snow holds them. So here two parts  of the  army were instructed by
their leaders.
     The  five mile  way  would be  long  in the  real  world.  Fortunately,
role-players  are not millionaires to spend months  reaching their  enemies.
The road falls under our feet  miraculously  fast. Maybe role-players agreed
to consider it an action of the spell...
     We ascend to  the  cliffs and  start circling along  the  path. Several
times  it  seems to me that I  recognize  the  place where I was scaring the
hobbit  but  it always turns out that I'm  wrong. The road was created  in a
hack-workers' way, assembled from repeating elements.
     Finally Vika notices the tracks going into the fir grove from the road.
Not well enough did  we hide Unfortunate, any fighter lagging after the army
would notice him. Without an agreement we walk faster, what if he's not here
already?
     But Unfortunate  is there  and  even not alone. He sits leaning against
the tree trunk and tells something to  the  hobbit, drinking from the flask.
The hobbit, squatted against Unfortunate laughs  effusively. Noticing us, he
jumps up and grabs his little dagger.
     Just look at him... this kid can be brave, at least when a helpless guy
is behind his back.
     - We're friends! - says Vika raising her hands. - We came with peace!
     - I'm Elenium  the Healer, - I support  her. Will Unfortunate recognize
us I wonder?
     - Hi Lenia, - he says with a smile.
     - I'm Harding! - informs us the hobbit hiding his dagger, - Haven't you
seen Conan around? A tall guy with a fiery sword?
     - That Conan  have  robbed the kid, -  says Unfortunate very seriously,
only his eyes are smiling.
     - No, he's not  that bad! - the hobbit defends his offender suddenly, -
He then left all my supplies to Alien {<i>exactly this word is in the original,
but in Russian transcription</i>}, he understood he needs them more!
     - To whom? - me and Vika ask together.
     - To Alien...  - repeats the hobbit not  suspecting anything, - To him.
He broke his leg.
     How interesting.
     I approach Unfortunate and undo the cast on his leg, then shake out the
contents of my bag to the snow. I don't have a  slightest idea about  how to
heal in this imaginary world.
     - So your name is Alien? - I ask. Unfortunate keeps silence.
     I open one of the jars, the stinky green ointment is inside. I  roll up
the  trouser-leg  and  spread it  along  Unfortunate's leg.  After  a little
thinking I also stick several dry leaves on top of it and declare:
     - The fracture will heal in five minutes.
     The situation is absolutely simple. I'm able to heal the wounds in this
world. Unfortunate appeared here with an injured limb. Now, when I opened my
bag and  spent  some  of  its  contents  for Unfortunate, the  computer that
supports  Lorien and its suburbs must restore the functioning  of  the drawn
body.
     - What if it doesn't work? - asks Harding curiously.
     - Then we'll carry your... hm... friend to the city.
     - Thanks, - says the hobbit sincerely, - I have only 3 strength points,
I wouldn't be able to lift him.
     He hesitates for a moment, then asks:
     - Will you manage it alone?
     - Sure.
     - Then I'll run, okay? Back to the city... I was here for so long, will
be punished for that.
     Surely a kid.
     - Okay... Run, - I say  feeling conscience-stricken.  Harding trots  to
the path, then shouts:
     - But beware of Conan! Just in case...
     Vika whispers in my ear:
     - Conan the Victor over Hobbits!
     - Cut this out, - I ask, - It's shameful enough already...
     We  wait  for several minutes  in silence,  postponing  the  talk  with
Unfortunate. We need to wait for the healing results first.
     - Okay, stand up, - commands Vika.
     Unfortunate  leans on the  leg, unsure, rises a little, makes one step,
another...
     - Does it hurt? - I ask with curiosity of the real doctor.
     He shakes his head.
     - Then let's go to the city.
     - And what's then? - Unfortunate squints his eyes at Vika, but  she  is
silent, I have to reply:
     - Then  you'll have to make  your choice after all. We  don't  have any
more time for riddles.

     One can't call the return to Lorien a triumphant one. The guards by the
gates look at  us disdainfully - we have  left two hours  ago and  obviously
didn't catch up with the army. There's  no malicious phrases  though,  but I
decide to explain anyway:
     - He convinced us to train more, - I nod at Unfortunate, - Not too much
use from us yet.
     An  explanation not  worse than any other. Let them think of  us  as of
newbies, too self assured in the beginning but repented in time.
     - Is this Lorien? - asks  Unfortunate while we drag ourselves along the
snow-white trees tangled by stairs like Christmas trees with garlands.
     -  Exactly. Now  we'll exit  to the  street and  will finally  fix  our
business. - I throw carelessly.
     - I can't explain anything anyway, - says Unfortunate.
     - Then we'll part.  We'll  part  forever, man. -  I don't lie and don't
blackmail him. I  need to hide, a long and  boring  task.  To hide  in small
one-horse towns  where calculators  are called computers, and Vika needs  to
restore her business.
     Vika  looks at me askance but  stays silent. She  understands, she knew
that I'll have to leave.
     Unfortunate raises his head and looks into the sky pierced by mallorns.
     - You can stay here if you  want, you don't have to pay phone bills, do
you? - I ask.
     - No.
     - ... And neither have you to exit into reality to have a snack.
     He remains silent.
     - You'll earn  a  thousand points, will become cool and respected, -  I
reason  aloud, - Some time I'll come here,  will knock quietly and ask: "How
can I find the wise Alien?".  And  maybe then you'll  take a risk to tell me
the truth.
     - I don't have too much time either, Leonid.
     - Oh come on! What does a couple of years mean to you... after hundreds
of years ... of silence?
     Unfortunate stops, we gaze into each other's eyes.
     - Hey  guys, it looks like I became the  less informed in  our  company
suddenly. - says Vika.
     -  Everything is simple,  Vika.  Very  simple. When you cast  aside the
impossible, then unbelievable becomes the truth.
     Even Unfortunate is in disarray.
     There's still something missing  in that  long chain of conditions that
would allow him to talk.
     - Let's  go,  -  I ask, -  Let's not confuse poor Elves... we'll  never
become a part of their tale.
     The exit from Lorien  is through the same  gateway,  only this time the
gatekeeper doesn't bug us with his questions.
     - Make your decision Unfortunate, - I say opening the  door,  - I'm not
joking, I'm really tired of these riddles.
     Only  exiting into  the street I understand  that it'll be me to decide
anyway.

     Man Without Face stands five away meters  or so, with hands  crossed on
his  chest, gazing at us with the  fog  from beneath  ash-colored  hair, the
black cloak spread above the dirty pavement. And he's not alone.
     Three bodyguards stand behind his back, two  more fly in the air a  bit
further. Their flight isn't made as ironically  as  Zuko's winged slippers -
droning jet knapsacks  are  behind their  backs.  They are  not high, just a
couple of  meters  above the ground and the whole scene reminds me  of  some
ancient, pre-virtual era game...
     - Bravo, diver, - says Man Without Face.
     Vika is the first one to come to herself.
     -  Were it  your  assholes  who  ruined my  institution?  -  she starts
aggressively.
     The fog above the cloak's collar waves slightly.
     - Check your account baby and then decide whether you have any right to
feel hurt.
     Another move - the nonexistent face turned towards me.
     - The warehouse where we had our talk is located at 42 Nukem Street. Go
and take what was promised to you.
     How dashingly. A whip and a cookie. A very sweet cookie.
     Man  Without  Face  steps  forward  and  stretches  his  hand   towards
Unfortunate.
     - Let's go, we have a lot to discuss. I know who you are.
     Unfortunate doesn't move.
     - We can make a deal. We must make a deal. I don't know what conditions
do you have, but everything can be decided... -  whispers Man  Without  Face
ingratiatingly.  He doesn't  look  at  us, we're bought  and swept from  the
gameboard.
     That's what he thinks of course.
     -  You  haven't been to Russia  for too long,  Dima, -  I say  and  Man
Without Face freezes, - You can hang your medal above the toilet bowl.
     - You want to say your not for sale, Leonid?
     We're even, he knows my name too, and maybe even my address as well.
     - Yes.
     - Don't go  suicidal.  I prefer to pay well for the job  well done, and
learned that not in Russia by the way.
     - I didn't work for you. And you're risking as well.
     - How comes, I wonder?
     - What if  I tell Urman  about  you?  To Friedrich Urman himself? He is
very anxious to join the mystery too.
     Man Without Face laughs.
     - Diver, you're just plain  stupid! To Urman himself? None of  the guys
of his rank ever does business in virtuality personally. The aides exist for
that: the secretaries, twins, facsimiles if  you want, the very well trained
aides... The ones intended for doing business in virtuality.
     I hold the blow. The slap is good, I never suspected such subtleties. I
thought that the businessmen should aspire  into the Deep as passionately as
any ordinary man. But I hold the blow, I don't have another choice.
     - What's the difference, Dibenko? I can report you to Al-Kabar, but you
can't do anything to me, I'm diver.
     - Even divers have their weak spots.
     He's bluffing, he must be bluffing. I turn to Unfortunate and ask:
     - Do you want to go with him?
     - It's for you to decide, - says Unfortunate. He's the only one now who
doesn't  have a single  bit of fear. He, and also those Dibenko's  gorillas,
but in their case the reason for that is different.
     - We're leaving, - I say  and take Unfortunate's hand. As strange as it
might  seem, but I'm sure  that  Dibenko won't stop us.  He's  not an idiot,
after all! If he just understands what's going on...
     - Kill those two, - orders Man Without Face.
     We're  standing too  close to each other and  the  guards  don't shoot.
Looks like they are  ordered to  keep Unfortunate safe no  matter  what. The
couple in the air just continues to fly, but those three on the ground storm
towards us.
     Do unarmed  people  need  much? Just  several  machine gun  butt hits -
several  viruses  thrust  into our machines -  and  we'll disappear from the
battlefield. Maybe the brave Elves of Lorien are now watching us through the
blind wall, but they won't meddle, they have enough of their own bravery and
battles.
     But it turns out that not only the Elves are watching us.
     I duck the first blow, trip the guard up  and  he falls. They  have  to
play according to the common rules in Deeptown... I'm trying to snatch out a
machine gun  from  him in a weak hope that  this virus set was created as an
autonomous file object...
     ... A  long grey shadow jumps down from the roof of the Elvish hut. The
wolf knocks down one of the flying bodyguards and drops him on  the pavement
as  easily as a  cardboard puppet. One click of his jaws and  the  man stays
motionless. The wolf jumps aside, and right in time: the second flyer starts
shooting at  him. Bullets pierce  the indifferent body that  starts to float
up: the knapsack is still working. The wolf rushes to us.
     Man Without Face steps out  from his way in fluid  motion but  the wolf
was not going after him, he bites into  the  throat of one of our opponents.
The time seems to slow down, I see how the third bodyguard fights with Vika,
and I throw my opponent on him.
     The wolf bites through the  bodyguard's neck  in an instant and pounces
on the remaining  pair. The  werewolf is too  excited  to imitate  the  pure
wolf's behavior  - he rips his enemies with teeth and batters them with paws
in a cat-like manner. The greenish sparkling dust pours from his claws - the
virus weapons have entered the battle.
     The machine gun  lies  by my feet, I pick it up but the program has the
user  detector of course, the trigger is fixed under my finger. I just throw
the  weapon at the  guard who  flies  towards  us, and  he  starts  to shoot
reflectively - too fast and incoherent reaction, and also  the dangerous one
in this case. The volley hits the machine gun that rotates  in the  air  and
the battle program's security fails. An explosion - the whole virus  package
gathered in the machine gun image, works simultaneously.  The poor flyer  is
the closest one  to  this  bloody mess - and he gets it all.  He  flames  up
disintegrating into formless pieces right into the air.
     - Run! -  growls  the wolf, jumping up  from the motionless bodies, the
bloody saliva  drips  from  his  fangs, the fur  stands on  its ends. I step
towards Romka, pat him on the back and whisper - "thanks."
     Man  Without  Face  is  the  last one  alive, he  stands  there quietly
watching the demise of his guards.
     - Run! - the Wolf growls again, not averting his glare from Dibenko.
     -  The  Fellowship of divers?  - says Man  Without  Face mockingly, - I
never expected that.
     He's too  calm. I nod to Vika and Unfortunate and obediently they start
retreating.  Me and  Roman  stay  - two  against  one. But  this one  is too
unruffled.
     - Again I suggest you to bethink yourself Leonid, - says Dibenko to me.
     - Get  out of here, will you?!  - hisses  the  wolf glaring at me  with
greenish human eyes and leaps on Man Without Face.
     A nice leap, this time even quicker and more accurate than the previous
one from the roof. The jaws click squeezing Dibenko's neck, forepaws scratch
his chest. Now,  standing on his hindpaws,  the wolf is  much higher than  a
human.
     - You sucker, - says Man Without Face.
     He lifts  the wolf by  the scruff with  one  hand and  throws him  back
towards the Elvish hut.  The blow is so hard that the wall gives way and the
wolf almost flies into the corridor, but jumps back up immediately and leaps
on  Dibenko again. The blow wasn't just a blow - the wolf's hide flames with
a pale glow. The virus was stuck in Romka after all. He must have turned all
the security off for the sake of speed and accuracy. But even now, when  the
virus is mincing his computer, he still fights.
     I run. Everything else is  not important. Romka was watching me -  just
how did  he manage? He lunged into this fight to give me the chance and it's
stupid to lose it.
     Vika  stops  Deep-Transit's  cab  ten meters further  down  the street,
pushes Unfortunate inside  and waves her hand  to me. Then her face distorts
in terror.
     A disappearing howl of  pain scratches my  ears from behind and in  the
next moment  Man Without Face grabs  me  by the  shoulder. It's too hard  to
compete  in  speed  with somebody  who has 'octium''s  prototype as  a  home
computer.  One blow  -  and I fall  on the  pavement.  Man Without Face  who
invented the Deep, leans over me.
     - I was patient, - he says.
     I spit into  the grey foggy mask, just a symbolic gesture - the ability
to spit is  not implemented into the virtual body.  I'll have to make a hint
for Computer Wiz...
     Dibenko moves his hand along the face as if wiping the spit off, but in
fact he's not that squeamish: his fingers scoop a handful  of fog and form a
sort of a snowball, looking as if made of a dirty city snow.
     - Get it diver. Happy dreams to you.
     Then  the snowball flies towards  my  face,  unwrapping into an endless
cloth.  It's  not  gray  anymore  -  it's colorful,  sparkling,  reflecting,
cheerful  and  pattern-covered.  Too   late  I  understand  what  does  this
colorfulness remind me.
     Abyss-abyss...
     Too late.
     Deep-program covers me and there's no strength to duck it.
     Abyss-abyss...
     The  cloth still burns and doesn't seem to  fade as the  honest  lawful
deep-program should...
     Abyss-abyss...
     I  dive deeper and deeper, I fall  into  this  colorful chasm, into the
endless chain  of false reflections, into  the colorful  labyrinth, into the
madness and unconsciousness.
     There's no timer on my machine and nobody will come to my door with the
key.
     Abyss-abyss...
     I can't surface as fast as the colorful whirl pulls me down!
     Abyss-abyss...


