Sergei Lukyanenko - Labyrinth of reflections

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.