Status Update
The ocean of sunlight flooded everything around. Zoi could distinguish each small detail, each flicker of sunny reflections in sparkling puddles, left by short summer rain. An energetic rhythm played in Zoi's head, and he saw how the surrounding him reality danced in this rhythm. The eyes of passersby reflected something that shone in Zoi's eyes. His exaltation, a rush of chemicals in his body, igniting it to the point when he thought that he could do something unusual. Like, to jump in the air and fly, or lift that truck parked near the curb. Or both.
"I think we can get in touch later..." the window blinked and switched to the list of different names. In front of each name was a marker, indicating its current status. Most of them were dull gray, meaning "status indefinite." The marker near the name "Marisel" for the last few days burned orange. Which meant that some lucky person won the exclusive attention of Marisel. Zoi thought about it. Marisel had 1,200 status points. It was a lot. It meant, to win her exclusive attention a person had to be really extraordinary in some way. Zoi wondered, was it related to intelligence, or charm, or something else. Nobody could tell for sure, and it was useless to ask somebody's advice. Advice never worked, and with each name, it had to be something different.
Aconite had 2,790 status points. Zoi liked her and those brief, strange, and disturbing conversations they had a couple of times. They talked about aesthetics, and Aconite suggested that Zoi should've burned some painting and painted a realistic picture of this process of painting burning.
"There will be some true aspect of aesthetics revealed through that. I bet you don't understand what I'm saying at this point,"
Then Aconite talked privately with other people, strangers, and Zoi felt jealous and bitter. Sure, he didn't have any chances with Aconite and her 2,790 status points, sharp intelligence, and strange, turbulent psyche. But he just couldn't help dreaming. Because during those two brief conversations, Zoi realized that they had something in common, something very deep inside. Maybe, it used to be called falling in love or something.
Several weeks had passed. Zoi kept catching up with his deadlines. During short pauses between work assignments, he chatted with strangers. Then he got a message from Aconite. It was unexpected and flattering. Like, Zoi believed that she had already forgotten him, besieged by thousands, tens of thousands of her admirers, each of whom at that point she could devote only a few minutes. Or a few seconds. Unless it was somebody extraordinary. Zoi wondered if her status one day would switch into orange. "Relationship established." This thought made him uneasy and sad. Nevertheless, Aconite didn't forget and wished to continue their conversation from the point where it had been interrupted several weeks ago.
"Have you tried to capture the image of painting on fire?"
"Not just a painting. A Masterpiece?"
"Right,"
"Am I supposed to repeat it with the painting of painting on fire then,"
"You can, but it doesn't matter,
...
you are right about the Masterpiece part, but you still didn't get the point, I think,"
...
...
Zoi thought about this conversation later, but its meaning eluded him, and he didn't remember everything that had been said. And it was hard for him to focus because the central thought, to which he returned, again and again, was how strange it felt that Aconite with her status 2,790 scores messaged him again. Strange and pleasant. And flattering. He was falling asleep, and colorful rainbows started dancing before his eyes. He saw a bright green meadow lit by the sun, and unicorns fluttering in the air.
Zoi opened main menu window with the list of names. In front of each name was placed a marker, indicating its current status. Most of the markers were dull gray, "status indefinite." Then he saw a bright green light, which gave him a sharp jolt of excitement. Somebody had chosen him. How strange... Then he saw the name, Aconite.
Zoi walked down the street, and breezy music played in his head, a rhythm inaudible for anybody except him. His eyes shone, emanating rainbows, like those, he saw in his dream. He tapped that rhythm on the surface of air; he whistled it into space, he didn't feel his weight. Like, was it zero gravitation situation or something? And something warm and sparkling overwhelmed his head. He felt a bit hazy, the sunlight, and blue sky with joyful clouds floating there...
"Doc, status report, Aconite, status changed to engaged, Zinc, status changed to engaged.."
"How many status updates we got overall, since the last upgrade?"
"Eight,"
"Ok, let's roll out patches. We will apply patch 391.5 to all the chatbots regardless of status and further patches to the bots with status "indefinite." Plus, let's put online a dozen bots, built on that new framework version. They are supposed to be faster."
"Roger,"
Bobo
Bobo slowly ascended to the ring, his body shuddered, his eyes darted back and forth. Taking a closer look, one could notice that his pupils were contracted to pinpoints. This was what the physician saw as well and demanded an expertise. Like, somebody right before the fight pumped him with stimulants to the point of explosion. But the expertise didn't find anything. Apart from an extremely high level of testosterone, but that was natural.
Nick smiled contemptuously and adjusted his immaculate cherry necktie. All his clothes looked immaculate, smooth, and somewhat shining. His clean-shaven face looked young, boisterous, slightly touched by wisdom lurking in the crow-feet at the corners of his eyes. His eyes were shining with mischief. A young similarly breezy looking woman in a red dress stood beside him with sparkles of excitement dancing in her eyes. Her wheat-colored hair was slightly ruffled, which gave it a look of dancing fire or fluid gold. Nick and the accompanying him woman smiled at people, approached them to say hello. It was like they were really happy to meet all those people. Behind this sincere cheerfulness, and surprised laughter in their eyes, and friendly coy smiles it was hard to recognize a slight note of contempt. Only when Nick turned his eyes aside, they briefly showed a hard glint of steel. Or when the woman's smile faded, her eyes for a split of a second looked slightly squinted as if she was a sniper, tracking her target. Then the smile returned, and, once again, she looked like a sunny goddess, with an invisible wind ruffling her golden hair.