     Composure first of all.
     As I heard, it's a favorite saying of some of our cosmonauts,  but just
who remembers the heroes of the past days now?
     Composure.
     The panic kills faster than the bullet.
     The endless kaleidoscope surrounds me: the rainbow, the  fireworks, the
working deep-program. How simple - and unexpected. The diver can surface but
what would he do if the water comes in faster than he swims up?
     I don't know yet.
     I make a  step and succeed as strange as it might  seem. The world have
lost  its  reality,  turned into  the  mad abstract artist's  painting.  The
swirling orange band flies by, curls into the  ring,  tries to tie around my
head. I tear it off: I can't see my hands, but the band flies aside as if in
hurt  feelings. The  small  fountains  of  white  dust  rise  from under  my
invisible feet, an emerald rain starts falling, each drop is a tiny crystal,
painfully stinging the body.
     And the silence, a dead silence, almost the one Unfortunate was talking
about...
     Be calm.
     Where  am I now? Walk along Deeptown's streets with outstretched  hands
and  looking  forward blindly?  Or fell  down  somewhere into the  depth  of
Dibenko's computer? Or maybe I'm spread  throughout the whole  Net like some
mythical character?
     Be calm.
     First of all, I'm at home. I'm  at home, before my old computer, in the
helmet and  the suit. The keyboard is somewhere before me,  the mouse to the
right. If to grope the keys and to enter the exit command manually...
     No, it's impossible, and not just because I won't feel the keys beneath
my fingers.  My  consciousness got used to  just  imitate the movements long
time ago: I don't stretch my hand, but just jerk it weakly, I don't jump but
just raise from the chair a  little, not  walk  but  move my  feet under the
table. Illusions. The Deep.
     -  Vika!  -  I  say,  -  Vika! Exit  from virtuality!  Vika,  I  cancel
immersion! Exit!
     No effect.
     I took the possibility to communicate  with Windows-Home from the  Deep
for granted, to download and to transfer files, to exit the Deep, to inquire
about the machine resources. If it were so simple... there wouldn't  be  any
need for divers. Now, in the common virtual dweller's hide I'm in the common
rights.
     I can't feel the real world.
     I can't cry for help.
     I'm drowning.
     Be calm!
     I try to  take off the helmet that I can't feel.  Useless. I  run, pull
away hoping to tear the wires. Hardly have I moved even a bit.
     I close my eyes. I need to switch off from the deep-program, not to see
it, not to dive deeper.
     Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours, let me go...
     I repeat this hundreds of times - the poor pupil in the diver's school,
dolefully writing the same sentence in the notebook over and over again.
     Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours, let me go...
     Nothing changes.
     There, in the infinitely far real world, my motionless body sits by the
computer and the deadly rainbows reflect in my opened eyes.
     Dibenko have got me.
     Did he invent this trap accidentally, trying to learn  how  to surface,
to invent  the life-buoy but actually invented the  cement bowl  attached to
the feet instead? Or  was it  exactly what he wanted to do: not to  pull all
virtuality  dwellers to the  divers'  level but to  descend us to the common
one?
     Maybe I'll never know that.
     What happened to Romka? Did Vika  have time to jump into the car  or is
she  wandering  in  the colorful snowstorm too  while Unfortunate walks away
with Dibenko, silent and submissive?
     I need to return to find out.
     The world around calms down  a bit. Either the color  storm gained some
system or I got accustomed to my surroundings. Let's assume that the emerald
rain falls from  above,  so  I  now have one  reference point. Let's try  to
walk... slowly, easily... to that stubborn orange band  for instance that is
still fidgeting there before me.
     The band lets me to come close, then flies away. I have time to  notice
that the emerald rain tattered its edges. The orange band is curled into the
Moebius  ring, as if it's... it's independent from  the space that surrounds
it!
     Looks a bit too intricate for the deep-program...
     I move  towards the band again - and again it doesn't  let  me touch it
and flies away.
     What's going  on anyway? Have this mad world formed around me or  is it
just a trick of my own subconsciousness?
     I follow the  band, any direction can be correct - if  directions exist
here  at all.  The rain  thickens, the crystals become thinner turning  into
needles. I lower my head to protect the eyes and keep walking. I like what's
going on for some reason: somebody fights with somebody.
     It means I have a chance.
     Neither distance nor time here, all measures are merged. Maybe one hour
have passed, maybe three kilometers.
     Maybe the madness have come.
     The band soars ahead but  its movements are slower and less  sure. It's
just an orange rag now,  tattered by the rain. The  last leap - and it falls
down raising the geyser of white dust.
     Is it over?
     I  stand over remains of my strange  guide. What  now?  No more guiding
line. I close  my eyes - and hear a weak distant sound. Deep program doesn't
work  with  sounds!  They say,  or maybe  these are just  rumors, that  Dima
Dibenko's computer didn't have a sound card.
     I keep walking.
     The sound becomes louder but  not clearer. The forest stream can babble
like  this, or the distant surf, or the candle flame. Whatever, even if it's
an echo of the Big Bang! I need this sound, this lack of silence!
     One step, another.
     Even through the closed eyelids I can feel that something have changed.
     I open my eyes. The  world's colors seem to be faded. The emerald  rain
have lost  its  brightness, became pale: not gems but dirty  bottle glass is
pouring down from the sky. The white dust under my feet is barely seen.
     And the blue star is shining ahead. A splinter of the blue sky.
     Either it became  bigger or  I  grew smaller, but  the  sparkling  blue
sphere  is right above  me now.  I stretch my hands touching warm  rays, and
fall into the star.

     The wind.
     The cold wind blows into my face.
     I rose from the snow-covered ground. Wherever I look - the  plain, flat
as a table, no horizon can  be seen. The sky is covered with orange tangling
threads, a blue light streams  through them. And also -  foggy jets  flowing
above the ground, changing  brightness and density,  flying against the wind
and soaring up to the orange mesh of the sky.
     I shook the snow from my knees  and looked at my hand. A strange snow -
crystals  are  too big, friable  and  not sticking together. They hiss on my
hand and fly away in a light smoke.
     - I'm glad you came Lenia, - says Unfortunate from behind.
     I didn't have time to turn around, he almost shouted:
     - No... don't!
     The plain  enveloped  in fog, the  cold  wind,  the  crumbly snow...  I
swallowed the lump that stuck in my throat:
     - Unfortunate... thank you.
     - I  had to help, - he replied very  seriously, - At  least to try. You
rescued me after all.
     - Not very successfully...
     - But you've led me out. I felt bad there...
     - I  can guess that. But you could pass "Labyrinth" in an hour... in 10
minutes.
     - Lenia...
     - You could just exit, or could beat all the records.
     - No, I couldn't.
     - But why?
     - Haven't you understood yet? - surprise showed in his voice.
     - You didn't want to kill?
     - Yes.
     - But all that wasn't for real!
     - For you.
     - I won't ever be able to be like you.
     - But this isn't necessary at all, Gunslinger.
     - You know, - I  said fighting the  temptation to turn around, -  Once,
for  just  a second  it  seemed to me...  only  for a  second... that you're
Messiah. Do you understand?
     Unfortunate is very serious.
     -  No Leonid. I wouldn't like to be your God. Neither of those that you
created. They are too cruel.
     - Just as we are.
     - Just as you are, - echoed Unfortunate with sadness in his voice.
     - Is it a dream? - I asked after a while, - Everything I see around?
     He was silent for very long, the one behind my back who asked me not to
turn around.
     - No Lenia. Even if it is, it's not yours.
     I understood.
     - Thank you.
     I wasn't cold, maybe because he wanted so. The gray grained snow didn't
burn me, and neither  did foggy jets. Maybe  it  was  easy  for  him,  maybe
required an enormous effort? I don't know.
     - Did you have time to escape? - I asked.
     - Yes. We're driving through the city now. Vika gives one address after
another to the driver... Looks like she doesn't know what to do.
     Unfortunate paused for a moment, then added:
     - And she's crying also.
     Orange bands whirl in the sky, an eternal dance below the hot blue sun.
Maybe it's beautiful after all...
     - Tell her I'm alright.
     - Is it true?
     - I don't know. Will you help me to get out of here?
     Unfortunate didn't answer.
     - Will I be able to get out?
     - Yes. Probably.
     - Tell Vika that everything is alright.
     - She won't believe me.
     -  She will.  She  have almost understood  too. Tell her that there's a
"Polyana" company in the Russian district of Deeptown. It owns just a single
house, a kind of dull concrete 12- story building. Wait for me there, by the
second doorway, in exactly one hour.
     - Anything else, Leonid?
     - No. That's all.
     -  It'll be very  hard,  Gunslinger. -  Unfortunate stammers, -  You're
accustomed to fight the Deep. The force and the push. You're a good swimmer,
you always managed to surface from the whirlpool. But now it won't work.
     - Aren't you accustomed to rely on the force?
     - Depending on what force, Gunslinger...
     Something  touched  my  shoulder  lightly,  either  in  parting  or  to
reassure.
     And then the orange threaded sky fell on the snow covered ground...

     I  rise  -  in droplets of colors, in kaleidoscope of sparks. The  deep
program works. I still can't see my body.
     Only a faint memory of the touch lives in me.
     I  still remember that  world,  I'm  still living there,  in  an  alien
distant dream...
     - What  the hell are you doing,  Dibenko? - I  whisper  into the  crazy
silence. - We can't... we can't treat him our way.
     He can't hear  me,  the  accidental  creator of the  virtual world,  he
continues his pursuit  after Unfortunate, a  hunt for the miracle but I must
find him to explain how wrong he is...
     I  close my  eyes and  stretch my hands to the sides. Colorful  flashes
behind closed eyelids - the deep program continues to envelope my brains.
     First of all - be calm. There's nothing demonic in it, it's a sparkling
trinket,  the  one that hypnotizers rotated  before their patients'  eyes  -
that's what the deep program is. A trinket of the electronic age. There's no
border between the dream and the dream within the  dream. It's me who builds
these barriers, who convinces himself that he's drowning.
     But now - it's time to surface.
     - Abyss... - I whisper almost tenderly, - Abyss-abyss...
     We were building it, placing bricks of computers on the cement of phone
lines. We raised a huge city. The city that has neither good nor bad in it -
not until we come.
     It was hard for  us in the present.  There, where the passion  of  many
days of somebody's program cracking and of many months of writing our own is
not understood. There, where they talk not about falling prices for a Meg of
RAM, but about rising  prices for bread. In the world where the killings are
real. In the world where it's so hard for the sinners and the saints and the
common people alike.
     We built our own city that doesn't know borders,  we believed  in  it's
being real.
     Time to surface.
     We wanted  miracles and  we inhabited Deeptown  with  them. The  Elvish
glades  and Martian deserts, labyrinths  and  cathedrals, far-away stars and
sea depths, a place was found for everything.
     But now - it's time to surface.
     We  got tired to  believe  in kindness  and  love,  we  wrote the  word
'freedom'  on our  banner  believing in  our naivety  that  the  freedom  is
superior to love.
     Time to grow up.
     - Let me go, abyss, - I ask, - Abyss-abyss... I'm yours.



<ul><a name=48></a><h2> * PART 5. Unfortunate * </h2></ul>


     In the beginning - it is dark.
     All the colors of the world have gone in an instant.
     I  didn't  notice  when and how it  happened. The deep program just was
here, but now there's nothing at all.
     Maybe this is how divers die, falling to the very bottom of the virtual
space, burning down their brains and not perceiving anything anymore?
     But the  darkness  fractions into  the  mesh  of tiny squares,  changes
brightness and colors return.
     I'm standing with  my forehead pressed against the wall, the drawn wall
of the drawn house.
     Weird. Looks  like I've  entered the virtual space  without turning the
deep program on at all, but  I'm  not  just looking on the helmet's screens,
I'm kinda really here!  It's just the  world  isn't real anymore, it  became
drawn and cartoon-like.
     I step back from the wall, squares merge turning into brown rectangles:
bricks. I look at  the sky - dark bluishness with  sparse stars. Houses  and
palaces are  lined  along the  street, looking  like kids'  drawings:  sharp
contours filled with colors. This little house is the  brick one, this fence
is  wooden, fur  trees in the garden... Steel  tubes  with yellow patches on
their spikes  are stuck along the  street - lampposts... Fake,  just a fake.
More  decent  parts of the city are drawn  better but  I'm somewhere in  the
suburbs  now,  the  world  around  was created with  simple  programs and is
maintained by weak servers.
     But the funniest thing is that I'm quite real myself! The  shirt sleeve
torn in the fight, scratched hands... I raise my hand closer to the eyes and
can  see  every  hair, a  dirt  under  nails  and the  skin  bruised against
fingerbones.
     A real human in the cartoon.
     I  start  to shiver. This  is something new, it never  happened before.
What did the deep program do to me, been run a thousand times? What did I do
to it when surfaced from insanity?
     The  sound  flows  closer from  behind. I turn around and see  the  bus
moving along the street: a huge two  storey rattletrap, made of glass almost
completely.  The  bus  is  drawn pretty  thoroughly,  even  its  wheels  are
rotating. Caricature faces  are glued to the windows: kids, adults,  elders.
The Deep-Transit's emblem is on the bus' side.
     I just stand, gasping for  air,  looking at the motionless faces. Well,
why would they  be different - mimicry can be expressed only  by  very good,
tuned programs, aimed for the single user. These are just tourists.
     The  bus  stops, the  people exit it  awkwardly,  an elegant  gentleman
dressed in bright- red overalls is  in front: the guide. All men are dressed
absolutely the same in suits with ties, just a single black guy in the group
is in jeans and t-shirt. All faces  are indifferently  well-  shaped, like a
second  line  villains'  in  kids'  cartoon  series. The women  are  all  in
luxurious dresses, much better worked out than their faces, wearing jewelry.
Also a flock of kids with cartoony big  eyes and a  group of  elder men  and
women dressed in blinkers and with cameras. The guy in the wheelchair is the
last to exit the bus with the help of others.
     - Hi! - shouts the guide to me and waves his hand.  His mouth opens but
no mimicry can be seen either.
     -  Hello...  - I  force  out  a  smile  and the  satisfied Deep-Transit
employee turns to his wards:
     - What attracts you most... {<i>In English in the original</i>}
     I hear a slight hissing and the  guide's voice  becomes barely heard. A
dry, vaguely familiar voice drowns it:
     - What you interests most in this district  Deeptown? We  can see  good
known... - a pause, - famous,  renowned center of  book selling, where  they
will offer  to your  attention any  literature... - a  pause, -  any  books,
magazines, newspapers, paper media published since...
     I blink as  a kid who ripped open his beloved teddy bear to find soiled
rags, crumpled  paper  and somebody's dirty sock inside. Gee,  and  I valued
Windows-Home's interpreter  program  so  high!  I  was amazed  how  fast and
correctly  does  it translate  from  any of  the  five  official  Deeptown's
languages!
     Yeah, fast is true,  but all correctness is ensured by  our own  brains
only, as it picks adequate words from the mess.
     - Also there are, located,  known, popular restaurants "Arthur's Sword"
and "Four- Ten". If we walk  on  forty-three street  hundred meters  or  bit
more, then we will come to place of entertainment for grown-ups, adults.
     A slight noise in  the  tourists' crowd, one  should assume  that  they
smiled.
     - You have two hours of free time, - declares the guide.
     I think I know where am I.  That faceless gray dome nearby  is "famous,
renowned"  book  center  named after some American  president. If I'm on the
43rd street, then I'm on the opposite side  of the city. What a walk! I look
at the watch, scared, and the panic fades, we  left the Elvish realm only 20
minutes ago!
     The tourists  wander away:  the  couples  to restaurants,  singles - to
adults' entertainment places mostly. The guy in the wheelchair together with
the grey-haired lady and the black guy rolls  away towards the book  center.
The guide gets the cigar of a considerable size, definitely not the cheapest
one, drawn better than his face, bites off its end and lights it, then moves
towards me.
     Will it be always like this now?
     Is this a kind of victory over the Deep that I wanted?
     No.
     I'd rather be deceived further, seeing the city and  the people instead
of the  mixture of kid's drawing and the primitive cartoon. I'm not a  judge
for this world, and neither am I an  indifferent watcher from  aside.  I'm a
part of the Deep, flesh of Deeptown's flesh...
     I  hide  my face  in my hands, looking into the darkness, I don't  know
whom I should ask, the Deep or myself, but I ask anyway.
     Be myself, Abyss...
     - Have a cigar, fellow, - says the guide friendly. He smiles, opening a
cigar case for me. The collar of the red overalls is unbuttoned, the pen cap
and the  notebook stick out from  the pocket.  I can bet they weren't  there
before. His face  is open, kind and attractive, just as it must be for a guy
who shows the Deep to inexperienced newbies.
     - Thanks, I don't smoke...
     Everything is normal, just as before. Even better.
     I'm yours, Abyss, I can be  the real human in the real Deeptown  or the
real one in cartoony  city.  Maybe I even can be the drawing  walking  among
real inhabitants.
     Thanks,  dear Dima  Dibenko. You wanted to  throw me out of the game or
maybe even to kill me, but something  have gone wrong. I even can guess what
exactly.  Unfortunate have  helped  me after  all,  he  gave me part  of the
strength that he has. So my sincere thanks go to him.
     - Ah well, as  you  wish, - the guide doesn't feel hurt by my rejection
and hides the cigar case into his pocket. - You're an old timer here, right?
     - Right, - I confess.
     - I'm  Kirk, - the man introduces himself, - Don't I really  look  like
him?
     He probably means  some  play's or  folklore  character?  I  never  was
inquisitive about the simple American mass-culture.
     - Not really, - I answer randomly.
     - And this is right!  -  Kirk supports me, - The resemblance must be in
your heart!
     He releases a jet of smoke into the sky and  skillfully rolls the cigar
from one corner of his mouth to another.
     -  I'm  from  Seattle, - he decides to  go  on with the talk  even if I
didn't introduce myself in return.
     - And I'm from St. Petersburg.
     Kirk taps my shoulder cheerfully:
     - Yeah! I know, been there!
     I'm pleasantly surprised but his next words disappoint me:
     -  Nice town,  - shares  Kirk  his impressions, - I  had  a  girlfriend
once...  such a severe girl!  And you  know, it so happened, the  carburetor
went down right when we were passing St.  Petersburg one  evening. So we had
to stop for a night.
     He winks to me slyly.
     It'd  be  great  to  visit  Tom  Sawyer's  native  town, but  now  this
self-importance pisses me off.
     - I'm from the different St. Petersburg, the one in Russia.
     - Russia! - Kirk is pleasantly surprised, - There's St. Petersburg too?
     - Yup. And Seattle - where is it? In Canada or Mexico? - I inquire.
     Kirk chews his cigar unable to understand whether I'm kidding or really
don't know such an outstanding city.
     - It's in America!
     - Which one, South or Latin?
     No,  even  if he's  a typical  and  real  American,  he's  a  nice  guy
nevertheless, he laughs and slightly pushes me on the stomach.
     - Great! Cool! I'll visit you, later. I'm planning to visit Europe when
I'm 45, will go see your city too!
     - Sure. You're welcome to.
     I'm  so  exhausted  by  the deep program  that stand here  and  eagerly
support this ridiculous talk.
     - I'm giving a ride  around to the tourists, - Kirk goes on, - father's
business. It's great!  Today we  were going through the  city, one girl kept
asking to show her the diver. I pointed at one  guy outside, said, "Diver!".
They almost overturned the bus when all of them rushed to that side to look.
     We laugh together.
     - We seldom come here, - Kirk smooches his cigar, - But Sam kept asking
to show  him the book  center, se we decided to stop here... not too far for
him to go, and also restaurants are close...  and stuff... Sam is the one in
jeans and t-shirt...
     - Huh? That black one?
     Kirk chokes on  his cigar from  such an outrageous racism. How dare one
to call the black one - black!
     - Well, I have to go, business... - he mumbles and quickly moves to the
bus without saying goodbye. I just shrug. Oh citizens of the mighty country,
if you just could realize how ridiculous and stupid your complexes are!
     But  it's time  for me to  go too. I  raise my hand and the cab readily
appears from around the corner.
     - Deep-Transit welcomes you! - says the driver. As if purposefully he's
black and I laugh quietly, getting into the car.


