Labyrinth of reflections

I suddenly shiver, and not because Dmitry mentioned the silence, just because this feeling is familiar to me too: a terror of the creator who can't understand what and how he created.

– Some people called me genius… – a little man with shadows under his eyes grabs my hands, – Others called me a dumbass who found the pearl in a pile of dung! But neither is true! The deep came into the world through me. It means – somebody wanted that to happen! Not now… later…

Dibenko looks at me, with greed and awe, whispers:

– Did he tell you at least anything? Just a hint… where is he from? A year, century, mille

– Dima… – I mumble, – Just why do you think…

– When you escaped, – whispers Dibenko, – You were trapped, you couldn't escape from my machine. But you did… you blasted all data away from the disk and escaped! Was it him who taught you? Was it?

It's a pity to look at him. I don't like pity so much – it kills as well as the hate does, but now I want to pity Dibenko.

But just the voice… his voice doesn't sound right. This is how a great actor in the tragic role can humiliate himself.

– You can't even imagine, – says Dibenko, – how much effort have I spent for this! What I was risking with… with my position in Al-Kabar's Board of directors, with my agents in "Labyrinth"… You wouldn't understand, you still can't understand that over there, in Russia… But I split you up, I traced your cha

Looks like the time have made a full circle, not Guillermo but Dmitry Dibenko offers me his hand now.

– They can't understand, – he whispers, – Whatever. Aliens from parallel worlds, space aliens, machine mind… Bull! There's nothing out there but us! In the past or the future days – only us!

I understand…

– One can believe or one can laugh, – Dibenko hits his fist against the poor tombstone, – But the only thing without borders is the Time. Computer network lives and will live, and the memory about this guy will outlive all of us! Information doesn't have any limit in time, Unfortunate, he peeked into the past of the humankind. From that wonderful 'far away' to which we will never live to see, from the future of the Earth – he stepped into the virtual world's childhood. Okay, okay, let us be ugly and wild! But can't he tell us at least something? Can't he give us… a faith?

– Dmitry, but why? Why do you think so?

– Because I know! – Dibenko looks into my eyes, – I couldn't create the deep program accidentally! It's as if I would shoot – and hit a thousand targets in a row! I'm not a genius at all, I'm an ordinary man. Just there, in the future, they decided to create virtuality. Possibly, it was predetermined. Maybe they just needed a bridgehead… an observation point to look into our world. So I became… a pen in someone's hand…

– A bridgehead? – I ask, – A bridgehead means war.

– Yes! And one must kill at war… and to take prisoners.

– Do you know how many hypotheses exists about Unfortunate?

– Yes.

– What if he's not from the future but from another world?

– Let it be! Even more reasons then! He's in our world and here are our laws! We must understand who is he.

What does he want from me after all?

I look at Dibenko: trembling lips, tired eyes, shabby and low appearance. What does he want? Does he want me to change my mind? Does he want me to hand Unfortunate over to him? In any case it's not in my powers. We'll just waste the time…

The time…

He knows my name and address. He knows where I live in virtuality.

He even could trace me at Romka's place.

And now he's biding his time.

I step back and rush to the gates. Dibenko looks as I leave not trying to stop me, only a smile appears on his face – a proud smile of an actor who played his role well and now listens to an applause.

101

The cab rushes past me as if my raised hand doesn't mean anything anymore in Deeptown. I jerk after the car, wave my hand again…

Useless. This is war.

How did Dibenko manage to cut me from Deeptown's transportation system? Possibly he has a share there too?

Well, but I don't need Deep-Transit anymore, do I?

An already familiar feeling when the city around falls flat turning into a scheme. I soar above it, drag myself through the distance, through foreign computers – towards my house…

… And I hit the wall.

I can see the house, a highrise inhabited by things – but I can't get inside. Something have changed in the space itself.

I make myself real, not inside the building itself, on the sidewalk by it.

The house is burning.

It's not a fire but a fantastic illumination. The walls are changing the color and brightness, each grain shines like a diamond. The whole house is like a ridiculous squarish diamond under the floodlight ray.

And there are people, many people: uniforms of the city's security service, "Labyrinth"'s and Al-Kabar's guards… The ring of cordon around the house, snipers with carbines, machine-gu

The spiders have made a deal and have spread their web together.

– Leonid! Raise your hands and come closer! – the voice booms above the street. A group of people can be seen behind the ring of guards, in the rainbow flashes of illumination: Urman, Willy, Man Without Face, commissar Jordan Reid.

Wow.

What an honor for me! Where can a poor diver go? All official and unofficial rulers of the deep have gathered by his house!

– Leonid, come closer, slowly! – repeats Reid. His voice echoes along the street.

At least they are trying to keep an impression of their actions being lawful: the operation is carried out by the police. I walk under the aiming barrels, under the scrutiny of hundreds of computers, every step of mine is measured and estimated, every byte of data is under invisible control…

The guards in front of me give way letting me in. Guillermo looks aside. Urman – who in fact is just Urman's secretary – smirks mockingly. Dibenko, in his mask again, is indifferent.

I address to Reid ignoring them all:

– What's going on?

– You're charged with unlawful penetration into secured information space, in using weapons which caused a serious material damage, in hiding the information that is vitally important for Deeptown, – raps Jordan out, – You're detained for examining the circumstances.

– And what is my house charged with? – I ask, but it's impossible to confuse Reid:

– The search for the evidence is being carried out.

I turn around to the burning building. Search? Hell no! Conservation. Freezing. Overflowing of comm cha

– I surrender, – I say, – I admit all charges. I request… this to be stopped.

Jordan shakes his head, with a slight sympathy in his look but with determination.

– Don't try to hide in reality, – he warns, – We requested Interpol for your physical arrest.

The dread rolls over me – extinguishing the will, taking all strength away. Who knows, maybe there, back in reality, gloomy commandos in black fabric masks already stand behind my back?

A real prison, a real trial – this isn't an excitement of virtual fights. It's a rotten hay mattress, a skilly which recipe haven't changed since Stalin's times, bars on the window and escort guards not blemished with an intellect.

Or my dear native police haven't yet learn to work fast despite it's desperate wish to exchange the Russian citizen for a dozen of obsolete portable radio communicators?