Sergei Lukyanenko - Labyrinth of reflections

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AutBody_0fb_2 About the Author: 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.
Copyright Sergey Lukjanenko "Labyrinth of reflections" Copyright translation by Yuri Kalmykov aka Mohatu , 1998 * Yuri Kalmykov. Translator's notes * 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. {
} The guys have forgot to put the {
} 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 Lenia Lenechka Len'chik 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. {
} 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.
http://www.lionking.org/~mohatu/translations.htm

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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. { '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 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.

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