     The drive takes quite long,  Deep-Transit connects to "Polyana" company
through  quite a bunch of intermediate hosts. My computer  is  not  powerful
enough to  support appropriately the whole house where I  rent an  apartment
from myself, so "Polyana" is hosted by someone's rental server, somewhere in
Byelorussia I suppose. It's  not too expensive and I ain't gonna change this
order even when I buy a real machine instead of my current Pentium.
     On my way  I have fun making the world around drawn and real  in turns.
Now  I succeed  in  this  without effort. Even more - I can change the space
perception in fragments. A drawn car passes our real one. A real girl  walks
along  the drawn street. Two guys stand chatting: one is real, another one -
cartoony.
     Even if it's insanity, I really like it.
     I make the Volvo I'm  riding  in  drawn and  pull my  hand through  the
window. A slight pressure on my skin - and the hand feels the wind outside.
     Fantastic!
     The world around belongs  to foreign  servers,  I'm just passing  here,
maybe it's even impossible to get here  by an ordinary means... while at any
moment I  can  exit, fall  from the speeding  car.  Something have  shifted,
messed up. I don't dive into the Deep anymore, I really live in here!
     In a  block  from  my  house I  ask  the  driver  to stop.  I know this
neighborhood  very well, it belongs to the couple of big  Russian banks, not
officially  of  course.  Financiers  don't   see   any  real  use  of   such
'investments', but the programmers working for the banks had  set a dwelling
here on their companies' expense. What boss  from 'New Russians'  would ever
find out that his computers don't  only make debit to meet credit, but  also
support a part of Deeptown's territory?
     It's the best place to test the newly acquired abilities.
     Lots  of  people hovers about  here:  it's  the  downtown,  both living
quarters and entertainment centers are pretty close. I walk along the street
looking for more or less quiet corner.
     This  one  looks okay: a tiny park with small fountain  and a couple of
benches, attached  to a  blind  wall of the highrise,  made simply but  with
taste. Ignoring the sign "No dogs allowed!", a red haired girl  walks on the
grass with a kitten in the lead. Hm, well, pretty logical  - the ban  is not
for them. The kitten is  obviously pissed by the nasty lead, he  stops  from
time to time and  tries to tear it  off with a paw. I smile in return to the
strict girl's look and make her drawn in a moment effort.  The  kitten stays
real, he's sunny-red, just as his mistress, quick and fidgety.
     Virtual pets is one of the most  profitable businesses in Deeptown, the
second after computer games of course. The  Japanese  love  to keep those  -
maybe  because it's impossible  to keep  the  real ones  in their pencil-box
apartments? Also  those pets  are being bought by those poor  ones who  love
cats and dogs but suffer from allergies...
     I  sit on the bench, by the couple that  softly whispers to each other,
examine the blind wall listening to the purling of water in the fountain. If
I'm not mistaken, there are  computers of a very well known  bank behind it.
Should I give it a try?
     Ah,  what  the  hell, I'm already charged for millions in  damages, one
wouldn't be sorry about the hair when his head is taken off...
     Calming myself with the splinters from  the people's wisdom treasury, I
still can't make up my mind. The couple is nuzzling not paying any attention
to me.  I hope they are lovers divided  by thousands of kilometers, not just
seekers of safe adventures.
     The  kids  run back  and  forth  along the  wall: a girl and  two boys,
holding color chalks in  their hands  and excitedly  covering the wall  with
graffiti.  I can hear cheerful  shouts: "Hey Janka, Andryushka's monster was
scarier!" ... "Sevka, come on, give me the red chalk, will you?". Looks like
somebody have brought their offspring for  a virtual walk. Finally the  kids
calm down and start  drawing. The girl draws  the samurai with  a sword, the
sword  is  almost  real. Chubby  glasses  bearer Seva runs  along  the  wall
picturing something like a snake  that swallowed an elephant.  But the snake
gets  a barrel  and I  understand that it's  just a tank. Skinny and swarthy
Andrei   diligently   wheezes   drawing   an   impossible   monster.   Maybe
intentionally, maybe he wanted to draw a man...
     I stand up and pad towards the kids.
     - Hey guys, could you draw a door? - I ask all three.
     The  question have  definitely puzzled them, but after  a short  debate
they  start working on  the requested together. The door is being drawn with
excitement, mutual taking of chalks away and arguments  about  whether  they
should draw a keyhole. I wait patiently. Finally the drawing is finished and
the young talents look at me  with  demand: will I appreciate their  work or
not?
     - Cool, - I say honestly, - Thanks a lot!
     The door looks in fact good. It  is drawn right  between the elephant's
trunk...  errr...  the  tank's barrel  and the  samurai's sword.  It  has  a
keyhole, and a handle, and even hinges.
     - You have really helped me out! - I confess.
     The kids wait stubbornly.
     Then I make the street around drawn, make a deep breath, relax and turn
the door into the real one.
     It's just an illusion, not more than an illusion of course...
     I stretch my hand and pull the door towards me, once and again.
     No effect. What was I expecting after all?
     In anger, I kick the real door in the drawn wall and it sweeps open.
     It opens to the inside... Wow, it worked!
     The  kids scream  from  behind, not  scared or  surprised  but  cheered
mostly. Followed by these screams I enter the impenetrable wall.
     And get into the bathhouse.
     The ancient  Romans who  were  real experts  in  this,  along with  the
thrifty  Finnish and heated Russians would  burst  with  envy: it's  a  huge
marble hall, the glass dome above is slightly covered with snow, cold winter
sun beaming through it. A round pool is  in the  center of the hall, a dozen
of men cools down in it. The mountains and a steep slope can be seen through
the windows, several more guys, the boldest ones run down  the slope raising
fountains of  snow dust. The heavy wooden door swings open  and a skinny guy
runs out of the sweating-room with a  scream, dives into the pool and starts
jumping  on  one place raising waves. The bald fat man  wrapped in the sheet
drinks beer by the bar, glancing at the pool with condescension.
     The  urge to drop the  pants and join the  company is big:  what a guys
these bank programmers are, what a cool  ones! They had set themselves quite
well...  I  just wonder,  don't  they get  wet  in  sweat  in  reality while
polishing themselves in the sweating-room with birch besoms?
     And gosh, I've really entered!
     The columns around the pool still  cover myself from the others' looks,
but it won't be for  too long. The dressed guy in  the bathhouse  is a weird
sight. I turn around - the door is gone.
     Ah well, I don't care.
     I enter the wall. The bathhouse is good but I'm interested in something
else. Something that doesn't have any analogies in virtuality at all...
     But it looks I've got into  the  wrong place again:  a gloomy  desolate
quarters, a row of tanks is in the center of it,  the water noisily splashes
in them. Along the row  a conveyor band is crawling, something  looking like
detergent powder  spills into the  tanks from the holes in the  ceiling. All
this looks like some terrible  automated laundry from  an old  sci-fi novel.
I'm  about to move further when one  tank turns over and spills its contents
on the conveyor band.
     Lots of dirty water and a couple of kilograms of money.
     I'm so  shocked  that  jump out  of virtuality even without reciting my
usual rhyme.
     The  numbers were on the helmet's screens, accurate columns of numbers,
tables,  vague  phrases.  I  took the  helmet off.  Sure, why  would  anyone
graphically  picture the process of  money  transfer  or, even  more,  their
laundering? But my  smart subconsciousness  being used to the pictures,  did
it's best!
     The  head  was  aching  badly. Was at a result of  a multiple-time deep
program? Or just a  consequence of that  overstrain that  I experience  now?
What's the difference?
     I took an open pack of Analgin  from the table, looked into the fridge.
One  can of Cola was still there. Choking,  I  chewed the tablets, washed it
down with soda. Bear with it just a  little more  my poor organism, the main
part is still ahead. Before returning to the laundry I glanced to the watch:
a quarter before two. I should munch on something...
     Blades hollowly  bang  in tanks,  laundering  money.  Dollars, Deutsche
marks and roubles crawl along the belt conveyor, I watch  this  endless flow
that has either someone's sweat or blood behind it. What happens if I take a
couple of millions from there? For  some reason I'm sure they will appear on
my account.  Maybe I'll  plug to the isolated bank  network and will type in
the order for money transfer, even not  knowing about that. Maybe the bank's
computers will do all operations themselves, submitting to my will only.
     I'm  not just a thief resistant to the deep's hypnosis anymore, I'm the
deep itself, a part of it...
     I lean  over  and  pick up a 100 dollar note.  It is  even possible  to
remember it's  serial number. It's possible to  do so that it never appeared
here at all according to the bank's documents.
     Everything is possible now - or almost everything.
     I throw the piece of paper back on  the conveyor belt  and  pad to  the
wall. One step - and the world fades, falls down, turns into the flat scheme
under my feet. A huge sheet rolled out into the void, I soar above,  looking
at the threads of the streets.
     Here's my house.
     I dive down to it, pierce the plane of the scheme, feel asphalt beneath
my feet.  No more efforts, no more rhymes and begs to the deep.  I don't ask
my body to breathe after all, do I?
     Vika and Unfortunate stand by  the entrance, talking. Then Vika notices
me and  silences in  confusion. I wave my hand, walk towards  them  and Vika
runs to meet me.



