Labyrinth of reflections lor-1

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  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. { In English in the original }

  – 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!

  110

  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: { in English here } 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!

  { a part of one of Russian translations } A real psycho clinic, and I’m the dumbest patient in here.
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br />   – 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.