Bobo stood on the ring. Slight shudders passed through his muscles like swift waves. His skull was shaved and reflected lights of projectors like a bizarre knobby egg. His body was skinny and wiry; it looked like he was made of a mess of tangled cables and ropes, tied in knots at his elbows and knees, with a dry sallow skin stretched over it. Bobo's knuckles clenched and unclenched convulsively; he studied with a mad fury of a wild animal his opponent, who was preparing to the fight in the opposite corner. The latter cast at Bobo occasional glances of horrified curiosity and amusement, as if he saw something so bizarre and ugly that it was both horror-inducing and, at the same time, somewhat funny. Something like a huge shabby rat with spider's legs and its belly cut open, so it was entangled in and stumbling over its own intestines. Something like that. Bobo's stare was fixed at one spot; he didn't blink. Slight shudders kept traveling through the ropes, wires, and knots of his body and clenched fists. Bobo's eyes shone with pure unadulterated madness.
Nick could discern from his position above how Bobo was ascending to the heights of mental and physical tension. He saw Bobo's shuddering muscles and fixed stare. Nick was satisfied. He could guess that the level of testosterone in Bobo at that point exceeded everything they were able to achieve during exercises, so it probably couldn't be better than that. Maybe, it wasn't that good that Bobo was, for all intents and purposes, insane, but this was something Nick was putting his stake on. It would make him just too quick. His opponent might've been rational and cunning with his strategies, and tactics, and tricks, and stuff, but Bobo was just too quick. Like an explosive device. Would any smart strategy help against a bomb going off in front of you? No. Bobo would just turn into a hurricane of destructive violence producing a blurred barrage of blows that would turn his adversary into a bloody steak before he could figure out what tactic he'd like to apply in this situation. Also, indifferent to pain and concussions. Fucking thrashing-machine. In a bare-knuckle fight with no holds barred, Nick knew, there would be a lot of blood and broken bones, and stuff. Like, squirts of blood. This was what made it the first-rate spectacle and drove rich folks to the show. Nick thought of how his concept of creating this senseless windmill of pure aggression perfectly aligned with the fundamental idea of those matches. Tactics, strategies, skills, all that, Nick thought, it was something different, something irrelevant here. If this was art, Nick knew what colors and strokes were appropriate. It was, indeed, the art of bloody madness, and those who tried to bring some rules here were truly crazy.
Each time Nick fucked Bobo's wife while Bobo was in the pit, seeing and hearing everything, but unable to get out of the pit or do anything, Bobo's testosterone spikes were getting higher and higher. Nick could measure them, and he liked that the figures he saw were consistently increasing. Then Bobo would thrash in his pit, beating at everything that caught his attention. For hours. Nick regulated Bobo's diet, switching between an abundance of high-calory food and long stretches when Bobo didn't get anything to eat. This fucked up Bobo's metabolism and further aggravated his mental condition. Together with the cocktail of drugs suppressing his frontal lobes and his wife fucking sessions. Nick saw that Bobo was turning into an animal, and, although at the beginning he was afraid that all this could irreparably ruin Bobo's physical health and render him useless, Bobo, in fact, was getting stronger and quicker, thrashing in his pit endlessly day after day, pummeling things, driven by a high-voltage testosterone rush. Eventually, Nick decided that it could work out after all. Bobo was losing his mind, but his reflexes were getting sharper. His amygdala worked perfectly. Fucking human-lizard.
Bobo stood on the ring, brightly lit by projectors; his eyes were fixed on his opponent who stood before him, studying Bobo with a mix of amused curiosity and disgust. He knew he would win because he was smart. And Bobo was an animal. And animals always were destined to be defeated by humans. It was the law and the principle of evolution. Brains always mattered more than the raw power of muscles and tendons.
The referee gave a signal and the fight started.
Bobo's opponent rushed forward, dodged to the right, swiftly slid forward a bit more, finding himself in a position where Bobo's head was unprotected in that split of a second, and inflicted a crushing blow from below into Bobo's chin.
Bobo ignored the blow, pain, concussion, and slightly dislodged jaw, and jumped on his opponent pummeling him with a blurred hail of strikes that coalesced into a hazy vortex of raw destructive energy. There were several loud crunches. Bobo's opponent's nose turned into splinters and went inside his skull, leaving a thick trickle of dark blood painting his chin and lips as if he wore badly smeared dark red lipstick; his right eye exploded in its eye socket, and hazy sticky liquid ran down his cheek. Then something cracked in his neck, he went limp and slumped on the floor.
Bobo rushed away from the arena. The referee tried to intercept him, but Bobo made an imperceptible motion with his hand and the referee went flying in a wide arc in opposite direction, while Bobo covered the rest of the distance. A cop in his way was pulling out his gun. Bobo made another slight gesture, and while the dead cop was subsiding on the floor, Bobo captured his gun, quickly aimed and fired.
Nick didn't expect anything like that. Therefore, when the bullet entered his forehead and ricocheting inside his skull turned his brain into an eggnog, Nick still wore his friendly and slightly contemptuous smile. He didn't realize anything. It was just too quick. So Nick missed an opportunity to learn a lot of useful things, including that Bobo wasn't crazy after all.
The Writer
The writer sat in front of his laptop, dully looking at the unfolding fabric of text, which he kept crocheting with his deftly fluttering fingers. He knew that it wouldn't take him long to finish the remaining paragraphs, and then the norm would be fulfilled, and he would get food. There were only 2,000 words left. When he finished the 10,000-word norm he had to submit it to the special verifier, a smart program that assessed that the text was unique, intelligible, that it didn't consist of random words hastily put together, that the writing made some sense, and so on. If all the criteria were satisfied, the program pointed out grammatical errors that had to be corrected, and after this light edit, the writer submitted the text again. Then the laptop produced the sound of fanfare and images of semi-naked anime girls, and automated system, connected to the laptop, put in motion a series of elaborate devices, opening the slot in the wall, through which slid a tray with hot, fresh, and steaming food. The last time it was a pile of voluptuous, succulent pieces of fried chicken with a crispy crust, exuding hot sizzling juices, and a golden mount of baked potatoes, languishing in spicy chicken gravy, emanating heat and maddening aroma of pepper, bay leaves, cinnamon, coriander. A tender and friendly fragrance of hot potatoes and a pungent note of fresh parsley sprinkled atop. The meal was supplemented with a huge mug of cappuccino with a thick layer of foam on top, exuding an overwhelming air of sweetness and serenity.