     I shut the door of the entrance and mingle with the lock for some time.
Vika still holds my hand, and it's quite difficult to start security systems
using one hand only. Finally I just order the door to  shut. The lock clicks
and the  light of  the alarm  system starts blinking. Unfortunate raises his
head - looks like he felt something.
     - What  did  he  do to you? - asks Vika. Only  now, when we're isolated
from  the  outer  world  she relaxes  a little.  Probably I wasn't right not
hurrying to her at once.
     - The deep program, -  I find the simple reason, explaining to her what
happened. - The cycling deep program, the endless dive.
     Vika frowns, she understands.
     - It was impossible to surface.
     - But you...
     - ... Found  a detour, - I say glancing at Unfortunate askance. - Vika,
how did it look like from aside?
     - Dibenko threw something at you... - she knits her brow,  remembering,
- Like a handkerchief of some kind... and you fell into it. It looked like a
very powerful virus.
     - What about Romka?
     Vika looks at me in surprise.
     - The wolf. It's Romka, the werewolf diver, my friend.
     - He burned him, down to  ashes.  He just  grabbed  his  throat and  he
blazed up.
     I stay silent, what  can I  say? Visual effects of  the  virus might be
different, the most important thing is how did it influence Romka's machine.
I was always thinking  he has a weak computer, like mine, maybe even without
magnetooptics. If Man Without Face had used a brute-force weapon, Romka will
have to reinstall all soft from scratch.
     - Lenia...
     I nod. It's not the time to express sympathy about others' troubles.
     It's never enough time for that though...
     - Let's go, - I nod to her and Unfortunate. - I live on 11th floor.
     - Who else lives here?
     - Nobody. Now - nobody. - I say squeezing  into the  elevator  cabin. I
push  the button, a jerk and  we crawl up.  Vika  frowns, she  really  fears
heights... even of this type.
     - Did anyone live here before?
     - Well... in some sense,  - I evade her question. The doors open and we
exit to the stairs. Unfortunate looks around curiously.
     - Here's my palace... welcome... - I say unlocking the  apartment, then
add for Unfortunate only, - Returning the visit?
     He nods.
     Vika  enters first, she delays by the threshold as if  thinking whether
she should take off  her shoes or  not.  Sure not  and she understands that.
{<i>When entering  an apartment, Russians usually leave shoes  worn  outside by
the entrance. Special slippers are used inside apartments.</i>}
     - The bathroom-toilet and  the kitchen  are to the right. The room  and
the balcony are to the left. - I inform politely.
     Vika looks into  the room carefully,  her look  slides across the faded
wallpaper,  stops  for  a second  on the  computer table,  sofa,  fridge and
dresser. She's possibly disappointed. Sure!
     - It's strange... - says Vika and I feel that  she exits the deep for a
second and looks at my living place from reality.
     Go ahead... I just don't want to be in your sight at this moment.
     - Let's  go, - I pull Unfortunate's hand. - Want me to teach you how to
brew coffee?
     Unfortunate  walks into  the  kitchen  instead  of  an answer,  quickly
chooses the most  expensive and at the  same  time the  best coffee from the
number of packages, takes the biggest coffee pot and the salt dispenser.
     - A-ha, - I just say.
     - Hundreds  of servers have cooking  recipes, -  notes Unfortunate, - A
girl from Rostov have added one more 5 minutes ago, quite  interesting  one.
Should we risk to try it?
     It would be strange to hope that I can teach him anything. Except maybe
the ability to shoot at people.
     But I doubt this is an ability he'd appreciate.
     - Be at home, - I  just answer  returning to the room. Vika sits on the
sofa examining the bookshelf.
     - I'm back, - I inform her and Vika closes her eyes, just for a moment,
to return into the deep.
     -  It's strange,  - she  repeats. -  Lenia, for some reason  I've  been
expecting...
     - ... To see the palace?
     - No, not necessarily the palace, but at least something...
     - Something like your hut?
     She  nods  silently.  I can  quite understand her  confusion:  she  was
definitely sure I'm  a  spatial designer. But  she  saw a pathetic apartment
instead, even if  well drawn but  definitely not deserving  an honor  to  be
immortalized in virtuality.
     - Follow  me, -  I  say, -  Unfortunate,  we'll leave  for a minute! If
something happens, we're in the stairwell somewhere.
     Vika follows me obediently. It's clean and quiet in  the  stairs. I put
my finger to my lips:
     - Hush... Don't disturb anyone...
     - But you've said there's nobody else in the house... - whispers Vika.
     - But what if not? - I answer mysteriously, pad to the door opposite to
mine and take a piece of bent wire  from my pocket. It's just like I imagine
a picklock. Vika waits, already intrigued.
     I  pick at the wire in the  lock  and of course  it opens. Sure, it was
planned this way... Then we enter.
     It's a  big three  room  apartment {<i>'two bedroom' according to American
standards</i>}.  Some  clothes - jackets and cloaks hang on hooks by the door. A
kid's bicycle is  leaned against  the wall. Footwear is scattered  along the
wall. I give slippers to Vika, change myself and say:
     - It's a habit to change footwear  inside here. The family is big, four
kids, they would take too much dirt from outside... and the floors are cold.
{<i>Floors are almost never carpeted in Russia, they are either painted wood or
vinyl covered. Some  rugs and  carpets  are common but these never cover the
floor completely.</i>}
     Vika stays silent, she have accepted the rules of the game.
     We look into the kitchen - an  old Polish kitchen  furniture is  there,
yet  from the Soviet times,  lots  of  spices' jars, some sorts  of  pickled
veggies and jams  in big cans. The pot  with hot borsch is on the  stove top
together with  a pan  of meat  rissoles. A quiet  green  street can  be seen
outside the window and Vika glues to it instantly. Kids shout outside on the
playground, a woman walks with an old slow poodle just by the doorway.
     - Who lives here? - asks Vika.
     - I know only their names  - Viktor Pavlovich and  Anna Petrovna. Their
older daughter  Lida  finishes high  school, and they also have  three boys:
Oleg, Kostya, Igor'.
     After some hesitation I add:
     - The poodle is named Gerda.  In  general  I don't like when  pets  are
named by human names, but they wanted so.
     - What city is this?
     - Vitebsk. I think it's Vitebsk.
     Vika turns her back to me and says strictly:
     - Don't come into my view.
     For a minute or so  she examines  the kitchen after exiting virtuality.
Then, having dived back, she turns to me and asks:
     - Is it everywhere like this?
     I nod.
     - Masters are absent but their  apartments live, - whispers Vika,  -  A
shirt  on the back  of the chair, toys  scattered  on the  floor,  a leaking
faucet and trash swept under the sofa by the single... Right?
     I keep silence.
     - Len'ka, are you normal at all? - asks Vika quietly,  - I was building
mountains where is no people, where shouldn't be any people...  it's strange
too maybe. I just don't like people too much.
     - Don't lie, - I ask her.
     -  ... And you have built the house  in which nobody will  ever live...
No, the house which is *almost* inhabited: a smoking pipe in the ashtray and
the  hot teapot on the stove... Modular 'Maria Celesta' {<i>kitchen furniture</i>}.
Lenia, what for?
     - I didn't have right to lodge them really, to think out characters and
faces, griefs and  joys. Let it  be  like this... the things only. They also
can tell a lot.
     I still think she doesn't understand, can't understand completely and I
say hurriedly:
     -  A guy  lives one floor below,  a  music  lover. He's from  Podol'sk.
Sometimes he's too carried away and cranks his tape player so loud that it's
necessary  to knock into his wall.  But he's a nice guy, he makes the volume
lower at once. He has a great collection, cassettes, vinyl, CDs, a little of
everything. Vinyl mostly, it costs peanuts now,  nobody needs it, and he has
a  Vega turntable, an old  one but it works fine. On the sixth floor a weird
type lives, I think he's  an engineer, works  on a  plant in Tula, they were
making weapons before, now -  some  consumer trinkets. He dreams  of writing
'love  mysteries', he  invented  this sort of a genre... So  he writes them,
types  on  a  typewriter  in  the evenings, but  never  shows to anybody. He
understands  himself   that  it  comes  out   bad,  he's   a  rare  type  of
'graphomaniac',  a  harmless  one.  I  took his writings  sometimes,  looked
through, it's really rubbish, but so kind and naive one, he should have been
born in the XVIIIth century...
     Vika doesn't  reply and I go on, understanding already that I've made a
mistake, I shouldn't have shown her this empty apartment, and even less - to
tell her  about others,  she  won't  ever understand this weird stuff, these
ravings that I was building for two years...
     - There's an old woman on the  third floor, she  lives alone  in  three
room apartment,  her life  is hard, I know... especially because  she's from
somewhere in Ukraine, from Kharkov, I suppose. She turns the TV on only when
the soap opera  is being  shown, and even then she keeps the brightness down
thinking  that less power  is being consumed  this way  and the tube doesn't
wear off...  But she  fears to sublet the rooms or to  change her apartment,
maybe this is right... I seldom visit her, I can't help her anyway, and it's
dreadful to see how she is living. Especially before the holidays, you know,
the most terrible-looking poverty is the one that tries to celebrate the New
Year. Her children have  forgotten her, or maybe she never had them  or they
were killed in wars, she has a picture on  the  wall -  a guy in the Russian
military uniform...
     Vika keeps silence.
     - There's a  couple  on the second floor, they are  funny. Married  for
just a year, from Ufa. They quarrel all the time, then make peace, sometimes
one can hear them  from the  staircase...  sometimes the cup gets shattered,
sometimes they  shut the door with  such force that plaster falls  down. But
anyway it  seems  to  me  that  they'll  never divorce, something keeps them
together, either some secret or love or both;  love is a  great secret  too,
you know... And the three room apartment  there  is empty... just empty. The
Jewish family lived here,  then  they left,  selling the apartment  to  some
mediator company which still can't get rid of it... probably they've boosted
the price too much, the apartment is in Moscow, in a good district...
     I'll suffocate in this silence, in her not saying a word.
     -  The  disabled  old  man lives  on  the  first floor, he  moves  with
crutches,  possibly the most noisy  and  caustic  person in whole  Kursk. He
brawls in shops, quarrels with neighbors, I  always  pass the first floor as
fast as  I can,  fearing to run  into him, but  it's not right, it's not his
fault that he became what he is, it's life... Life.
     I can understand myself how ridiculous does this word sound here.
     Life? What life - in the drawn apartments of the drawn house, in  these
concrete crypts  where only things remember  people. Only neutron bomb would
appreciate this, not an alive woman.
     I'm really an idiot, a clinical case. Ah well, still for good: Vika can
start working on her new thesis.
     - Len'ka, - says she, - My God, Len'ka, what happened to you?
     Oh yeah, here comes...
     - Forgive me, -  she  says,  - All my  screams... about the  work  with
psychos... about all those assholes... if I was hit like you...
     - Vika... - I can't understand a thing anymore.
     -  Somebody deserted you, betrayed you?  You lost the ideals you wanted
to believe in? And you gave up? - she asks quietly, - You don't believe that
you can help somebody, to do a  bit of good? And you ran away here, into the
deep, into the fairy tale? You really can love but you fear your love?
     - I can help  - here. Here only. At least by dragging the  ones who got
lost out of  this drawn  world. But you  know,  one drowns not when he can't
swim, one drowns when there's no more strength to stay on the shore. And the
shore... it's not in my power anymore.
     - You don't see any hope at all there, in reality?
     - I do - now. Now Unfortunate have appeared.
     - Lenia, you hide something! Do you know who is he?
     - Yes I do, and  it means that there's  a hope. If they could became as
they are, then we'll be able too.
     - But who are - "they"?!
     How can I explain?  How to make her believe in impossible, in something
for which the tabloid pages is the best place?
     -  Vika, he almost  said  that there... back  in the Elvish city. Their
servers don't support English, this is  the purely Russian party.  He called
himself an Alien.
     Vika shakes her head,  she understood, but  she  doesn't want  to,  she
can't believe.
     - He's an alien, Vika. He's not from the Earth.
     - He's a human...
     - In some sense  - yes. Much more human than we all are. Better than we
are, and maybe even the one that we'll never be able to become.
     - Lenia, why do you think so?
     - He doesn't even have the body - here. Yes  he flew, by the most usual
and boring way,  from one  star to  another. Do you remember his words about
the Silence?
     Vika shivers.
     - It's dreadful to imagine for us but he had passed all this. Hundreds,
thousands of years, the void and silence, the darkness with nothing in it. I
even think that his ship is immaterial...
     Vika shakes  her head and freezes suddenly. I turn around - Unfortunate
stands in the corridor.
     - I was calling for you,  - he says,  - I  came into the staircase  and
called. Then just entered, the door was opened.
     We don't reply. Then Vika asks:
     - You aren't human?
     - No, I'm not. Let's go, coffee is ready.


