Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

This world is ours. And in this world, the elves are powerless.

Brother, maybe you’re having a good laugh reading these lines. For you cast off all of your doubts long ago and are convinced that your sharp-tipped ears and elfin status are a just reward for those iron balls of yours.

Or maybe you’re still slaving away at your measly administrative-assistant job for a few dollars a day. But you’re still young, and everything will change; there’s still time. You’ll get another job, you’ll be given some responsibility, and one day someone will bring an envelope to you with your first kickback, a tidy sum with more than a few lovely zeroes at the end.

You’ll take the money. Of course you will, you’ll have to. What then? What will you do next? Invite your buddies to a bar to celebrate? Send a couple hundred bucks to your cousin?

Or… right, of course. Why bother?… They’re losers.

Well, go up to the mirror and take a good long look.

Especially at your ears.

Maximus had already reached the end of this lyrical manifesto when the Cold Plus security officer materialized behind his office chair.

“Semipyatnitsky! You are in violation of Cold Plus company policy, which prohibits use of the Internet for non-work-related purposes.”

Maximus didn’t have time to close the blog window. And he wouldn’t have tried to anyway. It would’ve been demeaning, and it wouldn’t have made any difference.

“Your violations have been systematic in nature.”

The security officer had brought a printout with him—a report from IT—and he laid it on Maximus’s desk. It listed all of his transgressions against Office Policy: the addresses of websites, along with the times he’d visited them, and even the exact volume of his traffic, in megabytes.

“We have no other option but to fine you, in accordance with the Sanctions Policy, one hundred dollars for every instance of wrongful personal Internet use, plus ten dollars for every downloaded megabyte.”

Maximus thought, that’s just stupid. If the Internet didn’t exist, these corporate fascists would have needed to invent it. The Internet is the ideal place for employees to pour out all their irritation, anger, and negativity, to let off steam.

If he were in the elves’ place, he would even have funded a couple of special websites himself—for extremists and anti-establishment types. Let all these workplace philosophers type away at their blogs, where they can insult anyone they want to—the authorities, corporations, and one another—to their hearts’ content. That way they can feel as though they’re part of an Opposition, without posing any real threat to the existing order. And when the time comes for an actual revolution, the only people who’ll show up will be half-dead retirees who don’t have Internet access, and maybe a dozen or so anarchists—completely insane, of course. Some revolution: nothing a few billy clubs in the hands of helmeted OMON “cosmonaut” riot police couldn’t deal with.

Maybe the riot police themselves might sponsor such sites. Maybe they already do.

So mused Maximus. But he said nothing. The security chief turned and left. Maximus took out a clean piece of white paper and wrote:

On account of my own unimaginably strong fucking desire, I request to be relieved of my job, effective immediately. Any outstanding salary owed me may be used to cover these fines, and the remainder you can shove up your ass. Don’t neglect that part; I’m going to come and make sure you do.

PS I know all about the pills.

When he finished writing, Maximus placed the Declaration on his desk, on top of the IT report. He raked all the coins out of his desk drawer and tossed them into his briefcase. Picked up his car keys. Walked out.

On the other side of the security point he ripped his smart card in two and tossed the pieces into the nearest trash can.

Outside at last, Maximus gazed, enchanted, at the world around him and breathed in deep lungfuls of the intoxicating air of freedom and the unknown.

Wait!

That’s not all.

I admit I was tempted to end not just Part III, but the whole book, with that elegant if slightly clichéd turn of phrase about “freedom and the unknown.”

What happened next? You might well ask. Maximus quit his job; the part of his life during which he functioned as a contributing member of society was over. He made his choice. He left, and brought his story to an aesthetically satisfying conclusion. The story is over, the protagonist’s fate has been decided, the curtain has come down… The house lights come on in the dark theater. The audience rises to their feet; the folding seats snap back into place. Empty plastic soda bottles lie conveniently “forgotten” on the floor, together with cardboard boxes half full of cold, soggy popcorn.

But no!

There’s still some unfinished business.

Maximus realized this the moment he stepped outside.

How could he have forgotten?

Given all the fuss, all of his discoveries and worries, such inattention is understandable, but still: How could he have forgotten about the pills?

Peter had taken the pills to the hotel with him. When Maximus met him there, Peter didn’t have the pills, only his small carry-on bag. After their visit to the Tribunal, Peter hadn’t gone back to the hotel. Maximus had taken him to the train station himself.

So where were the pills?

Maximus got in his car, started the engine, and—following instinct—turned onto Nevsky. Semipyatnitsky muscled his way through the traffic to the Nevsky Palace, then pulled up halfway onto the sidewalk. Ignoring the prominent No Parking sign with its eloquent silhouette of a tow truck at work, he turned off the engine and climbed out.

Maximus walked up to the hotel entrance and stood there for a couple of minutes. Then, still in the grip of the same subconscious impulse, he headed for the Fontanka Embankment. He turned onto the embankment and descended the granite ramp to the canal. At the water’s edge he thought, “What am I doing here?” and glanced around.

The answer to his question was immediately obvious. A scrap of paper was stuck on the granite wall on the Fontanka side—part of a label from a carton. The letters were still legible: a big PTH followed by some other letters and numbers.

Interesting. How much time had passed since the Dutch partners’ visit? A few weeks at least. But the label, which the waves had pasted onto the granite wall, was still there; it hadn’t washed away, hadn’t dissolved in the acidic-alkaline solution of the Fontanka canal wastewater. As though it had been placed there for some special purpose, for Maximus himself to come and find it. To find it, to see it, to learn the truth.

And, indeed, as if to confirm Semipyatnitsky’s conjecture, the scrap of paper suddenly peeled off the granite, dropped into the water, and disappeared into the cold black depths of the canal.

So Peter had simply dumped the pills in the nearest canal! Tossed them in, box and all! A disaster!

Maximus had a rough idea of how the water circulation system works in a big city: The water goes through a complete cycle. It flows into the sewer pipes, and from there to the wastewater plants where it’s purified and sent back into the water supply. Today’s urine is tomorrow’s tea, and the day after tomorrow it’s urine again.

The sanitation process captures the majority of pollutants and toxins and destroys microbes with chlorine, but it was highly unlikely there were any filters effective against PTH. Someone needed to notify the Ministry of Emergency Situations! Warn people of the imminent danger!