The writer started slowly - unhurriedly taking small sips of coffee, greedily ogling the chicken obscenely spread before him - stretching the moment of pleasure. Then when he wasn't able to control his instincts anymore, he sped up, wolfing down the artwork of chicken and potato, climaxing. Then, after the last piece had been gobbled and swallowed, he relaxed, slumping in the chair, and the flow of thoughts and images, spurred by the influx of carbs, rushed in his mind, producing sparkling iridescent whirlwinds of ideas, metaphors, and rhymes. Then several minutes later, after the haze of satiation dissolved, he opened a new blank page and started typing.
Now he had a norm of 10,000 words he needed to accomplish to get food again. He knew that he would only be able to finish it the next day, but it was better to start right away, while his brain was boosted by this powerful injection of carbs, which at the moment mixed with oxygen in his blood and exploded like gasoline in motorcycle cylinders, producing scintillating cascades of neural activity. He could put down the outlines, the ideas arranged themselves in his mind effortlessly, metaphors were born like cells of algae in the primordial ocean electrified by lightning bolts. Then he would continue to work, plowing ahead hour after hour, until his energy was drained, and he would drift into sleepiness, slumping in his chair. After twenty minutes of idleness, the laptop would switch off the screen and start playing a random collection of soothing jazz melodies, which the writer wouldn't hear. And when he'd wake up in the morning, he would still feel fresh, still retaining a part of carb energy he got the previous day. He would check how far he was from fulfilling the norm. Usually, half of the text was done at that point. 5,000 words, plus-minus. He could finish the rest, powered by the remaining energy. Although closer to the end he would feel drained and hungry, and it would be harder and harder to press on. He could picture it as an indicator in his brain, showing the level of remaining gasoline approaching zero. Then his thoughts would start scattering, and it would be hard to keep in mind what he was just writing about, what should follow? What was the whole idea? And the next idea, and how they should be connected and so on. Then he would be almost completely exhausted, and there would be about 1,000 words left, and he would crawl the remaining distance, fumbling with the starving neural endings, searching for words, ideas, sentences. Then he would make a final spurt, and the file would be ready to submit to the smart verifier program, and there would be food, and then the cycle would start from the beginning.
The food tray went back into the wall, and the writer sat and tried to focus on what he had to put together this time. He experienced a strong flow of energy, but he couldn't concentrate. Because he was besieged by doubts and distracting thoughts; something irrelevant, like, was he a good writer or he sucked at writing. This thought obsessively buzzed in his head like a wasp, scaring away all other thoughts and preventing the writer from getting back to work. As if it mattered whether he was a good writer or not. At least the smart text verifying program considered him good enough to approve his texts time after time, triggering food dispenser. Inundated by misgivings, the writer started dozing off, a warm tender haze of sleepiness enveloped him, and then reality slid away in a whirlwind of dissolving colors and sounds. He heard an echo of soothing jazz melody, playing somewhere far away.
The writer woke up late at night. Nothing was done. He had to produce 10,000 words, and he didn't feel that energized. The energy from the last meal swiftly dissipated; there wasn't much left, and the writer wasn't sure if it was enough to cover the whole distance. Plus, he felt as if his head was filled with a thick layer of cotton. He felt numb, and the flow of his thoughts dried out. Like, if before it felt like a strong and boisterous sparkling stream, now it was a tiny dying trickle, mixed with mud, crawling among dry barren land and rusty cogs and wheels of the writer's brain. 10,000 words. It seemed like 1,000 miles through a desert when you are still at the beginning of your route and you already desperately want to drink, and there is no water.
He looked out the window. It was dark outside. The window was bulletproof and it didn't have any handles because it didn't open. It was just a solid transparent continuation of the wall. It could just as well be a wall. The door was locked. It was covered with a friendly looking wooden paneling, but the writer knew that it was made of steel. An inch of high-quality steel. It could just as well be a safe door. The room contained a desk with a smooth dark polished surface, on the top of which stood a wide shining screen of a laptop. Near the desk stood a comfortable leather chair, at the moment occupied by the writer, who fidgeted and nervously gnawed his fingernails in agony. The room was lit by the soft warm light, coming from round lamps embedded in the ceiling at equal intervals, comprising a nice symmetric pattern. The light was bright, warm, and slightly yellow, like that cast by the sun during a brief period when a sunny day drifts into the evening. Near the wall stood a sofa and bed, covered with a motley, flamboyantly colored plaid. On the opposite side stood stacks of bookshelves filled with books, magazines, small colorful statuettes depicting horny and hoofy satires copulating with nymphs, and various other animals, including cats in various poses. To the left of the bookshelf was a door leading to the lavatory. It had a source of clean drinking water, a shower cabin, and a cabinet filled with various soaps, shampoos, shaving kits, aspirin tablets, and other paraphernalia. The room was fully automated, soundproof, and, for all intents and purposes, locked, not leaving any chance for anyone inside to escape. The air was supplied through a ventilation system, and the food was delivered every time, when a fresh load of 10,000 words of original writing was submitted to the smart verifier program, which evaluated if it really was original, coherent text, not containing any plagiarisms or gibberish.
The writer was sitting in the leather chair, hungry, nervously fidgeting in despair, and gnawing his fingernails.