     We sit and drink coffee;  I don't like the  girl's from  Rostov recipe.
Strange that I'm able to distinguish the subtleties of taste at all.
     - A choice stuff, - says Unfortunate putting the cup aside, - I think.
     - Can you feel the taste? - inquires Vika.
     - Yes.
     -  How comes? Taste in virtuality  is nothing more but the memory about
what we tried in the real world! If you aren't human, then...
     I can feel her aggressiveness growing, but can't do anything.
     -  I'm  trying  to  imagine  whether  so much salt  should improve  the
coffee's taste or not. I think not.
     - Did you try something like coffee before?
     - Only when visited you. I... - Unfortunate looks at me and  hesitates,
- I can't even say that I eat at all.
     Looks like it's some threshold beyond which Vika loses patience.
     - You're lying, - she says with  conviction, - Look, you're just lying!
You know what? Just go to the Viner Square, it's the UFOlogists' club there!
They'll be so glad to meet you! They'll believe you!
     - I don't ask you to believe me. - replies Unfortunate softly.
     I jump up:
     - That's enough, both of you! Vika, I believe him!
     - Lenia, you are just  convincing yourself! - Vika deliberately ignores
Unfortunate. - You aren't the specialist in computer technologies, are  you?
You couldn't  trace  his signal  and  believed in  all that? He's human, his
behavior and knowledge are human! He's human! Can you prove me wrong?
     Unfortunate gazes at the wall.
     - I can't. He can. - I  look  at Unfortunate's face, -  Tell her, I beg
you. Prove it to her.
     - I can't prove anything.
     - You  helped me to get away from the trap, - I whisper, - I don't know
how, but you did give  me a part of your strength, your abilities, remember?
Please, do the same for Vika!
     Unfortunate raises his look at me.
     - Leonid, I gave you nothing. I don't  have a right to meddle into your
life.
     - But...
     - You could do it, yourself. You  only  lacked the  faith in this to be
possible. You needed the goal worth fighting  for. You had  met me  and  got
this goal, you believed that everything is still ahead, that the world won't
crumble as a house  of  cards, won't crash down into the deep. I only helped
you to find your faith.
     I shake my head, no, I couldn't! I couldn't do it myself!
     Unfortunate doesn't avert his gaze.
     - I gave you  nothing Leonid, nothing but troubles. I'm really sorry. I
don't have right to make such presents.
     - Listen fellow, don't take me in, okay? - says Vika sharply.
     - Unfortunate... Alien... - I put my hand on his shoulder, - But you'll
have to prove who you  are anyway, you'll  have to explain, maybe not to us,
but to the scientists and politicians...
     I stop at the half-phrase. Unfortunate shakes his head.
     - I  won't  explain  anything  to  anybody, this  is senseless  and not
needed.
     - But the contact...
     - What IS  the contact?  - he smiles, - A shiny starship on the lawn by
the  White  House?  A  long legged blonde  presents flowers  to  the  purple
crocodile  in a space suit?  The holds  full  of machines  and devices,  the
galaxy encyclopedia  recorded on 1001 synthetic diamond? The cure for cancer
and the means to control the weather? Or, rather... something  else.  Flying
saucers  burn  cities,  the  mankind  leads  a  guerilla  war  against   the
intelligent jellyfish? You'd rather believe  in this Leonid, isn't it  true?
Just remember  the man in command of star armies,  remember "Labyrinth"! Are
these  - the contacts? You believed in  me, you decided  that I'm  an alien,
that the moment of contact have come...
     - But if you came to us, -  I shout, - Then there  IS something! You do
want to say something to us!
     - No.
     That's it. I understand and it makes no sense to talk any further.
     - I just live here. You can't even imagine Leonid how different we are.
I'll never step on the ground - I have nothing to step with, and I  won't be
able to shake your hand - I don't have any.
     - But you're human here! - says Vika.
     - Yes. If you  want to know the sky - become  one. If you want  to know
the star - become  the  star... - Unfortunate glances at me and smiles, - If
you want to know the deep - become the deep.  I became the human, as much as
it was possible.
     - It's your method of knowledge? - asks Vika ironically.
     - Yes.
     - What for, if we are so different? If we don't need each other?
     - I'm tired.  I was alone for too long. - Unfortunate either apologizes
or tries to convince her, - I needed this memory... the city and the people,
the taste of coffee and  the smell of fire.  It all was alien for me but now
will stay forever. Your  distrust and Leonid's faith. Those who were killing
me and those  who were rescuing. I didn't mean to cause any trouble for you,
I didn't want to meddle. This is a norm... not to cause harm.
     - Your norm... - I say.
     - Yes.  You  live  according  to the different laws. It's not for me to
judge which ones are better.
     - Then you found the  best  place  to  appear  on  Earth,  - I  nod  to
Unfortunate,  - The freedom and  no  interference, all life's  colors,  from
black to white.
     - Of course.
     - For some reason I thought  differently, - I say, - That you could not
only take from us... the tastes and smells, the words and colors... but also
to teach us  at least something... No, sure not how to extinguish  clouds or
to cure flu... At least - kindness.
     - Leonid, kindness is just a word. I can't  kill a living creature. But
it's not a moral, it's more of a physiology.
     Now it's really finish.
     I wished  to  find an answer, an ideal, to find  a miracle which didn't
have a place for  it  on Earth for a  long time. The one  that came from the
stars  or was  born by  the Net  - it doesn't matter. Maybe Man Without Face
understood that when he offered me to go into "Labyrinth".
     But the  miracle doesn't care  about us, it's completely  alien and its
kindness is not more elevated than a contented belch.
     - If I try to explain you my ethics, - says Unfortunate, - I'll have to
switch to the language of Physics laws and mathematical  formulas. If  I try
to  explain  science  -  I'll  have to  write  poems and to  paint.  Do  you
understand?  The  difference  is not in the level of development but in  the
basis itself. We have nothing to take  and  nothing to  give to each  other.
Whatever I've got  is  just  memories,  emotions. But  do you  really  think
they'll retain their human form?
     - Yes, so I thought.
     -  It was a  mistake, Leonid. I'll leave you soon  and  everything will
change. I'll change myself, and so will my memory.
     I  step  from  the  table  and  look  into the  window,  at  Deeptown's
illumination flashing outside. Man Without Face,  maybe you were right? It's
impossible to approach Unfortunate with human measures.  I  tried - and look
what came out of it.
     - Let's assume,  - says  Vika behind my  back, - that you're not lying.
You're really an alien. The one from the  stars, let's say, the  one who has
nothing in common with humans. Then tell me...
     Maybe  Vika  really starts to believe.  Now,  hiding behind  the  words
"let's assume"  she will try Unfortunate about his ethics and culture, about
his ship's  construction  and  interstellar  journey principles.  Good  idea
too...
     - I'll leave you for a minute, - I say without turning around.
     Vika doesn't  protest,  probably  she  thought I  gonna exit  the  deep
temporarily.
     Nope...
     The drawn wall,  the drawn  window - I break through them, make a  step
and find myself above the city. Buildings, neon  signs, pedestrians, cars...
I'm not here anymore, my body  have vanished, I just glide in the air, as if
hackers'  dreams and Hollywood directors'  fantasies have  become true, it's
the virtuality as it must be, the freedom of directions and forms.
     Further... further...
     I make a round around  Microsoft's  palace, a huge, monstrously bloated
building all covered by  windows, descend trying to determine  the direction
towards the Elvish server. Just along this street...
     Most  likely  I'm  invisible  for  others.. I  speed above pedestrians'
heads, faster than Deep-Transit's cars, switching from server to server.
     What am I looking for anyway? For the trace of the battle that was over
a  couple of hours ago? The virtual time  is condensed, there's no traces to
find anymore but I must do it anyway.
     Here... An  Elvish  hut,  an empty street. A  taxi  cab blinks  in  the
distance and vanishes. I step on the pavement and turn back into human.
     Dibenko's  bodyguards' corpses have disappeared  already,  either  they
were  removed  or decomposed  by themselves.  But  at  the  place where  the
werewolf  was fighting with Man Without Face the asphalt is still melted and
pressed in, the only token. So what will it give to me?
     I walk around the dent considering whether it'll make any sense to drag
search programs from home and to reconnoiter the space.  Of course  not, the
ordinary methods won't help here.
     A taxi cab drives from the alley slowly and  approaches me, too  slowly
for it to be a coincidence, Deep-Transit is famous for its speed. Oh well, I
had to expect the ambush.
     I'm so  sure  that  Dibenko  will  emerge from  the  cab that  I  don't
immediately recognize the man that appears.
     - Gunslinger? Huh? - exclaims  Guillermo cheerfully, approaching me,  -
You, Gunslinger?
     I stay silent. I still like "Labyrinth"'s chief of security service and
this is very vexing.
     - You're  Gunslinger?  - requests Guillermo, -  I just want to be sure,
tell me!
     - Hi Willy, - I say. He beams in a smile:
     - Hi! I knew  it,  I knew... -  Guillermo  eyes the melted  asphalt and
tsks, - Cool. It was tough. Yes?
     - Yes.
     -  Gunslinger...  -  Willy   parts  his  hands,  -  It's  really-really
unpleasant to me,  honestly! I was even against charging you in damages! But
there, - a hurt glance up, - they decided to scare you. This isn't the right
method!
     - So what's now?
     Guillermo sighs and sits right onto  asphalt without mercy to his fancy
suit. I sit by his side. So here we are, by remains of Romka's funeral fire,
like two  hippies of  different  generations, one is settled down but  still
liberal, the other one in the height of his protest.
     - I did suspect  that this accident was caused by you,  - says Willy, -
quite  unusual and bloody fight. Yes...  I was waiting for  you on my own...
errr... risk.
     - Why? - I ask, -  Will you try  to detain me? You'll fail. It couldn't
be successful before, and even less now.
     Guillermo pricks up his ears but doesn't ask anything:
     - No-no,  Gunslinger! It's  absolutely  not  that  I'm  sure  that  our
troubles is your fault! Maybe some  frictions with Al-Kabar were the reason?
Huh?
     He winks conspiratorially. Like a quiet rebellion against "Labyrinth"'s
management.
     - Gunslinger, I'd like  to restore our cooperation. After all, you were
the  first  to suspect something unusual  in Unfortunate and  you  shouldn't
suffer for that!
     - Thanks.
     - But we can't be left aside either!  Penetration  have happened on our
territory, right? In juridical  sense the question is very complicated, it's
easier  to solve it in a  good will... in a human way. We're  humans, aren't
we?
     What I'd never expect from "Labyrinth"'s guys is such pep.  How quickly
did they get what's going on!
     - Willy, - I say, - It's useless. You know what our common problem is?
     - Al-Kabar? - asks Guillermo quickly, - Or Mr X?
     -  No. Willy,  we all want something from Unfortunate.  I  was dreaming
about some  kind  of goodness for everybody.  You know,  a common,  abstract
happiness and stuff which he could bring...
     Guillermo nods in understanding.
     - You  obviously  wanted  to  become  famous,  to  get  your  share  in
distribution of technologies that he could give...
     A protesting handwave. Oh yeah, sure, "Labyrinth"  is  not a commercial
organization, we heard these songs before...
     - Willy, he  doesn't want to  communicate with  us! At all. He  doesn't
need us.
     It seems that I've really shocked him.
     - Doesn't need us? - he exclaims.
     - Absolutely. He stopped here to get some rest  and  now he's  going to
resume his journey amongst the stars.
     Guillermo makes a couple of chewing motions and asks again:
     - A journey amongst the stars?
     - Yes...
     - What stars?
     It seems we don't understand each other...
     - Willy, Unfortunate  is an alien  form  of  life, I  think some energy
based one, his mind cardinally differs from...
     I  shut  up.  Somehow  ridiculous  does  all  this  sound!  Now,   when
Unfortunate is not near, I feel a kind of scepticism Vika felt.
     - Energy based form  of  life... - repeats  Guillermo very politely and
gently, as if talking to a sick person, - Yes. Interesting.
     Which one of us is the bigger idiot?
     - Willy, let's exchange information. To begin our cooperation.
     - I think I know your information already, - Willy winks slyly, - Huh?
     - But I also can meet Unfortunate at any time and talk to him. Huh?
     - Do you have him? - asks Guillermo quickly.
     I remain silent.
     - As a token  of  cooperation... -  mumbles  Willy. Oh,  it wasn't  his
initiative  to come  here!  Or  at  least, not only his.  Now  "Labyrinth"'s
management  decides in panic whether to allow  him to  talk to  me openly or
not...
     - I can leave, - I note.
     -  Okay!  -  Willy  raises  his  hands,  -  I  surrender!  You've  won,
Gunslinger! You've won as usual!
     I ignore the compliment but Willie doesn't expect any reaction. He rubs
his forehead and pronounces solemnly:
     - It was not at  once  when we evaluated the Unfortunate's  phenomenon.
It's our  big mistake. "Labyrinth"'s attention to  its customers have played
the positive role  though...  When  yours  and our  divers'  efforts  proved
useless,  we  started  to  search for  Unfortunate's  entering  channel.  We
searched and searched... and failed.
     I'm waiting for the next part. Guillermo winks cunningly and goes on:
     - Are you familiar with the parallel worlds theory, Gunslinger?
     - From sci-fi literature.
     - It's quite a serious  theory, Gunslinger. Other worlds might exist in
parallel with ours,  invisible, unreachable... but quite real ones. We can't
- yet - communicate with them in a normal way. But virtuality is a different
thing.  Flows  of  information  live according to  their own laws.  Computer
network is the most powerful device  for entropy reduction in the history of
mankind. Independently from our will or wish it influences the physical laws
of  the  Universe.  Information flows  stream along  the Net,  they condense
creating the centers where the very nature of the Universe transforms.
     - Information can't change the laws of nature, - I say quickly.
     - Oh  yeah?  When  the  structure  complication happens  in the limited
fraction of  space - it influences the whole Universe. Very weakly of course
but  the bases of the world vibrate a little anyway. Every object created by
humans contained both positive and negative  'charge'. The club  carved from
the tree branch wasn't  just  a weapon, no! It was an anomaly phenomenon, an
ordered structure in the chaotic  world. But this was compensated - at least
by the pile of shavings and sawdust. The book became a  bit more complicated
structure.  The volume of information and chaos  caused by its creation were
not exactly equal already but this phenomenon was also compensated after all
- at least by the fact that many books were  not worth the trees cut to make
paper for them. What added to that for the first  hand, were the books  that
beared an  anomalous complication  of  information  in  themselves. I'm  not
talking about  reference  books that  mostly reflect well known  and useless
information  but  about  those  that  led  to the birth  of  new ethics  and
perception of  the world. They started  to influence the people's  life,  to
lead to entropy, to destroy. It  was like a curse: the  more informative the
book  is, the more  did  it  shake  the  world. The humans  were  unable  to
simultaneously bring an order into the world and not to add chaos. Computers
is an absolutely different case, it's information in its purity. It  arrives
from different directions, it gathers, multiplies. It doesn't vanish without
a trace - to give away a file  with  data is  absolutely not the same  as to
give  away  a  jewel  or a  favorite book. It tears  the  Universe's  space,
violates the balance between the order and the chaos.
     Guillermo  silences  to  catch his  breath. He's excited, he definitely
wanted to tell all this out.
     -  And  so,  in  such  points  where  the  human  deeds create the  new
understanding of the world, where  the very human look at the life changes -
the unusual happens. The  border between  the worlds breaks  there,  and the
miracle is being born, and the creature from the other world, maybe a human,
maybe not, right?... is able to come to us. To encounter our moral, culture,
our dreams... to  absorb  all  net's knowledge in  itself... and  to freeze,
terrified.
     What can I answer him? To tell about the fallen star?
     - As far as I  understand,  Unfortunate declared you that he's an alien
from the other planet? - asks Guillermo.
     I nod. Maybe it's not exactly so though, he never told  me directly, he
just never rejected my guess.
     - Was it his own version or he confirmed your guess?
     - Confirmed... - I mumble.
     - A normal thing to do, - decides Guillermo, - To admit his  own  alien
nature  but  to give  a wrong direction.  He has a  right  to fear  us.  His
civilization  is a  peaceful  one most likely while we  are not  the kindest
creatures...
     It  was a  long time since I was nudged face forward into the dirt this
way.
     -  We considered different theories,  - says Guillermo, -  We  analyzed
Al-Kabar's versions - about  the  machine mind, mutation that  gave birth to
the 'human computer'. But... our specialists tend to smile. We were thinking
about an alien  from the  stars. This would be beautiful... too beautiful to
be  true. We  have  a  good team  of  psychologists, they work  on  the data
available to us, we have good programmers, they are working too.  But still,
the theory  of parallel worlds remains  the most likely one. Al-Kabar worked
with people too little, their  approach is mechanistic  and Urman is too far
from  modern  technologies. No-no. Not a computer mind, not  a human  merged
with  a  machine. Maybe...  -  a  condescending smile,  - an alien. Maybe, -
Guillermo's face becomes serious,  - a creature from a parallel world. Let's
find out together. Without a force, without... any fights, - Guillermo pokes
his hand at  melted asphalt with  disgust,  -  Let's sit together  and talk.
Let's forget mistakes, offences, claims. Let's explain that we're not so bad
after all, that we shouldn't be feared. Let's stretch our hand...
     His hand stretches to me but I'm silent, unable to take and shake it.
     Whoever he was, Unfortunate, he tried to help me.
     He was - and is - better than many real humans.
     - I can't  accept your offer Willy, - I say, - I'm  sorry. You might be
right, but I don't have a right to decide.
     - But who has, Gunslinger? - asks Guillermo quietly.
     - Only him, Unfortunate. He doesn't  want to  tell anything.  He  named
himself an alien, a guest who grew tired of loneliness - and now he wants to
leave. It's  his  right.  It's  his  decision. He didn't do anything bad  to
anybody, he just got lost in our ridiculous world. I helped him  to  exit, I
showed him... I hope I did... that the deep is not bloody fights only. If it
wasn't enough - well... let  him  go, either in his parallel world or to the
distant stars. He's free, as much as we are.
     Guillermo looks  as  if he have  grown lean. He looks at  me, sadly and
tiredly.  Probably he  said  the  truth,  and hardly  does  he wish  bad  to
Unfortunate. It's just a difference in approaches.
     -  So  you'll let him  leave Gunslinger? - he asks, -  The mystery will
disappear for long, or forever... and nobody will know who was Unfortunate?
     - Freedom, Willy.
     -  You  Russians always were considering a state,  a society  above the
person, - says  Guillermo,  -  This  isn't the  right  approach, but  you're
Russian after all, aren't you?
     - I'm the citizen of Deeptown. There's no borders in the Deep, Willy.
     Guillermo nods and rises slowly, awkwardly, looks at the cab that waits
for him. There's several Al-Kabar commandos inside  most likely. Or probably
my friends Anatol and Dick...
     - Have Unfortunate given anything to you personally, Gunslinger? - asks
Willy.
     - Probably.
     - Can I know what, or see? - inquires he with a sudden shyness.
     I look at him, then bend over the crater in asphalt. The werewolf diver
perished here  two hours  ago, my poor workmate Romka. I  didn't  see how it
happened, but I can imagine.
     The flame  envelops  the wolf's body,  it  means that  the  Man Without
Face's virus had penetrated Romka's computer. His machine's winchester jerks
deleting  data and damaging utility  programs,  communication breaks.  Romka
falls from the deep, from his desperate and hopeless fight.
     I feel the smell of burned fur, see the pale fire, the body is squeezed
with a spasm... and I vanish, falling  through  the drawn  asphalt, into the
long gone comm channel.


     The flight.
     A flow of sparks pierces my body.
     Spiral lightnings sweep at my face.
     I feel pain and for  the first  time in virtuality I  understand - it's
not an  imaginary one. It's just a weak echo of the pain that tortures me in
the real  world. I'm doing something  that  a human  can't, shouldn't do,  I
communicate with computers directly, walk  through the Net pulling data from
programs terminated long time ago.
     It's painful, hard but I must overcome that.
     It seems that  I moan and scream, pressing nonexistent hands against my
forehead, a red-hot nails are hammered into my eyes, the  skin  is  torn off
with a sandpaper. It's a retribution for the impossible.
     When I come back to my senses, there's a door  before me.. I'm lying in
the corridor, a long and dull one, with hundreds of such doors. Is it one of
the virtual hotels?
     The pain haven't faded yet but  became weaker, softer. It's possible to
rise  from the floor - very carefully, to  lean against the cold wood of the
door with forehead.
     So you enter virtuality from temporary addresses too, Romka?
     I push the door without even thinking that it can be locked and  almost
fall into the room. Posters with half naked  beauties are  on the  walls,  a
table with drinks stands  by  the  wall.  It  looks  somehow  strange...  An
unfamiliar man sits  with  his  back towards me,  drums at computer keyboard
murmuring something out  of tune. A half  empty bottle of gin and an ashtray
full  of cigar butts is  by  his hand. The man is just  finishing a glass of
cheap 'Hogart'.
     - Hi Romka, -  I mumble, trying to get a grip against the wall. The man
turns around, looks  at me in confusion,  then  jumps up, catches  me on his
hands and drags towards the armchair.
     Now I can let it slip...

