Otherwise one day you'll not be able to surface.
1
The first movements are the most difficult. The small room, the table in the middle of it, computer wires from the UPS go to the computer, the thinner wire plugged into the phone jack. The sofa stands by the wall, under the luxury carpet, the small fridge is by the opened door to the balcony. The necessary minimum. Five minutes ago I checked what's in the fridge, so I'm not threatened by hunger for today.
I turn my head, to the left, to the right – the light darkens in my eyes for the moment, but it's only a moment. Nevermind, it happens.
– Are you okay, Lenia?
The speakers are set for the full volume, I frown and say:
– Yes.. Lower the volume.
– Lower the volume… lower… lower… – agrees Windows-Home .
– Enough, Vika. {
complete form: Victoria, never used in the novel
} Good program, docile, quick-witted and friendly one. Not without too much self confidence, as any Microsoft product, but I have to put up with it.
– Good luck, – says the program, – When should I expect you back?
I look at the screen: the woman's face is floating there, framed by orange sparks, the young and cute face but nothing special. I'm tired of the model beauty.
– I don't know.
– I'd like to have 10 minutes for self adjustment..
– Okay, but not more. I'll need all resources in 10 minutes.
The face on the screen frowns: the program extracts the keywords.
– Only 10 minutes, – says Windows-Home obediently, – But I must draw your attention one more time to the fact that the level of the tasks you set for me does not always correspond to the volume of my RAM. The desired extension is…
– Shut up. – I rise. "Shut up" is a definite order, the program doesn't dare to argue after that. I pad to the fridge and get a can of Sprite. The liquid cools the throat. It's almost a ritual – the deep always dries the throat. With the can in my hand I come out on the balcony, into the warm summer evening.
It's almost always evening in Deeptown. The streets are lit by the bright light of neon signs, cars softly growl scudding along the streets, and people move in neverending stream. Twenty-five million of permanent inhabitants: the biggest megapolis in the world. Faces can't be seen from the height of eleventh floor. I finish my Sprite and throw the can down returning into the room.
– Not ethical… – mutters the computer. Ignoring it I leave the room, put on my shoes and open the door. The staircase is empty and brightly lit, very-very clean. While I deal with the lock, the tiny bug tries to fly in through the half opened door. Oh well, lamers are having their fun. With irony I watch the persistent insect – the steady flow of air blows from the apartment pushing the bug back out… Finally the door is closed, the bug knocks against it in the last effort, a short flash – and it falls on the floor.
– Should I file the complaint to the landlord? – asks Windows-Home. Now the voice comes from silver clips on my shirt's collar.
– Go ahead – I agree. I always forget to explain to the program that the landlord is myself.
The elevator waits for me. Usually I use the stairs… peeking inside other apartments along the way. Nobody lives there anyway… but now I'm in hurry. The elevator goes down – very fast. I pad out into the street, look around, maybe the insect lover is still near? But there's nobody suspicious nearby, everybody mind their own business. The bug was a passer by obviously, a serial work. These are being crushed on the streets, exterminated in the apartments but they keep coming.
I was having this fun too in my time, it was extremely seldom when those bugs managed to bring any interesting info.
– Lenia, the complaint from tenant #1 was received by the "Polyana" company.
I mumble, – Ignore it, – watching the man that walks along the street. Gee, this is something! The mixture of younger Arnold Shwarzenegger and older Clint Eastwood. Very funny. The man notices my sarcastic look and walks faster.
I raise my hand and the yellow limo stops by the sidewalk in an instant.
– Lenia, your complaint was ignored!
– Nevermind…
This can go forever, but I have no time for games now… I get into the car, the driver, a smiling guy with the perfect hairdo dressed in starched shirt, turns to me. I prefer this type of drivers: well trained and brief ones.
– Deep-Transit Company is glad to welcome you!
He doesn't say the name – the program stopped the taxi anonymously.
– How will you pay?