A Party Night
It's somewhat five in the morning. Sometimes I see occasional tourists huddling outside, after a turbulent clubbing night. They stand among vast plains of wet asphalt; solitary shapes of human beings in the infinite space filled with cold mist. Sometimes they are wrapped in colorful sheets of national flags. During the weeks of football craze, I started to automatically recognize colors. Greens and yellows of Brazil, pale blue and white stripes of Argentina, red, golden, and navy blue of Colombia. I like the enormity of open space here. It stretches to the distance like a concrete field, soaked in a drizzle. Traffic lights flash yellow, and there is no traffic. The streets are empty, and it somewhat reminiscent of the opening scenes from the 28 days later movie. An empty city soaked in pale light at five in the morning. I see a guy wrapped in Colombian flag, sitting on the wet marble parapet. I remember that for some reason I wanted to meet some Colombians, but I cannot remember why, like what I wanted to say or ask, plus he looks tired and sad. I recall that Colombia just lost the match, so I just keep strolling by. It's cloudy, but the morning light is getting brighter, and I decide that probably an hour passed since I started this stroll. I can catch the subway, but I decide not to hurry. There's no reason for that. The air is fresh and cool, and this pale cloudy morning evokes some sense of melancholy, not related to anything in particular. I walk along the stone parapet of river embankment. It's also wet from the drizzle that soaked everything an hour before and left vast shallow puddles on the endless plains of asphalt. Four in the morning, I'm slightly dizzy from this very long day without sleep, a stream of people, conversations, and attempts to figure out what's going on in all the noise and bustle of the club. It's already light outside, and there's a mist and imperceptible drops of water in the air, the atmosphere is chilly. The last time I've been here on this porch, it was still night, sort of, and a slight drizzle made it too cold and uncomfortable to stand there in a t-shirt for too long. New arrivals in flamboyant shirts, depicting various South American national colors, argued with the bouncers about something. I lost track of what this all was about. Ah, the bouncers charged deposits for the tables, so eventually, everybody first engaged in a sort of vigorous haggle. Like we did a couple of hours before. I wondered if I could meet some Colombians, like, there was something about that, why I wanted to exchange a couple of words with them or something. I don't really remember why. Or ask something, I don't really remember what. Time passes quickly and imperceptibly, like, it was three hours filled with the heat of loud music and bodies moving in its fiery rhythm, scents of perfume and musk; it's way too loud to talk, but somehow we manage to do that, shouting directly in each other's ears. Sensual semi-darkness and a dance of colorful splashes and lasers on the dance floor. More people are coming in, flashes of light, reflections in their eyes bounce back at me, and the endless stream of motion is getting mesmerizing. It's like fire. It's impossible to distinguish its form in the endless ever-changing pattern of flames and tongues; it just keeps dancing, producing this hypnotic harmony of nature. Five hours in the morning. Or maybe it's six. I lost track of time during this long stroll through empty streets. I can definitely just jump into a subway train at this point, but I decide not to. There's no reason to hurry at this point, and there is an option of walking through the city in those early morning hours and maybe see a proper sunrise. Although it's unlikely to see a proper sunrise with all those clouds, at some point, I notice tentative flashes of sun on the leaves and among the grass. I turn left and see the sun, already quite high above the horizon, so I realize that it's already about six o'clock. Or maybe seven. Which at this point doesn't make any difference. I'm in the park. On my left is the river; I see how it bends to the left somewhere far away, so I can observe a stretch of the route I'll reach an hour later if I continue walking along the bank. There's a vending machine nearby and I drop my remaining coins in it. That's all that's left at this point, so I hope that whatever falls down from that machine would have some nutritious value or something. So it's a pack of nuts covered and saturated with sugar to the degree when it feels like it's just pieces of sugar with some nut flavor in them, so it kinda suits me well. Like, the maximum amount of pure carbs or something. Layers of clouds are interspersed with patches of pure blue sky, and cheery glimpses of the sun from the east find their way to illuminate the grass and cascades of foliage, indicating that, after all, it's a perfect summer morning. The air is getting warmer, but it's still cool; probably it's a perfect weather for a stroll when the heat doesn't muddle the thoughts. So my stream of consciousness flows unimpeded, and I begin to wonder if I can get something from that. Like, I don't know, some story or something. I see white roses once again, solitary and strange in the empty park.
There are so many events, happening in quick succession, and, once again, there's a feeling that summer is swooping past too quick, like a speed train. Summers have this quality, like, they are always so brief and swift. An initial perception that there's so much time quickly dissipates when you realize that it's already the Solstice, and you are in the very middle of the summer, while just days ago it was like, it was only approaching and looming with its endless possibilities. Maybe, it's the most insidious feature of summer that it has only so many days. Maybe one day I'll find a way to slow down time, so it would be possible to squeeze into it everything.
The Seed
June 3. The seed felt the warmth coming from somewhere above. The soil around it soaked this warmth, getting softer. Ice that had been there for several thousand years suddenly was covered with the thin layer of dew.
June 24. The microscopic cracks snaked through the ice with the vicious rasp, multiplying. The seed felt how the rigid icy rock encasing it got warmer.
July 10. The ice kept melting and crumbling. Something inside the seed clicked. It started getting bigger, slowly pushing softening ground around it. Far above, on the surface brightly lit by the sun, at the clearing among the infinite ocean of pine trees stood several huts, drowning amidst the wild grass. They were abandoned except the one occupied by an old hunter. Every morning he went outside and trudged among pines, bogs, and mosquitoes until night, looking for the game.
July 17. The seed grew ten times its initial size. The rigid soil around it crumbled, giving way. The cracks in the surrounding ice coalesced into a dense web of capillaries, filled with dirty water. The seed avidly absorbed the water. Several dozen meters above on the surface the old man sat on the improvised stool made of a tree trunk and skinned a rabbit. A breeze touched the pine branches producing a quiet murmur.
July 21. The seed grew, compressing the wet ground around it. Now it was as big as a huge watermelon, and its growth accelerated. It was getting warmer, heating the surrounding soil. Inside the seed grew a sprout. It snaked and twisted into coils like a taut metal spring of the train shock absorber. High above on the ground, the old man swung heavy ax chopping the tree log into pieces. The surface of the ax blazed, reflecting midday sun.
July 24. The coils of the sprout inside the seed grew thicker and heavier. The sprout, now much bigger than a train shock absorber, kept weaving new steel coils one atop another. The seed itself now was big enough for a grown horse to fit inside it. The enormous pressure it put on the surrounding earth compressed it into a strange substance, hard like a diamond. It started to produce a monotonous squealing sound like a faint echo of the rusty swings from far away. The ground, violently pushed by the seed, produced an imperceptible swelling thirty meters above on the surface. The old man lied in the grass looking at the deep night sky twinkling with myriads of stars, bright and mysterious.