     Romka brings a full glass of gin under my nose and the smell of juniper
finally returns my consciousness.
     - Take it away, I'll puke... - I push away his hand.
     - Len'ka, is it you? - asks the diver unbelievingly.
     - Me...
     - Come on, drink, you'll feel better!
     - Damned alcoholic, - I whisper  something that I never  got a nerve to
tell him before, - It's you who can gulp pure Gin down.
     - Want me to add some tonic?  -  guesses Romka, - It's fine for me just
like this...
     He splashes most of  the  glass' contents out on the floor,  fills with
tonic and  gives  it to me. This  time I don't refuse, I  drink feeling  the
blessing numbness streaming all over my body.
     - How did you enter? - asks Romka, - The door was closed!
     It's too hard to explain why closed doors don't hinder  me  anymore.  I
wave my hand and suck in the rest of the liquid.
     - And how could you find me?
     - I  just could... -  I answer indefinitely, but it seems that Romka is
glad to see me too much to keep trying me.
     - Did you manage to get away from that bastard? - he asks.
     - Yes...
     - What an asshole! - swears Romka, - He busied me alright!
     - How did you crawl out?
     -  The virus was a clean one. It  froze  my  machine but  croaked after
restart. Everything according to the Convention,  but cool, damn it! - Romka
laughs forcefully, - What an enemies have you got, Lenia!
     - Feel envious?
     - Yup! - confesses Romka  sincerely, -  I feared you'll have no time to
escape...
     - We had...
     - She's pretty fancy, that chick of yours, - winks Romka.
     I nod, looking around more attentively. Romka's living place is  really
strange. All these beauties on the walls... plenty of cigars and alcohol  on
the  table,  a couple of fresh issues of Playboy on the bed together  with a
teens' pop-music related newspaper...
     Romka averts his gaze.
     - Do I distract you too much? - I ask.
     The  werewolf  glances at  the  working  computer, lines of a primitive
program on its screen...
     - Not really... I was preparing for a test... Never mind.
     - What test?
     - Informatics.
     - How old are you, Romka? - I ask, suddenly 'regaining my sight'.
     - Fifteen.
     I  start laughing  and  see  how the  man  opposite  me clings his jaws
gloomily. I laugh, Romka stands up, lights a cigar, pours Gin into his glass
and asks finally:
     - Well, and what's so funny?
     - Romka... - I understand that I behave badly but I have no strength to
hold it back... - Romka, have you ever  drink vodka in  glass  shots or pure
Gin?
     - No.
     - And  don't even try. It was  really dumb  of  me  not to  notice this
before. You... you behave with too much fortitude to be an adult man!
     - Is it so noticeable? - asks Romka gloomily.
     - No, not that much... It's kinda unusual though...
     - Why unusual? There's many teens among werewolves.
     - How do you know?
     - Well... Probably we're  more  sincere to  each other. Those  who  are
older  than 18 seldom can live in a non-human appearance.  But it's fine for
us.
     Plasticity... plasticity of mind. I look at Romka and think  that there
must  be a  lot  of teens among those diver friends  of mine who  tell dirty
anecdotes too excitedly, or always  demonstrate their  coolness. It's easier
for  them to pass the barrier of the deep program. Easier - as strange as it
might seem. Their mind have grown on the movies and books about the  virtual
world, they know that Deeptown is drawn not only in their minds but in their
hearts too. They won't drown.
     Maybe there'll be more of them and divers will stop hiding.
     - Romka, do you connect from your computer?
     - From Dad's. I  was always punished whenever caught in virtuality. Dad
thinks  it's  only debauchery  and  fist fighting  here.  So I had to  enter
somehow... to  notice what's  going on in  the  apartment. When the  door is
opened, I can hear that.
     - I'm glad you're fine, Romka.
     The werewolf nods:
     -  And how  I'm  glad!  I have a  strimmer, but restoring all disk is a
pain. You were looking for me to find out how I am?
     I really want to say "yes" but it'll be a lie.
     - Not only... I also wanted to ask for your advice...
     - And now you don't want to?
     He's right, I don't, but after these words I don't have any way out.
     - Romka, a strange thing had happened to me... - I rise,  pour Gin into
my  glass, two fingers thick, add tonic. - In the Net I've run into a guy...
who is not really a human.
     Romka waits patiently.
     -  I  even  don't know,  where's truth and  where's  lies,  - I  say, -
Possibly he's an alien from the stars, possibly he's a guest from a parallel
world. Or maybe he's a creature of the computer mind or mutant that connects
to the Net directly, without a computer. He's being searched for by at least
two big companies...
     The werewolf nods,  I  don't need  to name "Labyrinth"  and Al-Kabar to
him.
     - ... And Dmitry Dibenko.
     - Dibenko?
     -  Exactly. They want to get at least something useful from him. But he
wants to leave. Forever.
     - And you're thinking whether you have to give him away?
     - Nobody can stop him,  I'm  sure. But in  any case... it's a different
world, right Romka?  A different knowledge, different culture. Maybe they'll
manage to persuade him, to learn at least something from him. Just  a bit of
his knowledge might become a new stage of evolution for the mankind.
     - It might, - agrees Romka willingly.
     - ... Because after all, he could... change me  somehow. I would  never
find your trace  without new  abilities. I don't know whether I have a right
to stay silent and hide him.
     -  You want  my advice?  -  asks  Romka  with  some  sudden  fright,  -
Seriously?
     -  Yes Romka. Right because  you're a kid yet and I'm an old  cynicist.
Tell me, does one person have a right for a miracle?
     - No.
     I nod, I didn't expect any other answer, but Romka isn't finished yet.
     - Nobody has a right for a  miracle. It's always by  itself. That's why
it's a miracle.
     - Thank you, - I say and rise.
     - Are you hurt?
     - No, on the contrary... I'll go home. It's great that you're fine...
     Already in the doorway, I stop for a moment and add:
     -  ...And don't be so hard on alcohol. You're grown-up Romka, don't try
to prove it. Good luck on the test.
     - Thanks! - shouts Romka behind me.
     Miracle - it's on its own...
     I walk along the hotel corridor, smiling to Romka's words.
     This impatience of mind, this great unsatisfiable thirst...
     To understand, to explain, to conquer!
     The miracle must be tamed  and docile. We even made  God a  human - and
only after  this we learned how to believe. We reduce  miracles  down to our
level.
     Maybe it's good,  otherwise  we still  would hide in caves, feeding the
Red Flower set out by the lightning with wood.
     You're  a great kid Romka, you managed  to get a right conclusion going
the wrong way, as if walking along the  mirror labyrinth, hitting  the glass
but  passing it  after all. I can't yet understand why are  you right Romka,
but you're right anyway...
     I pass by  an  indifferent  porter, open the  door -  Deeptown  street,
people,  cars, neon signs.  I know what can change  the world. I  can give a
miracle to the world.
     But I have no right to - because it's alive.
     It's on its own, there's neither our life, nor our joys, nor our griefs
behind  it. What  does separate me from Unfortunate  -  a cold  of space  of
unimaginable eternity of the other  world? What's the difference, he's alive
anyway!
     I  walk  along   the  street  not  raising  my  hand  for  the  joy  of
Deep-Transit, this is  known  in all details  Russian block,  I'll manage on
feet. I need to  understand Unfortunate completely before he leaves forever,
I have to say, to do something.
     The church block - gold covered domes  of the Orthodox temple, Catholic
cathedrals,   modest   synagogues  and  Moslem  minarets,  stone   lace   of
Alexandrians' temple, black pyramid  of Satanists,  and - as the best of all
mocks  - a fiery red sign above the pub, the den of friendly, suffering from
a little overweight sect of Beer Lovers.
     I could  show you  much,  Unfortunate.  Zoos  where  Steller's cows and
mammoths  live,  book  clubs  where  they  argue over good and clever books,
exhibitions of spatial designers  where new worlds are being born, a medical
conference  where  the doctors from  all over the  world  meet to  consult a
patient  from some  God  forsaken provinces...  They  won't  let us  to  the
conference of course, but I'd  hack  the door and we would  stay silently in
the corner watching how an  American anesthesiologist  and a Russian surgeon
plan a surgery for a miner from Zaire... I would take you to the Opera where
every  musician is the citizen of the world and to the play where  everybody
in the audience is a part of the action. We would bow to all gods in temples
forgetting  that they are evil. We would stand by  the playground where kids
ride 'real' racing cars and would sympathize with Greenpeace people who save
hedgehogs  on European highways. Deeptown's picture  gallery  would  take at
least a month -  it's impossible to pass at once through the  Hermitage  and
the Prado  gallery, the Tretyakov's Gallery  and the Louvre... But at  least
one  day you could sacrifice for that instead of sitting under "Labyrinth"'s
blood-red sky. In the student block you  would help  a freshman from Vologda
to  conquer the Resistance of Materials course's mysteries, and I'd tell the
Canadian artist why it's not necessary to make too much detailed elaboration
for the autumn forest. The deep isn't an evil world at all, not a fist fight
and  debauchery.  Is it  my  fault  that  your way here  had passed  through
fighting  arenas and  brothels,  with pursuit on your  heels and uncertainty
ahead?
     But who knows, maybe it wasn't just a coincidence. You had  chosen this
path  yourself: "Labyrinth", "Stars  and Planets",  "Any Amusements" and the
Elvish Lorien... You absorbed the deep and showed, not to  yourself  but  to
me, what it really is, all intolerance and  stupidity, all  aggression  that
lives inside us. And you know not worse than me:  the  virtual world doesn't
consist of this only.
     Such a  pity  that you're right  after all, Unfortunate.  The  world is
never judged  on its best qualities. Otherwise fascism would be a golden age
of  technics,  of fast  planes and  mighty engines instead of  concentration
camps' chimneys and a soap made of the human fat.
     You've made your judgement and explained why it is so.
     Do we have any right to feel hurt?
     Do we  have any right to hit  ourselves in  the chest and shout  "We're
kind!" ?
     But  you  can't, you  shouldn't  take  just  this with  you  - a  human
dirtiness and the beauty of desolate mountains, the technology serving vice!
Otherwise why we are in the deep? What do we worth at all?
     ... I'm standing by the  door of the Catholic cathedral,  luxurious and
suppressing, great and ridiculous.  I  can enter and pray to  an ancient God
that doesn't exist after all. I can return home and shake Unfortunate's hand
in parting. And neither decision will be right.
     - Leonid?
     The person that approached me  is  completely  unfamiliar:  he's short,
with unexpressive  dull  face,  dressed in  old  shabby jeans and  stretched
sweater. He's dull and ordinary, not  in  virtuality is his place but in the
queue  for carry-out Zhigulevskoye {<i>beer</i>}. But he  knows my name - it  means
he's an enemy.
     - Who are you from? - I ask, - Al-Kabar?
     The shortish guy doesn't avert his look.
     - Leonid, you saw me in a different appearance. Without face.
     - Dmitry?
     - Yes. Maybe we should address each other less officially?
     - You're an asshole, - I agree.
     - Leonid, I ask you for a talk, for just five minutes of talk.
     Is  it  really the main  Dima Dibenko's guise? I saw his picture,  long
time ago, he was too young on it. So, he's plain  and ordinary? A little dog
- a puppy forever. Was it this  guy who invented the deep program and dunked
the whole world into the deep? The one who grabbed millions and  had got the
share  in  Microsoft and AOL? The one who was the  first to  understand that
Unfortunate is a visitor from the Outside?
     - Five minutes.
     - Leonid, let's go somewhere...
     At  least his  voice doesn't correspond with his looks too well: if  he
ever could speak in requesting voice, it's now in the past.
     We walk around the cathedral,  Dibenko opens the  door into  the garden
with the intricate key.  It's  quiet  and  silent  here,  willows,  poplars,
straight paths... stones... of familiar shape.
     - Shit, - I just say.
     - Yes, it's a graveyard, - mumbles Dibenko, - I... I like to come here.
It calms me down somehow... brings me a philosophical mood.
     Probably there's nothing unusual in this. I look at grave monuments, at
the alleys, at the girl that sits on the grass by the small bust, hiding her
face in her hands. It's not a mourning  human, it's just  a drawn weeper, an
electronic equivalent of marble angels.
     Virtuality is life but  life can't  be thought  about without death. So
friends bury  here those  who will  never dive in the deep again, will never
put on the virtual helmet anymore.
     "He believed in the miracle" -  short like a curse, the phrase  on  the
nearest stone.
     Forgive me, anonymous man.  You  believed  in miracles and  jumped into
colorfulness of the virtual world. But now,  the memories of  you  lie here,
and somewhere in reality your  grave overgrows with tall weeds. Your friends
come here spending half a dollar while the soil that took you gives birth to
a new  life.  Maybe it  would be more  honest for your  friends  to expend a
couple of hours of their lives - to get a shot of vodka by your real grave?
     It's freedom! I'm not the one to judge.
     - I'm listening, Dima.
     Dibenko has red eyes, as if  he lacked sleep lately, and crumpled face.
He dragged me into the miracle which doesn't need me, he finishes divers off
as blind kittens. But he created this world and I must listen to him.
     -  I don't  ask  how  you  got away, Lenia,  -  says  Dibenko,  - As  I
understand, you've got your reward after all...
     - What reward? For what?
     - For betrayal, - Dibenko looks me straight into the eyes, - What, does
the  word hurt? It *is* betrayal! Betrayal of all of us, all the people that
live today! You've managed to become his friend, I knew you'll be able to do
this, I knew and that's why I hired you, you  and nobody else! It must  have
been a mistake. What I could offer in return was nothing...
     - Dima, do you understand what have virtuality become?
     - The freedom!
     - Then what do you blame me for? We are in  no right to demand anything
from Unfortunate! In NO right!
     - And why not? -  Dibenko leans  against the tombstone of the  "miracle
believer" and  smirks,  - Okay, let it  not be formulas and  drawings... not
vaccines  and recipes of  the fair society. But couldn't he at least give us
hope?  To  all of us! If he came - it means everything will  be fine! If  he
exists - it means we didn't choke to death on the freedom!
     Looks like I miss something again.
     But Dibenko goes on and I stay silent.
     -  Do you  think  I  knew what I was doing  then?...  No!  I got drunk,
sozzled, plastered! I glued myself to the machine, I neither wanted to sleep
nor to play, I  felt sick of work, I began to compose  a color palette, some
image  rhythm... I really wanted to add  music  to it but the machine was  a
piece of crap, without a sound card!
     So the legends are true...
     - I don't know how! - shouts Dibenko,  -  It was  IT that wanted to  be
born,  not me who  did it! It's the deep itself, came through me  - into the
world! I  understood, I felt it - but I'm not a creator, just a conductor, a
pen  moved  by somebody's  hand! It  reached me  from far  away, through the
darkness,  through the silence, reached me and  made me to  create! It!  The
deep program!
     I suddenly  shiver, and  not because Dmitry mentioned the silence, just
because  this  feeling is familiar to me  too: a  terror of the creator  who
can't understand what and how he created.
     - Some people called me genius... - a little man with shadows under his
eyes grabs  my hands, - Others called me a dumbass who found  the pearl in a
pile of dung! But neither is true! The deep came into the world  through me.
It means - somebody wanted that to happen! Not now... later...
     Dibenko looks at me, with greed and awe, whispers:
     - Did he tell you at least anything? Just a hint... where is he from? A
year, century, millennium?
     - Dima... - I mumble, - Just why do you think...
     -  When  you  escaped,  -  whispers  Dibenko, - You  were  trapped, you
couldn't escape  from my machine. But  you did... you blasted all data  away
from the disk and escaped! Was it him who taught you? Was it?
     It's  a pity to look at  him. I don't like pity  so much -  it kills as
well as the hate does, but now I want to pity Dibenko.
     But  just the  voice...  his  voice doesn't sound right.  This is how a
great actor in the tragic role can humiliate himself.
     -  You  can't even imagine, - says Dibenko,  - how  much effort  have I
spent for this! What  I was  risking with... with  my position in Al-Kabar's
Board  of  directors,  with   my  agents  in  "Labyrinth"...  You   wouldn't
understand, you still can't understand that over  there, in Russia...  But I
split you up, I traced your channel! I know who you are! Leonid, I know your
address in  Deeptown! Polyana  Company, apartment 49. You're  in my hands! I
can find out your real address too! But I don't want to threaten you, I just
ask: let's be together!
     Looks like  the time have  made a full circle, not Guillermo but Dmitry
Dibenko offers me his hand now.
     -  They  can't  understand,  - he  whispers, -  Whatever.  Aliens  from
parallel worlds,  space aliens,  machine mind... Bull!  There's nothing  out
there but us! In the past or the future days - only us!
     I understand...
     - One can believe or one can laugh, - Dibenko hits his fist against the
poor tombstone,  - But the  only thing without borders is the Time. Computer
network lives and will live, and the memory about this guy  will outlive all
of us! Information  doesn't have  any limit in  time, Unfortunate, he peeked
into the past  of the  humankind. From that wonderful 'far away' to which we
will never live to see, from  the future of the Earth - he stepped into  the
virtual world's childhood. Okay, okay, let us be ugly and wild! But can't he
tell us at least something? Can't he give us... a faith?
     - Dmitry, but why? Why do you think so?
     - Because I know! - Dibenko looks into my eyes, - I couldn't create the
deep program accidentally! It's as if I  would  shoot  - and hit  a thousand
targets in a row! I'm not a genius at all, I'm an  ordinary man. Just there,
in  the  future,  they  decided  to  create  virtuality.  Possibly,  it  was
predetermined.  Maybe they just needed a bridgehead...  an observation point
to look into our world. So I became... a pen in someone's hand...
     - A bridgehead? - I ask, - A bridgehead means war.
     - Yes! And one must kill at war... and to take prisoners.
     - Do you know how many hypotheses exists about Unfortunate?
     - Yes.
     - What if he's not from the future but from another world?
     - Let it be! Even more reasons then! He's in our world and here are our
laws! We must understand who is he.
     What does he want from me after all?
     I  look  at  Dibenko:  trembling  lips,  tired  eyes,  shabby  and  low
appearance. What does he  want? Does he  want me to change  my mind? Does he
want me  to hand Unfortunate over to him? In any case it's not in my powers.
We'll just waste the time...
     The time...
     He knows my name and address. He knows where I live in virtuality.
     He even could trace me at Romka's place.
     And now he's biding his time.
     I step back and rush to the  gates. Dibenko looks as I leave not trying
to stop me, only a smile appears on his face - a proud smile of an actor who
played his role well and now listens to an applause.


