Labyrinth of reflections

– 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 fu

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 tu

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 ru

– 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.