July 25. The spring of the sprout slowly straightened inflicting a monstrous strain on the substance directly above - the ground compressed by the pressure to the density of a diamond. The ground started producing a deafening screech. The surface of the earth above curved slowly taking the appearance of a gigantic sphere. This gradual transformation, though slow, could be already discerned by a naked eye. The old man woke up. He heard the strange sounds - plaintive squeaks and groans. It was impossible to determine where this haunting sound was coming from; it felt like it was coming from everywhere. It filled the air gradually getting louder. The old man got up and opened the door
Anxiety
Coiled as a metal spring, rushes of adrenaline flowing through his body, making his eyes white and wide, his teeth bare, ready to snarl, to snap, to jump. Seeing things in the shadows. Seeing reality around him tightened, filled with tension.
His muscles involuntarily tensed, his thoughts rushed like a flood, while he tried to take them under control, to form a normal stream of consciousness that would allow him to figure out what to do next.
A dim incandescent light glowed, illuminating the room filled with rustles and murmurs. Full of ghostly voices that started to condense in the corners, gathering, getting ready to assault.
He threw glances back and forth, too scared to move, feeling that total stillness would help to postpone the assault, nerves too frazzled, silent scream choked in a tightly closed throat unable to escape. Trembling fingers, cold sweat, intense stare, registering things around without being able to really understand, what is it before it.
The unbearable tension of a high voltage wire, blue sparkles cracking and spattering every time the contact is lost or re-established. Things floating in and out of blurry vision. Fight or flight response converted into a stream of consciousness, a stream of phrases.
White eyes wandering insanely, seeing things like for the first time. Ominous whispers somewhere from the outside. Flashlight.
Emptiness, void sucking the air out of the room and into an open space. Short ragged breathes, the sound of blood in the temples. Cold shivers and stillness in an attempt to wait until another bout of fear would pass.
Fear coming in waves, one after another. Short moments of relief before the next billow drown the things around in a sticky, clammy coldness of despair.
Streams of traffic run through the night leaving trails of dissolving lights, red and yellow. Sounds and whispers coalesce and disseminate.
And the reality once again coils into a hard compressed metal spring ready to snap, hitting the charge, and everything will explode in a white flash and bang flooding and consuming yellow incandescent light, quiet whispers and a hum of the cooler.
Everything is waxing and waning, a blurred view of a track in front of the sprinter; to spring up and run at the sound of a gun.
And the seconds before this gunshot lingers as an eternity, painful and unendurable, too slow, filled with air and yellow light that are becoming denser and denser with each passing split of a second, when breathing stops, because everything is caught in such a brief period of time, when breathing is irrelevant, and it belongs to some wider span of time, to some other reality, moving slowly and leisurely, not this one, consisting of coils of springs that snap with horrifying metallic clang, causing flashes and explosions.
It's some different reality far beyond.
The Serenity of Grass
The serenity of grass shivering under a gentle breeze, basking in the ocean of sunshine and waves coming through the air.
White fluffy clouds are passing by, everything is so slow as if the time itself slowed down, and the flowers, trembling among the grass, is the only reminder of the existence of the concept of motion.
Things coalesce in a single flow of light, grass blades dancing in unison, creating undulating patterns flowing serenely away to a grove of apple trees, squat and wearing gorgeous crowns of emerald leaves.
The air is filled with heat and silence, and there's only some remote murmur of traffic far away, subdued and unimportant. Streaks of white intersperse the sky, and one can only guess about their origins, they are so different and strange.
And beyond the cobalt blue dome is an infinite black space, which is hard to imagine, despite pale specks of stars that appear when the sky is getting dark and purple, and the clouds are pink, reflecting red lights of the sunset.
Those cycles of life and destruction are strange in their constancy; in the identical feeling they produce, time after time, year after year; each time they are shorter and more urgent. And stretches of death are deeper, more dangerous and profound.
With shadows lurking in dark corners and random sounds suddenly starting to sound ominous and foreboding. Those sounds are coming from the different angles and sources, they coalesce into some singular melody, monotonous and soothing. Dissipating back into separate threads: whispers, rustles, remote voices, grumbling of engines, the humming of the cooler, silence of immobile trees and darkness.
Swift passage of minutes filled with lines and lines of information, accumulating and creating endless echoes and reverberations in the brain. Lights and shades, chilly air, and stillness of yellow and orange lights outside. This endless ribbon of time, flowing and undulating, slowing down and speeding up all the time. As if the time can be compressed or stretched. One single moment, and hours of tranquil observation of a single spot, and the flow of thoughts smoothly passing by like a river.
The Hot Roasted Chicken
The hot roasted chicken with crispy golden crust with cracks revealing tender white succulent meat emanating fragrant vapor laid on a huge dish surrounded by delicate baked potatoes, smoking with heat, spicy and poignant, juicy and yellow, sprinkled with black pepper and delicate sprigs of parsley, like the miniature trees growing on the sultry yellow mounds.
The sweet and dainty shrimps, there pink, juicy bodies lounging in a white sauce added a subtle note, a mix of sweet and sour, a piquant aroma of fragile, sea creatures.
Slim golden slices of cheese and pink marble ham with an exquisite pattern of white streaks, cool and delicious.
Raspberries ripe and pulpy, soaked in whipped cream, exuding red juice, moistening the fluffy, pure whiteness.
The roughly cut pieces of cake with the thick layer of glistening chocolate glaze, brown cocoa insides oozing vanilla cream mixing with lavish crumbs of delightful pastry.
The Voyage (fragment)
A quick dash through the bustling street. Insomnia. Faces of people coalesce into a blur.
A martian cop stands immobile like a black statue peering at me through the dark glasses. His face impenetrable and suspecting. I'm getting paranoid, too little sleep. Taxis rush past me, hysterical honks, blares, flashes of traffic lights, green, red, blue, pink, orange, green.