     The  cab rushes past  me as  if  my raised  hand doesn't  mean anything
anymore in Deeptown. I jerk after the car, wave my hand again...
     Useless. This is war.
     How did Dibenko manage to cut me from Deeptown's transportation system?
Possibly he has a share there too?
     Well, but I don't need Deep-Transit anymore, do I?
     An already familiar feeling when  the  city around  falls  flat turning
into  a scheme.  I soar above it,  drag myself through the distance, through
foreign computers - towards my house...
     ... And I hit the wall.
     I can see the house, a highrise inhabited by things  - but  I can't get
inside. Something have changed in the space itself.
     I make myself real, not inside the  building itself, on the sidewalk by
it.
     The house is burning.
     It's not a fire  but a fantastic  illumination. The  walls are changing
the color and brightness, each  grain shines like a diamond. The whole house
is like a ridiculous squarish diamond under the floodlight ray.
     And there  are  people,  many  people:  uniforms of the city's security
service, "Labyrinth"'s and Al-Kabar's guards...  The ring  of  cordon around
the  house,  snipers   with  carbines,  machine-gunners  behind  transparent
shields,  the gunners  with  jet  knapsacks floating in the  air.  I emerged
inside the ring, and hundred of barrels aims at me instantly.
     The spiders have made a deal and have spread their web together.
     - Leonid! Raise your hands and come closer! - the voice booms above the
street. A  group of  people can  be seen  behind the ring of guards,  in the
rainbow flashes of illumination: Urman, Willy,  Man  Without Face, commissar
Jordan Reid.
     Wow.
     What  an honor for  me!  Where can  a poor  diver go? All  official and
unofficial rulers of the deep have gathered by his house!
     -  Leonid, come closer, slowly! - repeats Reid. His voice echoes  along
the street.
     At least they are trying  to keep an impression of their  actions being
lawful: the operation is carried out by the police. I walk  under the aiming
barrels,  under the scrutiny of hundreds of computers, every step of mine is
measured and estimated, every byte of data is under invisible control...
     The guards  in front  of  me  give way letting  me in. Guillermo  looks
aside. Urman -  who in  fact  is just Urman's secretary  - smirks mockingly.
Dibenko, in his mask again, is indifferent.
     I address to Reid ignoring them all:
     - What's going on?
     -  You're charged  with  unlawful penetration  into secured information
space,  in using  weapons which caused a serious material damage,  in hiding
the information that is vitally important for Deeptown, - raps Jordan out, -
You're detained for examining the circumstances.
     - And what is  my house charged with?  - I ask,  but it's impossible to
confuse Reid:
     - The search for the evidence is being carried out.
     I  turn around to the  burning building. Search? Hell no! Conservation.
Freezing.  Overflowing of comm channels with data. Will  Unfortunate be able
to deflect the attack or even his powers won't be enough here?
     - I surrender, - I say, - I admit all charges. I request... this  to be
stopped.
     Jordan  shakes his head, with  a  slight sympathy in his look but  with
determination.
     - Don't try to hide in reality, - he warns, - We requested Interpol for
your physical arrest.
     The dread rolls over  me - extinguishing the  will, taking all strength
away.  Who knows, maybe there, back  in reality, gloomy  commandos in  black
fabric masks already stand behind my back?
     A  real prison, a real  trial  -  this isn't an excitement  of  virtual
fights. It's a  rotten  hay mattress,  a skilly which recipe haven't changed
since Stalin's times,  bars on the window  and escort  guards not  blemished
with an intellect.
     Or my dear native  police haven't yet  learn to work  fast despite it's
desperate  wish  to exchange the Russian  citizen for  a  dozen  of obsolete
portable radio communicators?
     Abyss-abyss - and to run...
     I look at drawn  faces, at the armed guards. There's no borders for the
miracle hunters. They've dived into the deep from all corners of the world -
in order to  tear off, to rip out a piece of  mystery, wherever  could it be
brought into our world from.
     And frenzy takes me over.
     - Jordan... I give you exactly ten seconds... -  I whisper, - To all of
you. Ten seconds to get your asses out of here.
     - Collect yourself, Leonid! - this is Reid.
     - Gunslinger, let's find a compromise... - this is Willy.
     - Your strength has its limits too... - Man Without Face.
     Oh my God, they fear me!  Me! Alone against them  all, primed, with  an
ancient computer behind and an empty hands!
     Why?
     - I don't know how you still hold out, - starts Dibenko, - but...
     - Five seconds, - I say.
     And the guards start shooting, either without an  order  or I just have
missed it.
     The fire and pain.
     Everything  that  was  invented  for  years  of  the  deep's existence,
everything well tested and most secret - everything for my honor...
     I stand in the middle of the fire and see the dread on the faces around
me, and even in the gray fog of Man Without Face - the dread...
     Why am I still here, remaining  in virtuality  instead  of  taking  the
helmet off before the gray display of the killed machine?
     I pull myself towards the  guards, not with  hands, just with a  gaze -
their  bodies crumple  like fabric puppets under  the  heel,  fall apart  in
ashes, drain of steam, freeze, collapse into points, dissolve in the air, as
if my gaze reflects all nastiness that pours my way.
     Five seconds given for my enemies pass and the street is empty, just my
house still burns and those who had set fire to it stand near.
     - It's in the deep  only where you're God, -  says Man Without Face. He
doesn't threaten me, just reminds.
     - Oh really? - I  pad  closer to  them, - Reid, now IRS computers  will
learn that  you  had  misappropriated  a couple  of  millions... Urman!  All
Al-Kabar's data is in free access! Willy!  "Labyrinth"  is  dead! Levels are
deleted,  maps are  lost, monsters have fled! Dima! Your fingerprints belong
to a serial killer!
     I give them a couple of seconds to conceive that and add:
     - One minute... and it will be so!
     I don't know if  it's possible, I don't know the limit of my  powers, I
even don't know where they came from.
     But they believe me.
     - What do you want, diver? - shouts Urman. Reid shoulders him aside and
roars:
     - Your conditions!
     Did I guess right about his taxes?
     - You'll stop the hunt.
     The miracle is before them. But they have what to lose.
     Urman and Guillermo look at each other, Al-Kabar's director nods.
     - We  cancel our  charges Jordan, - says Willy, - It's not necessary...
to engage Interpol.
     He nods to me very slightly. So it was just a threat?
     Lies. Lies everywhere.
     With a  corner of my eyes  I  can  see people approaching  us along the
street, the ordinary citizens of  Deeptown. Now, as the cordon is gone, they
can satiate their curiosity.
     Let them watch.
     Jordan grabs Dibenko's shoulder and shakes him slightly:
     -  Did  you  hear  that?  The  operation is over! That's  it! Turn your
systems off!
     So it was Dmitry who froze the building? Police had not enough guts for
that?
     Man Without Face  shoves commissar aside, he looks at me only. He's the
only  one who doesn't care about my threats.  Not because he doesn't believe
in  them and  not because he's  ready  to compete with an American juridical
system, totally run through with computer technologies.
     He's not ready to refuse the miracle. We're compatriots  after all, the
highest  idea  had  screwed  up our  brains  alike,  even  if  in  different
directions. A whisper comes from the foggy mask:
     - You're betraying the entire world...
     - I'm rehabilitating it.
     -  You  don't  want  to share, diver. You've  got  your  reward...  and
betrayed us. Ah well. Don't forget to take the Medal - you'll have something
to justify yourself with.
     I  remember  the  warehouse, the  boxes with soft, the  table where the
Medal of Complete Licence was left.
     I reach through the distance that  is no more, and the heavy medal lies
into  my  hand. I examine  it  for  a  second: the white background and  the
rainbow colored sphere, the cobweb  of the Net surrounded by  innocence  and
purity.
     - This is yours, - I say and throw the Medal  to Man Without  Face. The
medal  touches the black fabric of the cloak and  sticks to it.  Nice... - I
haven't  earned that. And  you... you created the  deep,  and stop repeating
that you couldn't  do it. You could. By yourself. Thank you. But don't think
that we  all  owe you anything. This world will live, will fall and learn to
stand  up after that.  It'll never  force to talk  anybody who wants to stay
silent, and  will never shut the mouth of  the  ones who want  to talk.  And
probably it'll become better...
     I turn around and walk towards my house.
     Dibenko haven't yet  turned off the programs that froze the building in
the  diamond crust. But  I ain't gonna ask him for anything. I pull the door
and enter the staircase that shines as Aladdin's Cave of  Wonders. It's just
that illumination dims behind my back,  fades  completely. I rip the foreign
program, gaining step after step from it.
     I ascend, just two and a half hundred steps to go up.
     Rustles and noises can be heard behind each door, my drawn little world
livens up  as I pass by. Fragments  of  music  and muffled talks, rattle  of
shattering glass and rhythmical hammer hits,  slaps of bare feet against the
floor and squeal of a drill can be heard from behind my back.
     I can't even  remember now, when and what was I programming surrounding
myself with nonexistent neighbors. Weirdo am I. Just as anybody is...
     I know that I can  remove all freezing at once, with one effort,  but I
don't do that. Let the way up will be slow, step by step, sweeping the false
sparkle from the  walls, waking up the  life in empty apartments. I'll never
enter this house again.
     Baby's  whimpering and the buzz of  a  broken faucet, dog's barking and
goblets' ringing. I  have nothing  to memorize and nothing  to be sad about.
These were my crutches but I've learned to walk on my own.
     The last bend of the stairs,  for  a moment I stop  by  my door made of
diamond grains.  My tiny face is  in every one of them, one  of the numerous
faces I was putting on in the deep.
     I breathe at the door - the diamonds dim, darken turning into  icicles,
melting and flowing down in water droplets. Cry for me abyss, I have nothing
to cry for.
     I  enter and instantly see that nothing have changed inside,  Dibenko's
program had no power here.
     Unfortunate and Vika stand by the window, looking outside.
     I approach - and  Vika silently takes my  hand into her, and we look at
Deeptown, three of us.
     The street is swarming with people, a dense solid crowd, Deep-Transit's
cabs stay a bit further along the sides of the  street and people still keep
coming in order to freeze, looking up at the house.
     And only right under  the window  the people give place, there's a ring
of emptiness surrounding Man Without Face. He also looks up as if being able
to see us. I even want to believe that he can.
     - He's not evil at all, - I say to Unfortunate, - He's only impatient.
     - I don't accuse anyone, - agrees Unfortunate.
     - Then leave, - I ask, - It's high time for that.