– Like this, – I say getting the revolver out of my pocket and hit the guy on the temple really hard. He tries to block me but it's too late. I look at his pale face, shook him by the collar and order:
– Al-Kabar block.
– This address doesn't exist – says the driver. He's knocked out and conquered.
– Al-Kabar. 8-7-7-3-8. – the simple code opens the access to Deep-Transit's service addresses. I could manage without hitting the driver but in this case information about the ride would remain in the company's files.
– You've got it, – the driver is cheerful and helpful again.
The car is off. I look into the window: residence blocks fly by, packed with skyscrapers inhabited by Deeptown's small fry and huge luxury corporate offices. Long gray IBM buildings, splendid Microsoft's palaces, tracery towers of AOL, a bit more modest offices of other leaders of computer industry.
There are plenty of others of course: furniture, grub, real estate sales firms, travel agencies, transportation companies, hospitals… even the least alive and kicking company tends to open its office in Deeptown.
It's this abundance that Deep-Transit flourishes on. Traveling on foot across the city is a long fun. We fly along the freeways, stop on intersections, enter tunnels and cross road junctions. I'm waiting. I could order the driver to go the shortest way but in this case he would need to contact dispatching office and I would leave the trace…
The city ends abruptly – like the wall of palaces and skyscrapers was cut off by the huge knife. The city loop road and the forest across it, the thick and wild forest… that separates from the fuss those who doesn't want to make a show of themselves.
– Slow down, – I order when we pass the mango growth and approach quite a type of the mid-Russian thicket, – Stop by that next path.
– It's still a long drive to Al-Kabar…
– I said – stop!
The car stops. I open the door and make a couple of steps from the limo. The driver waits obediently. I wait too – for the break in the traffic. Why would we want witnesses? Ah, finally…
I aim to the car and shoot. The revolver is not very loud, the kick is slight, but the car takes fire in an instant. The driver sits inside looking forward. Several seconds, and Deep-Transit has one cab less.
Good. Let everything look like drunk punks having fun… I enter the forest.
– Not ethical… – mumbles Windows-Home from the clips.
– Have you optimized yourself already?
– Yes.
– Okay, now I need help. Look for the cache, access code: "Ivan".
– The glowing tree, – says the program.
I look around. Bingo. Here it is, the huge oak tree, glimmering with the magic blue light. Glimmering for me only. I approach it, put my hand into the hollow and grab the big heavy package. Then I change into white linen shirt and pants, tie a patterned belt around, hang a short sword in a sheath on it, put several little things in pockets. I made this cache several days ago, illegally using one of the computers belonging to the Transcaucasian Railroad's transportation department. The programmers are weak there, they will not notice this little invasion for a long time.
– Where's the stream? – I ask.
– To the right.
I bend over running water and look at my reflection, hit it with my hand several times, then start moving my finger over it, erasing. Now the blond stately robust fellow looks back at me from the troubled mirror. The face is good natured looking and plain to aversion.
– Thanks, – I say to the program and rise. Standing still I enjoy the forest, hell knows for how long didn't I get here out of the city's stench…
– Waiting for me, aren't we, Mr Nice Guy? – the question from behind the back. I turn around – the huge wolf, up to my chest in height, emerges from the bush.
– Maybe for you, – I answer admiring the wolf. Hell, he's awesome! He's really gray, and not simply gray but of exact blackish/grayish wolfs' color. The fur is felted here and there, a burdock is stuck to the right forepaw.
– Shouldn't I eat you, Mr Nice Guy? – asks the wolf and bares his teeth, his fangs are yellow like smoker's, one is missing totally.
I improvise mockingly, – Why would thou brag emptily, run thouself onto my mighty sword? Better serve me well!
The wolf smiles and sits down, – And what the payment will be, the mighty warrior?
– Three grands each, – I inform him.
The wolf nods, satisfied, rubs his muzzle with a paw and asks, – Al-Kabar?
– Good guess.
– Mission?
– Theft.
– Who's the customer?
I just shrug. The answer is as rhetoric as the question. The customers don't like to disclose themselves.