I want to slump on my knees and vomit. I'm tired, but I need to find a safe place first. This street is not a safe place, and also it looks indefinite. And to walk through the crowds is as easy as to swim in the ocean during the storm. I fumble in my pocket, my fingers slide over pieces of paper, checks, some crumbs. Disgusting. I'm looking for a piece of a tab with the remaining pills. There should be two of them at least. This way I would be able to last a bit longer.
My fingers scratch the insides of my pocket, and I realize that I have no idea what I would do, if they are not there. I have no emergency plan for this situation. I wouldn't be able to move probably. And I wouldn't be able to fall on the pavement because the black martian cop in his shining black helmet and his shining sunglasses will notice me. And this is something I can afford even less than hell and suffering.
A green Varian guy passes me warbling into his phone. A laughter with ultrasonic waves in it. The traffic moves slowly like a metal river, flashing its lights, relentless and oblivious. I see a face of a Martian woman, pale and haughty, looking past me without expression. She wears an elegant gray coat and dark glasses. All the Martians here wear dark glasses because the intensity of light on this asteroid hurt there eyes. Although, it's weak and pale as if it's a constant overcast here, all the time.
The crowd catches me in its stream and carries me to the other side of the road. I don't really care on which side of the road I am now. I'm completely disoriented, my thoughts are blurry, and I cannot gather enough strength to organize them enough to figure out the direction I need to go. On both sides of the road stand the walls of huge buildings; their gleaming and sparkling glass walls reflect the commotion, flashing traffic lights, and crowds of running people; racial diversity of ten thousand different planets.
The tops of the buildings are invisible beyond the clouds. The buildings are so tall that the sky above is visible only as a narrow stretch between the two infinite glass walls. Despite the feeble sun of this asteroid, the sky is still blue and somewhat beautiful, interspersed with innumerable clouds that float through it hurriedly and anxiously like those chunks of broken ice rushing through the river in spring.
Anxiety is the name of this place. Everything is soaked in it. It's in the stride of people, in their eyes, in the jerky movements of green and red clumsy cabs, in the nervous sound of their beeps, in the constant rustle of steps, like the sound of dry rain. My fingers eventually captured the torn off piece of a tab with two remaining pills. I fumble with the tab extracting the pill then clutching it hard in my palm I throw it in my mouth and swallow it. I do all this somewhat absentmindedly, my thoughts have drifted somewhere else,
I think about thirty-five hours I've already spent without sleep in spaceports of the four different asteroids and at spaceships. Passenger ships, cargo ships. Before the second connection, it felt like a more or less pleasant journey, first class lounge, fizzy drinks with lime, coconut palm rum, and leather couches, comfortable chairs in the spaceship and the holograms of a cheerful soap opera playing in front of me. It was in a language native for the second red asteroid with the name that was impossible to pronounce or remember. So I wasn't able to understand what was happening there except that it was weird. The native people on the second red asteroid were weird, with the orange tint of their skin, green eyes, and slightly elvish pointed ears. And the principles of their relationships were incomprehensible so I wouldn't understand a thing from this soap opera even if I knew the lingo.
The second connection was near the Venus satellite, on a space station that channeled the streams of migrant workers from the numerous Venusian satellites toward Mars. To the dirty and radioactive quarries of Mars satellites where they would work and die eventually. They wore shabby, dirty clothes, homespun checkered shirts, and colorful crocheted hats. They were cheerful, optimistic, hairy, smelly, and very alien. Their language reminded series of click and hisses, and when I stood in line with them preparing to board the spaceship traveling to my next connection in a remote place where nobody spoke Martian or Earth languages, and populated by races of which here people only had some really vague idea, I was spooked out of my mind.
I had been on the run for eighteen hours already. I hadn't slept. First I was attached to the news feeds flashing new updates about the situation at Erno every minute, before the connection switched off.
When it switched on again it was all in Martian, and it had no single mention of Erno. It didn't exist in this world where people spoke Martian and Earth, lounged in leather chairs drinking cocktails with coconut rum.
On the second leg of the route I fell into a state of mental fatigue, I couldn't fall asleep, so I sat in a comfortable chair of the spaceship and watched a soap opera of the red asteroid that I couldn't understand. The second connection was all about the hassle, confusion, crowds, incomprehensible languages, and noise. Strange men with huge black eyes and faces, overgrown by fur, wearing military fatigues and carrying the shotguns. Crowds of cheerful Venesuan migrants streaming around and producing shouts of delight finding some shabby, dirty, and suspicious food joints in the transit lounge. Confusion and mix up at the customs where some toad-like creatures noisily squabbled with the ragged guys pushing forward irritably, trying to get through.
Shortly before I arrived there on the second ship I extricated my second passport and travel card from a hiding place in a book I carried with me. Then I went to the lavatory, thoroughly torn apart the first passport and flushed it down the toilet together with the travel card and boarding passes. Now I was a different person traveling from a different place. It was a sort of alternative reality, something that only happened it the realm of these papers that told some story about me in a language I couldn't understand. Everything had been written in one of the Venusian dialects and I could only hope that there weren't any fuck ups in these papers. Otherwise, I would be stranded in this place or eventually taken to Venusian prison where they would disassemble me to supply the black market of organs. Or were those horror stories an exaggeration?
The third spaceship was a cargo ship slightly refurbished to carry Venusian migrants. It wasn't possible to sleep there because of the noise, vibration, and jolts. But mostly due to anxiety caused by the fact that I had almost no idea what I'd encounter at the third connection and how I'd have to act. There were certain problems in the travel card for which I had to figure out the way to solve.
At some point, I would meet a Martian who would direct me further, but only if I would make it successfully through the third connection, and this was a mysterious point where I didn't know what to expect. Combined with the problems in my papers, growing anxiety, and a state of feverish fatigue from twenty hours without sleep. Plus the noise, vibration, and jolts of cargo spaceships. Plus the loud snore of Venusian workers who sprawled all around the spaceship and slept; unfinished snacks from the transit lounge cafe strewn around them and dribbling from their open mouths. There were another six hours of waiting.