     He looks  at  me  for some time,  the one  who  came  into the deep  as
Unfortunate,  as if trying  to see my real face, to  understand what I might
feel now.
     - Are you hurt? - he asks in the end.
     - No. Just upset, but this is different.
     - I feared that you'll be hurt: I broke your dream, didn't I?
     - Which one?
     -  You  dreamed  that virtuality will  change  the world, will make  it
cleaner,  will  give power and  kindness  to the people.  You tolerated what
angered you, smiled to what annoyed you...
     Unfortunate  stretches his hand, puts it on top of my and Vika's joined
palms.
     - You believed in the moment... one single moment that would redeem all
sins and mistakes. I killed this faith.
     It's  even funny  for me to listen to these words. Does he really think
so?
     Did I really think so?
     - It's not the deep, Unfortunate, - I say, - Not this deep.
     He nods.
     - Do you remember the mirror labyrinth, Leonid?
     Sure I do...
     -  The deep gave you millions  of mirrors diver, the magic mirrors. One
can see himself,  one can see the world - any of its  corners. One  can draw
the  world  and it'll become  alive, reflected in  the  mirror.  This  is  a
wonderful gift. But mirrors are too  obedient diver, obedient and deceitful.
The  mask put on  once becomes  the  face. The vice turns into  finesse, the
snobbery into  elite stuff, the spite  into sincerity. The journey into  the
mirror world isn't an easy stroll, it's too easy to get lost.
     - I know...
     - That's only why I'm talking to you - because you  know. I would  like
to be your friend too, Leonid.
     He smiles sadly, then adds:
     - But it would be a very strange friendship...
     - Alien and Russian - brothers  forever? - inquires Vika sarcastically.
{<i>A mock of the Stalin's times  song:  "Stalin and Mao watch upon us... [...]
Russian and Chinese - brothers forever."</i>}
     So Unfortunate didn't  convince her, not at all.  For her he's still  a
human, a cunning hacker taking everyone in...
     I'm mirthless but I say:
     - I'm not asking who you are. Believe it or not, but I don't care... An
alien from the stars or from another dimension, or the machine mind. But you
know much more then we do anyway. Tell me, what will happen?
     - It depends in what mirror you are looking, diver.
     - Then I'll choose, Unfortunate, and I'll be very picky. Now - leave.
     He removes his hand from ours.
     For a  second  nothing happens,  then  the wall behind hid  back starts
bending, curling up into a funnel.
     Unfortunate  makes  a step back, into the shiny tunnel  leading towards
unknown, towards  the blue sun and orange bands flying  beneath it, into his
world.  His body  shivers and  blurs, cascades of  colorful sparks streaming
from his skin. For a moment it seems to me that I can  see - see the one who
visited our world.
     But most likely, I just want to give the miracle a name too much.
     - Remember us... - I say to escaping flashes of light, - Remember us as
we are...
     The  house begins  to shake, the walls  become  transparent, then  pale
green, then brick ones, then  made of paper. The ceiling crawls up and bends
in a dome, the floor  turns  into the mirror, the light in the window passes
all  spectrum  colors  and  burns our  silhouettes on  the paper  wall.  The
apartment turns into a huge hall as  if all directions  were stretched by an
order.
     The tunnel  narrows slowly,  but there's still  time...  to  jump after
Unfortunate  - and  to  see where he came from, to  tear the mask  from  the
miracle.
     - Lenia, what is this? - shouts Vika.
     - The data, - I answer. The wind begins to blow through  the apartment,
a room  pomegranate  in a flowerpot blossoms, a  pile of  CDs on  the  shelf
starts playing  all  songs  simultaneously.  - He  copies  the data,  brings
everything he learned with himself.
     Half transparent shadows rush  past us. Alex  with the carbine at ready
runs by,  then a monstrous  spider rushes  by,  stepping with its paws, that
imaginary family which we rescued in "Labyrinth" goes down the tunnel too. A
huge tree flies away, rotating as a propeller, a hobbit with a scared muzzle
minces  out, a  flying Man  Without  Face's guard  with a fire breathing jet
knapsack stalks out in huge jumps.
     Then me and Vika walk in. Hand in hand.
     - Remember us, - I repeat, - Remember...
     The tunnel narrows more like a  cameras's aperture. At  the last moment
the flying slippers of Computer Wiz squeeze into it, flapping their wings.
     Then the room returns to normal.
     - I  don't believe that he's an alien anyway, -  says  Vika,  in unsure
voice but stubbornly, - If he's a good hacker, then he could...
     She silences when I hug her shoulders.
     - Please Vika, don't, - I ask,  -  He  have left, haven't  he? Forever.
It's not necessary to argue now, we can just believe.
     There's a  noise in the street, an exchange of opinions. Have they seen
at least anything of what we did? It doesn't matter. The new legend was born
in the deep.
     - He  have left, but we stay, - says Vika, - and  there's a  hunt after
you.
     I nod, slowly releasing her, step  to the  window  and  look down.  Man
Without Face is still motionless.
     - Leonid the diver must leave too. - I agree.
     - Will you miss your house? - asks Vika. How great it is when it's  not
necessary to explain anything.
     - A little... like I'd miss a kiddie's three-wheeler.
     I return to her and hug again, her lips find mine.
     And this is something that will never leave from now on.
     - Abyss... - I call silently.
     The house shakes again when the rental server in distant Minsk receives
the command. Magnetic head slides along the disk surface - deleting.
     One  turn  -  and  the  first  floor   with  the  scandalous  pensioner
disappears. Another turn - and the  sixth  floor with the quiet graphomaniac
is gone, another - and the tenth floor with vinyl collector is no more.
     My computer livens up and the apartment walls fade. I don't look at the
table, but I know well that the drawn Vika on the display smiles to me - for
the last time. Programs don't feel  sad when we delete them, people do but I
have no choice. If you get lost in the mirror labyrinth - break the mirrors,
reach for the light...
     A  crowd  bursts into shouts  when my  house dissolves in the air. Poor
Jordan will have to prove that it wasn't his fault.
     We fly above Deeptown in a hug, looking into each other's eyes.
     - Great... - whispers Vika.
     - I have no idea myself how I do it...
     - You have no idea how you're kissing? - she asks in surprise.
     ... No, never will I understand a woman's logic.
     By  the   connection  of  the   Ukranian  and  Baltic  blocks,  near  a
supermarket, I find a  quiet spot between phone booths and  a fountain. This
is where we come out from. Not at once though.
     - You're erasing all your traces? - inquires Vika.
     I nod in silence.
     - Do you hope they'll not find you?
     - I'll try. Maybe they'll be  able to figure the city  out... but  even
this isn't likely. It would be better if they won't know even this.
     - What about trusting me?
     -  St.  Petersburg, -  I  say.  I  want  so  much  to hear  that  we're
compatriots, but Vika frowns.
     - Piter... Lenia, wait here, okay?
     I wait.  She runs into the supermarket  while I reach the  Minsk server
again,  checking for any  trace  that might have  left,  then move along all
spare addresses, even along those never used - and kill them scratching  all
data  from  everywhere  mercilessly  -  from  strimmers  and  magnetooptics,
Bernulli's storage and optical disks. The last one to be cleaned is my ISP's
disk. That's it. Now I never entered the deep.
     Vika returns.
     - Got into a long waiting line, can you imagine? - she laughs.
     - An urgent shopping?
     - One thing.
     She waves a farsightedly folded plane ticket before my face, I just can
see where is she about to fly.
     - Are you free in the morning?
     - Don't you fear to fly?
     - What can I  do, it'd be too long by  all other means... Will you meet
me?
     - What flight?
     - Wait for me by the information booth at ten in the morning.
     A little game of independency...  I can reach the cash register  in the
supermarket right now  and find out who and from where have just  bought the
ticket to St. Petersburg.
     But of course I won't do that.
     - How will I recognize you?
     Vika shrugs her shoulders.
     - We'll see. How about you?
     - I'll hold a red rose in my teeth, - I inform gloomily.
     I can understand Vika perfectly.  One thing  is to fall in love  in the
virtual world,  while  to meet  in  reality is an absolutely different case.
It's  too scary to talk  about  yourself.  I don't know whether I would have
guts to offer to meet first.
     - Then see you  at ten by the info  booth, - decides Vika,  - Let's try
not to be confused?
     - Okay.
     - I'll leave now, alright?  - she half asks, half informs, - I yet have
to gather my stuff...
     - It's cold here already, - I warn.
     - Here too...
     Vika  becomes  half  transparent and crumbles  in  a  whirl of  sparks.
Beautiful is her exit from the deep.
     My time is up too.
     I wink to  a passer-by  who stopped watching  Vika's exit and disappear
from virtuality.
     The screens were dark. Completely.
     I took the helmet off.
     The  golden background of Windows-Home was glowing on the display, Vika
is gone.
     Enough of loving the drawn people.
     We'll exit the Internet manually...
     I opened the terminal window and stared at the blinking line dumbly.
     No dialtone!
     I'd better pay my phone bills in time.
     I  picked  up the  phone  anyway and listened  to  the  silence. Then I
checked the logs: the phone was disconnected  three hours ago, by the end of
the working day, according to the habits of phone switchboard workers.
     So you were right, Mr Urman's virtual secretary... It's really possible
to enter the deep without any technical devices.
     I pulled the suit off and lagged myself to the bed.


     The TV set woke  me  up. I was  lying, snuggling in the comforter - the
heat  wasn't  yet turned on,  so it was  cold, and  listened to  announcers'
chatter. {<i>The  heating in Russia is mostly centralized,  meaning: one boiler
station for a part or  even for a whole town/city... so the time  of turning
the heating on in fall or off in spring doesn't depend on  the wish of those
who  lives  in  houses at all... The hot  water supply  comes  from the same
source. Now imagine what happens when this boiler station goes  down in  the
middle of the winter for a couple of weeks... OOPS. Tons of fun. :-/</i>}
     Politics,  economics,  currency  exchange   rates...  Will  yesterday's
commotion in virtuality make it to the news reports I wonder? Maybe it will,
somewhere  between the  news  about a popular  singer's  arrival and sports,
among the rest of the funny things.  Television likes to  make reports  from
Deeptown. It's funny for a philistine to watch cartoony landscapes and drawn
people.  Probably it's  good  that  we're laughed  at, if  only  we  weren't
feared... weren't hated...
     I  raised my head and glanced at the watch scared,  they must have been
stopped since yesterday. A usual thing, I always forget to  wind it. I found
the remote control lying by the bed and displayed the time on the TV screen.
     7 AM. Good, I won't be late.
     The  whole body was feeling broken-down, the head  was heavy as  always
after the series  of  long  and  frequent dives.  A human  isn't adapted  to
virtuality  too  well.  Maybe a year  or two  will  pass  and the  moment of
requital  will  come to  all  Deeptown's  citizens: some kind  of paralysis,
blindness, heart  attacks. Then Dibenko's  name will be dragged through  the
mud, the companies that made their bets on virtuality will ruin, and serious
scientists  will  report  that they  foresaw  it  long  time  ago  and  were
restlessly warning...
     We'll see. In any case I'll have a chance  to  feel the  disaster among
the first.
     Or maybe on the  contrary - the  breakthrough I was dreaming  about and
Dibenko was waiting for will happen. What  I could do yesterday will  become
possible for everybody. Two worlds merged together: virtuality and  reality,
just make one step and enter the deep, without any crutches...
     I rose and made my  bed, washed the floor, wiped  the dust,  then raked
all clothes out from the closet and was digging in the pile for five minutes
in search  for anything decent.  It's too hard to take care of your wardrobe
if you got used to draw all your clothes, from briefs to tuxedo.
     Jeans and sweatshirt. Will do.
     Dressed,  I walked  along  the  apartment  once  more glancing  at  the
computer that was working all night long. A  line was slowly crawling across
the screen: "Lenechka, the deep is waiting!"
     Let it wait.
     No,  my attempts to  make an  apartment to look  any better failed. The
chronic chaos of the single's apartment was only enhanced by clean floor and
the  garbage  removed  out of sight.  Oh well...  let's  appear in  complete
beauty. If Vika ever dealt with hackers, she won't be scared.
     I turned the computer off, and being at the exit already,  I remembered
that even haven't attempted to get the  kitchen into order... Oh no,  that's
enough, this deed isn't for me.
     After  closing  the door  hastily,  I called the  elevator. The plastic
button,  burned  through by a  cigarette  butt  was  hardly glowing. It  was
heavily smoked inside the cabin for some reason.
     Not so beautiful as in the deep, sure not.
     The elevator dragged me down slowly, past ten floors, past my neighbors
of the  concrete box whom  I didn't know, and even never  attempted to know.
One  can  think  out  other's lives, can  sympathize  and  mock  nonexistent
people... But how hard  is it to know  them  - those alive and real ones, to
make just a step closer.
     What if Vika won't come? What if she changes her mind, feeling the same
thing that I did: one cannot merge two worlds?
     I imagined myself in the airport - a ridiculous figure, a fugitive from
the virtual world  crawled into the world of alive. The  pale untanned  mug,
clothes that never require ironing, the eyes, red as the druggie's. And then
Vika appears, beautiful and slender,  fashionably dressed...  or  maybe even
worse. A stooping girl in glasses comes out, in baggy dress and the coat  of
several years ago's fashion...
     God knows what would be worse...
     I quietly moaned, almost  living through  our common  shame and  mutual
disappointment. Elevator doors parted right at this moment and a little girl
with a terrier led on a leash stepped back scared.
     Oh great, now even kids dash aside...
     I squeezed past  the  cheerful dog and dragged myself  down  along  the
stairs towards the exit.
     - Good morning! - said the girl quietly behind me.
     I forgot how to greet people, didn't I?..
     - Good morning, - I replied, smiling belatedly and ran outside.
     For some reason I'm  sure that Unfortunate wouldn't forget to say that,
he  would even also pat the dog  on the  neck  and the dog would plop on its
back, pleased.
     I had enough money now, I could even take a taxi to the airport proudly
but I didn't want to hurry. I feared that wait,  oh how I feared it... I had
a  couple  of hamburgers for breakfast by  some kiosk,  warmed up  ones  but
obviously not fresh made. I wanted beer but under the seller's condescending
look I dared for soda only.
     The bus to the airport was almost empty. Some  sleepy company with huge
trunks, girls with a very bright make-up according to  the latest fashion. I
stood in the back of the bus watching the belt of the road crawling away.
     Maybe I shouldn't go...
     It was  a quarter before ten when the  bus stopped  at the  airport.  I
crawled out with  an optimism of the one condemned to execution, stood under
the drizzling rain for some time before entering the building.
     Maybe the weather is too bad for flights...
     It was warm and noisy  in the  airport. The kids, excited by the flight
ahead  were running around  their  parents,  the  'shuttle  merchants'  were
gloomily dragging their packs along, the line of lightly dressed  people was
forming for registration  for some Southbound flight. {<i>'Shuttle merchants' -
a  kind of tiny  business, common to Russia. They travel to China, Turkey or
some other  country, buy the  goods from wholesalers  or  on  local  markets
(usually these are dirt cheap clothes of  crappy quality), and  *personally*
take those back to Russia (by a charter flight when several merchants hire a
plane or just by a regular passenger flight). Then the goods are either sold
(personally  again) on some  retail  (flea-kind)  market  or are  resold  to
smaller merchants (yeah, there are even smaller ones!)</i>}
     I  studied  the flight info  on the  display  - there  were  no delayed
arrivals.
     Maybe Vika didn't come...
     Four planes have landed during  last half an hour. Vika could have come
from Tashkent,  Riga, Khabarovsk or  Moscow... And if she set the  time with
reserve, then all Russia is at her disposal and almost all of the abroad.
     I  lagged to the info booth,  several  people was  standing  there  but
neither woman looked like Vika to me, I felt that from the very first sight.
     All  faces  are so much different,  so  many homely, tired and  worried
ones. It's not so in the deep, and to no purpose possibly...
     I  leaned  against  the wall  and  waited.  Half an  hour is  my  usual
indulgence to women's unreliability... But I'll make an exception for  Vika,
will wait for an hour. Or two. I'll stick to this wall until militia unglues
me.
     So good  would it be to have a good notebook now,  with radio modem, to
run the  deep program, to  dive,  to search  through all  airline companies'
files...
     I closed my eyes.
     The deep was lying before me.
     The  black  velvet,  the  bottomless  precipice,  pierced  by  colorful
threads. The tiny sphere of the Earth that tried  a new apparel on. The deep
was  waiting,  I  could  see  sparks  of  the  planes leaving  and  landing,
whirlpools of information processed by computers, I saw a distant Deeptown's
buildings. Just to  reach out -  and I'll  be  there,  I don't need machines
anymore.
     Somebody nearby, right in the airport, was entering the  deep using his
notebook. I stood behind his back for a moment and looked with his eyes.
     This is my world.
     The  generous and boundless,  noisy  and slovenly, the human one. It'll
become better, will change with us, we just need to believe in this, not  to
wander  in  labyrinths  when  the exit is near,  not to  fall  in love  with
reflections when alive people are by our side. And possibly the next visitor
to the deep won't become the only Unfortunate who can't shoot at the people.
     I exited  the  Net, the figures have changed on  electronic wall clock:
ten sharp.
     - And where's the red rose?
     It was the most dreadful - to turn and to look at Vika, harder than all
feats in the virtual world...
     She was  exactly the one I was drawing, the one that  smiled to me from
the screen every morning. The one that lived in my dreams.
     Just her hair are a little  lighter and the haircut  is  a bit shorter,
and her eyes don't  laugh - they  are scared...  just like mine are now. But
this is my  Vika, the girl in jeans and light jacket, with the bag over  her
shoulder.
     We both  lived in  our  real bodies in  the deep. The best mask in  the
world is your own face.
     - This rose is still being grown, - I say.
     Vika relaxes a little.
     - I feared... that you'll promise me to draw it.
     - Oh no, - I whisper, - Enough of drawn flowers...
     I take her hand, we'll stand here like this for  a second, looking into
each other's eyes.
     Before we go home.