– Let's give it a try, – decides the wolf, – Are you ready?
– Quite.
– Let's go.
I scramble onto the wolf's back and he runs through the forest in relaxed pace. I instinctively duck the tree branches, the wolf snickers. Let him have some fun.
In a couple of minutes we leave the forest. The yellow sand is under the feet now. It's very hot, and wind blows make me to narrow my eyes. The chasm nearly 100 meters wide is ahead, and the Eastern styled city can be seen on the opposite side. Minarets, domes, everything in orange-yellow-green colors. Pretty nice. Not far away from us there's a… well, let's call it the "bridge" across the chasm: the thread, thin as a string. One its end is on the city wall, the other is being held in the hand of the ugly stone statue around 10 meters high. The statue's face is quite terrifying.
– Looks like a tough piece of work… – notes the wolf, – don't you think you've sold yourself too cheap, Ivan The Prince?
– God knows… – I answer examining the statue, – I was warned about the bridge…
– What are you gonna steal?
– Ripe apples…
– Oh, so this is the reason for all this masquerade… – snickers the wolf again, – And what is inside the apples? {
here is a reference to the Russian fairy tales of course…
}
– I dunno, – I spring down from his back, keeping my hand on his fur, – Okay, gimme a second, I'll grab some soda and will be right back…
– Go ahead, – agrees the wolf gazing around.
I half close my eyes.
Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours… let me go, abyss…
I shivered slightly and stood up; tiny screens before my eyes, the desert, the chasm, the statue and the city in the distance is on them, very nice drawing. Al-Kabar has good designers.
The virtual helmet is heavy, one of the most sophisticated models by Sony: with excellent color screens, great speakers and built-in microphone, with air conditioner producing the air of the necessary temperature. Now it's a desert heat… I took off the helmet and put it on the table, by the keyboard. The familiar woman's face appeared on the monitor.
– Lenia, are you interrupting the immersion? – came out of the speakers.
– No. Hold on.
In the real world my room is the same as in the virtual space. The difference is though: it's not a warm Deeptown's summer evening behind the windows but the rainy St. Peterburgh autumn. It's drizzling outside, the car honks in the distance. I opened the fridge and took a can of Sprite. Let's really drink… I couldn't resist the urge to look from the balcony. Of course, the empty can that I threw out into the street in virtuality, is not there. Well, let's eliminate the differences.
My hair were damp with perspiration, I wiped them with a shirt that was scattered on the chair, sat by the computer, checked the cable of the virtual suit that connects it with the computer's deep-board. The suit was working, slightly slowing down my movements as if I was walking on the sand. The left leg was slowed down a bit more than the right one: the program glitches again. Ah well, I'll fix it later.
Putting the helmet on is the same as to enter the hot oven. Those Al-Kabar's fouls surrounded themselves with the most uncomfortable conditions…
Again I was looking at the virtual world, but it is yet too much like a cheap cartoon: a grainy image, a nice but rough drawing. Computers can't handle anything better.
And that's okay. What is the deep without the human after all?
I blinked once, relaxed trying to enter virtuality by my own and failed of course. I'm not in the desert, I'm at home, by the keyboard. I had to type the command:
deep [Enter] The multicolor whirlwind flashes out above the desert image. For one more second I could see the screens, the soft cushion inside the helmet, then the consciousness began to drift. The brain tried to resist, but no use, the deep program affects everybody.
But there are some people – one out of 300.000 – those who don't lose the link with reality completely. Those who can surface from the deep on their own. The divers.
People like me, for instance.
The wolf smirks to me, – Got your whistle wet a little?
– Yup.
I examine myself: is everything fine? My body in virtuality – the simple drawing, translated to one or another point of Deeptown or its suburbs by the computer, but the sword on the belt and little things in the bag are not just simple pictures. These are shortcuts, program launchers which I'll need soon.
– Here is the plan, – I decide. – I'll cross the bridge alone. Then I'll bring out the trophies and we take to our heels.