An Invasion (fragment)
Countdown. Five minutes left.
Green, orange, and red lights blinked on a panel, indicating the streams of information flowing through the multitude of cables attached to it.
The router repelled the attacks, discarding tens of thousands of packets per second, blocking addresses, fending off fragments intended to clog up the system. It fought desperately and tirelessly. At that moment It didn't make any difference. A string of bytes, small like a single cell of HIV, slid inside, enveloped in layers of code indicating a normal and harmless HTTP response. A web page requested by some bored and procrastinating employee.
The page with the disease reached the browser, and the browser started picking it apart, converting it into visuals. At some point, it reached this strange string of bytes and slightly puzzled pushed it into its stack trying to figure out what it was. In the next nanosecond, the browser observed with a horror how this string suddenly inflated into something big and disgusting like a tapeworm, weaving coils upon coils of its body, damaging everything around. The browser choked with this bloated, pulsing mass and crushed.
A nanosecond before browser's death the worm took full control of its brain and manipulating it as a zombie ordered it to embed it into the root process. During the seconds while the unfortunate employee wondered what happened to the browser and tried to reload it, the worm spread throughout the whole network taking control. Antivirus systems were shutting down everywhere complying with the orders of the root process controlled by the worm.
Opening already damaged gates wider, the worm pulled in the gigantic brain of the main program and put it in charge. The monster woke up and got to work, methodically checking openings and weak spots in the network. It didn't hurry. Now and then it made pauses to keep central anti-malware systems from raising the alarm. When it found the critical opening on the mail server in the form of a decade old vulnerability that IT team neglected to patch, everything in the network still looked as usual. The antivirus programs showed green status, everything safe and clear. Nobody had been aware yet that those programs were already under worm's control, and that the network was swarming with vicious tentacles; infected packets and reconnaissance units examining entry points of key servers.
The mail server had a small imperceptible hole in its defenses. An old and doddering program, some ancient messenger whose existence had been forgotten by everybody long ago. For the first time after fifteen years of slumber, the messenger heard somebody calling for him. He woke up cheerfully to receive the package. He was pulling it in when he realized that it was too big to fit, but the package kept pushing itself inside, brutally squashing the messenger's senile body. Before screaming and passing out the messenger performed its last command. The worm proudly emerged in the system as a privileged process, not restricted by anything or anybody. It unhurriedly took over all the administrative accounts and spread itself to other servers around the network. Anti-malware programs were choked before they could raise an alarm. For anybody looking at the computer screens, everything still looked as usual.
Now wearing the credentials of the domain administrator the worm entered the central domain servers. It didn't need to conceal its intentions at this point. It marched in openly, slashing the throats of anti-viruses. To its frustration, a part of the network controlling the nuclear facilities was separated by a gateway bristling with defenses and under the separate chain of command. They didn't recognize the worm's authority there. It was time to pass the controls to the human.
The Cascades of Sparkling Water
The cascades of sparkling water crushed from the top, accelerating on their long way down and broke over the smooth, wet, shining, slippery boulders at the bottom, dissipating into myriads flickering diamonds, dissipating into lively wet vapor, dissolving in the air. The whirlpools of boiling white foam excitedly gurgled and grumbled around the festively shining stones. The swift and foamy streams of water reached them at a tremendous speed and crashed over their gleaming polished surface, producing a constantly changing patterns of sparkling reflections that made the massive boulders look alive and frantic. Changing patterns of light on the stones created an effect of quickly passing facial expressions as if the stones actively considered something, and their thoughts reflected on their glassy slippy scratchy skin of marble, granite, and quartz.
The watery mist created a translucent veil, saturated with sunlight, interspersed with multiple rainbows, which danced, and frolicked, and taunted that grumpy and rugged granite wall. The wall stood sternly and disapprovingly, towering high above the water commotion, ignoring the games and laughter of iridescent diamonds and a vigorous gurgling of enthusiastic foamy whirlpools.
Pristine white, curly and solid as a cauliflower head, a cloud slowly and solemnly sailed by. Its movement was slow and almost imperceptible, and its shiny snowy plumes exuded joy and festive serenity. It was a huge joyous cauliflower juggernaut, passing through the laughing bright and azure ocean, endless with gay snickering ice-cream spots on its remote cerulean edges, far away into the eternity; marked by a barely perceptible haze of transparent feathers, teasingly and lazily stretched throughout the far edge of the sky.
