Labyrinth of reflections

Despite the whistles and shouts the guy finishes telling his anecdote and runs from the stage looking around in a primed way. Lonely applause can be heard: geez, who could imagine… I look around for the bar, it's in the far corner of the park. The girl gives me a bottle of beer without a word.

– Thanks.. – I make a sip. The ice cold 'Heineken' raises my spirits instantly.

One more guy ascends the stage, this time much more individual looking one, reminding me the Baltic type. His face looks roguish and I prick up my ears. The guy glances at the small booth in the corner of the stage askance.

– Gentlemen! – he shouts. Hm, he's really Baltic unless it was my subconsciousness that made me hear the accent. – 'Lithocomp' company is honored to offer you the lowest prices for the following…

A-haaa… no questions.

I look at the booth too: the moderator's hiding place. Every club has the person who watches the talks to correspond to the declared topic. The question is though: is moderator on duty now or will react later?

He's here.

The booth's door opens and the sturdy man emerges from inside lazily, holding the pretty sinister looking device in his hands. The Baltic guy notices him and starts chattering really fast: – … hard drives: 'Quantum Lighting', 'Western Digital'…

– Not on topic! – the moderator says lazily but with suppressed rage and shoulders his weapon. The audience goes quiet enjoying the show.

The barrel recoils and the brightly shining red cross-like object flies towards the merchant with a shrilling whistle. The Baltic tries to duck but no use: moderators never miss. The fiery cross or 'plus' as it's usually called, sticks to the merchant's shirt: three such 'pluses' in total – and he'll be ba

The crowd laughs approvingly.

– Hey, maybe it was the way the anecdote was supposed to begin, huh? – shouts somebody out from the audience. The moderator shakes his finger to him with a warning, then aims at the Baltic again. The guy quits his attempts to scrape the shiny plus off his shirt, jumps down from the stage and flees.

– Wheee, crush 'im! – the crowd instigates the moderator but he's in the kind mood today, he flings the plus-thrower behind his back and retires into the portable toilet-looking booth.

– 'Lithocomp'… – says the girl nearby thoughtfully. – I should check their prices, it's time to change the HD…

Well, at least some success was achieved by the merchant after all. Another humor thirsty one ascends the stage.

– Once, Wi

Just why Shtirlitz and Pooh anecdotes are so popular in virtuality?! Is it some weird kind of psychologic aberration?…

– Thanks for the beer, – I say to the girl and walk out of the park.

My mood can't be called lousy, but it's odd. I toil myself along the clubs' buildings. Through the barred windows of the Martial Arts club I can see the fragile built Eastern looking guy demonstrating some complicated moves. In the open air type cinema called 'Movies' the imposing man gestures energetically standing before the screen. I peek inside and hear:

– Cheap stuff! This movie is a disgusting cheap stuff!

Boring-boring-boring, Ladies and Gentlemen…

Alexandrians are probably right: we have turned the virtual world into the parody of the real one, but parodies are never better than the original, their goal is different: to mock it, to show its awkwardness and stupidity.

But we can't change the world, and this parody makes no sense. It's not a dash forward but just a step aside.

– Vika…

– Yes Lenia?

– Stop me a cab…

– Okay.

Maybe it's worthy to ride around the city, or to go to an entertainment center.

The Deep-Transit's cab stops by me, I open the door and get inside. The driver is of some absolutely new type, never seen before: the bearded man in ripped T-shirt and tattoos on his shoulders. Does he imitate Punk or something?

– The car will arrive shortly, – informs Windows-Home.

Now I realize that the driver haven't even told the traditional greeting; that we're moving already even if I haven't told the address.

– It's only one road from here, – says the driver and turns to me with a smirk. He has a scar on his cheek and decayed teeth. It's not a program obviously, it's a real person.

– Stop the car.

– That's against the rules, – the driver grins steering carelessly.

{ The whole scene hints to another Russian hit movie called "The Diamond Hand", released in 1968. It's a great comedy about a modest aged Soviet engineer who went to the sea cruise abroad for the first time and was confused (and misplaced) with a jewelry smugglers' courier. } Uh-oh.

– Vika, exit! – I command.

No answer.

– Your little program doesn't hear you, – informs the driver, – Stay put, okie? It'll be the best.

I never heard about virtual abductions before.

– Who are you?

The Beard just smiles.

Of course there is a way out: unavailable to the ordinary Deeptown citizen: to exit the Deep by myself and to break the co

The question is though: isn't it exactly what they expect from me? Revealing myself as the diver, and to break the co

Geez, just why did I co

– What do you want?

The driver ignores me, but watches nevertheless, examining me with curiosity of the hunter who managed to shoot the firebird.

– Okay, you have asked for this, – I say trying not to panic and take the revolver out.

Six bullets – six different viruses. It's a weak weapon but I rely on the variety of loads, maybe the kidnapper's protection won't stand it.

Three bullets just go through him without 'seeing' the target. Good antivirus, prevented the detection of its computer. One bullet flattens and falls on the floor: the virus is killed. Other two shells don't fire at all: viruses are neutralized right in the barrel.

That's all.

I hit the driver with the revolver's handle, also the weak virus that knocks out the simple programs like Deep-Transit well, but now there's no effect of course.

– Don't flutter, – advises the driver watching how I pull the door locks. Everything is sealed completely and I submit myself. At any rate, no information is u

We move on, and again I try to contact Vika – without any success. My voice communication cha

Abyss-abyss, I'm not yours…

The car's interior is on the helmet's screens. Wow, drawn great: this is well recognizable sporty 'Lancia'.

I laid my hands on the keyboard, typed in several commands, pressed Enter.

It worked.

deep Enter I'm in the car again. The driver looks back at me cautiously. I spin the revolver in my hand thoughtfully: it's loaded again, and the pocket is weighed down by a grenade.

– The parcel was received? – asks the driver.

Now it's my turn to play the game of silence.

– I wonder how?

– You know my friend, if I run out of ammo, it's the definite order to refill my supplies. – Smugness of a petty hacker is in my voice. Quite plausible legend: the fact that my computer have loaded the new portion of viruses into my revolver doesn't reveal the diver in me.

The driver thinks for a while.

– Let's delay shooting a little, okay?

I shrug indefinitely. The Beard says soothingly:

– We've arrived.

The car really stops by the unfamiliar building: the gray cube without windows, with the only door, very wide like in the garage and heavily armored as if in warning – it'll be tough to enter uninvited. Usually these buildings hide either banal consumer goods warehouses or luxury apartments inside.