A Giraffe
I sat on a crate and studied a landscape around me in a state of mild shock. First, there was a shy orange creature, reminding a giraffe, gingerly moving closer to me, then, after having second thoughts, suddenly skipping back several steps. Then the creature regained its composure and the process repeated. It started making small surreptitious steps, trying to get closer. Probably this back and forth was giraffe's method of hunting or something. The creature's similarity to giraffe, which I noted above, started and ended with its neck. It had a long flexible neck. There the similarities ended. On the critter's neck wobbled a massive globe like an oversized watermelon with a couple of tiny dark holes that probably served the function of eyes. There were no other orifices. Apart from eye-holes, the globe was smooth, glistening, with dark and light green stripes, spreading radially from its top towards its bottom. The creature's neck, as I've mentioned earlier, was bright orange, long, and flexible. It looked like a piece of flamboyant fire hose, suspended in the air by some miracle. The neck slightly wiggled and nervously spun around some invisible central axis like a skipping rope. The body of watermelon-headed giraffe looked weird. As a matter of fact, it didn't seem to have any fixed shape, at least it was impossible to tell what it looked like at the first glance. Sometimes it looked like a rapidly spinning pear, spreading around sparkles and whiffs of blue smoke. At some point, when I was distracted by something else, and then I looked at the giraffe's body again, and it was a slowly rotating triangle that gradually transformed into a pyramid, each of its planes being a mirror, reflecting a beautiful rose garden that wasn't there. Because I sat on a crate among a red desert. All around me was raspberry colored dust that rose in the air with every slight puff of wind, obscuring my field of vision and getting into my eyes, mouth, and nostrils, making me coughing, salivating, and crying. When that suffocating cloud of raspberry dust dissolved, or rather it had been swiftly carried away by the wind, I saw once again a rather sad picture of raspberry plains spreading towards the horizon. Ghostly tangles of tumbleweed scuttled through this desert, carried by the monotonous wind. Except that, there was nothing. But in the mirror reflections, comprising the giraffe's body I saw a beautiful rose garden, and I wanted to be there. Contrasting with the dry and stuffy air of the desert, full of suffocating dust, the garden was filled with infinitesimal drops of water, dissolved in the air. The air was cool, fresh, suffused with oxygen and rose fragrance. Dark cherry red, sensual scarlet, tender pink, melancholic yellow, pristine white flowers slightly trembled when tiny drops of water landed on their sensitive petals and kept sliding slowly along their semi-transparent surface, leaving cold wet traces, making them quiver and shudder in anticipation. Then the drops paused, balancing on their slightly curved translucent edges. Glowing ruby, calm and cuddly pinks and yellows created a subtle radiance, colors mixed with fragrance and sound of silence. Lively spheres, with silver glimpses and rainbows inside them, wobbled and shape-shifted for a second, hesitating, then they fell on the dark smooth gleaming surface of leaves below. The leaves looked almost black, elegant, and dense. Deep in their shade hid tall and stately rose stalks with claw-like exquisite spikes, the points of their tiny hooks red as if drops of blood from punctured fingers were smeared on them. More wetness and fragrance saturated the air.
I saw the giraffe approaching again, its watermelon green striped head twitching in nervous anticipation. Its neck kept spinning like a skipping rope faster and faster until its outlines merged into a solid ring of a noisy blur. I could distinguish voluptuous curvature of its hips and thighs, the hot velvety surface of its smooth swarthy skin and a dark prickly triangle of pubic hair. Meanwhile, the giraffe transformed into cascades of colorful ribbons that flopped and fluttered in the air. I turned my eyes to the landscape. To my deep relief, the landscape was something that never changed, it remained the same infinite plain covered with endless undulating waves of grass, spreading toward the horizon. The sun became dark orange, painting the sky around it with swatches of white, yellow, and red. Farther up the sky was getting darker, taking a deep purple hue, then transforming into dark blue hinting at the abysmal blackness of infinite space with handfuls of shimmering stars scattered through it. The giraffe melted into a puddle of liquid silver and floated above the ghostly pale translucent sheets of clouds among the dark purple sky. Billions of imperceptible dots of light flickered in the black infinity above.
A Foreplay (NSFW)
He threw her against the wall and the air escaped her lungs in a surprised gasp. She kicked him in the balls, and he snarled in pain.
"I'm going to kill you" she whispered hoarsely clawing his cheeks with her nails, leaving bloody marks.
He punched her in the nose and pulled her hair violently, her head jerked backward, blood dripping from her nose.
She drove her elbow into his stomach, and when the bolt of pain exploded into his solar plexus, she rammed her forehead into his nose.
His nose bridge was destroyed, and the blood was gushing from his nose leaving the huge sticky smears on his shirt. He bit her lip, his sharp teeth sank deep, and he felt the salty taste of her blood in his mouth.
With an anguished yell, she broke free and slashed his face with her nails. Deep cuts immediately filled with blood that started streaming down his face and neck.
With a growl she sunk her teeth into his ear chewing off parts of it, giving it an appearance of a bloody cauliflower.
They tumbled on the floor, kicking, smashing, biting each other. It was a rough foreplay, but it made them both wildly turned on in the end
Passion (NSFW)
The sweat was streaming over his face. It was hot, and he took off his shirt.
His bulging muscles were covered with sand and sweat. He squeezed the nipple and pulled it gently. He breathed in passionate, heavy gasps.
He began to thrust with all his force. He kept thrusting, breathing heavily, growling like an animal, hot sweat streaming over his face and huge muscular back and shoulders.
At some point, he made wild half scream half snarl when the jammed nut gave way, and the spring was finally released with a loud clang, and he knew that the most difficult part of repairing the engine was over.
He laid on the ground exhausted, breathing heavily, his shining muscular body covered with dirt, screwdrivers, spanners, nuts, and bolts scattered around him
The Voyage (Money Episode)
I thought the money should have arrived already. I began to sweat nervously, waiting for this signal, a cheerful announcement I got so used to. It wasn't coming. A slim, pale Martian in a dark gray suit sat across me at the table in this shabby hotel room. The table was too small to be useful for anything. Its polished black surface was covered with sticky stains from a drink, spilled during the previous night when everything began floating into the warm, relaxed darkness. The Martian accidentally touched the stain and pulled his hand back in disgust. He looked at me without expression in his cold green eyes.
"Are you sure, that you are going to receive anything?" He asked.
"Sure, it should be here in a few minutes. I got a message yesterday that the money transfer would arrive today roughly at this time," I noticed that my voice was a bit squeaky and unsteady.
"Okay," the Martian remained silent for a while looking at the window without interest, " I just want to be sure that you are not wasting my time,"
We sat for several minutes that felt like an eternity. Among an incoherent tangle of thoughts in my brain flashed several images.
Drops of murky liquid slid across the slimy wall and fell into the gutter with monotonous haunting sound. The address I was given led me to this steel door with a big and rusty padlock attached to it. When I saw the padlock, it became clear to me that the door hadn't been touched for a long time. The door and the padlock were covered in webs, and a couple of dozen greasy black spiders crawled on them. I knew it took months for a spider colony to become that big. It was an address from the site of Martian Blue Dragon Bank where I hoped to withdraw my money saved on that Blue Dragon Gold Debit Card. Hundred Martian Standard Coins. It was enough to cover my accumulated debts. The remaining money would cover my expenses on Mars 5 Asteroid for a year at least if I decided to stay here. Or it could pay my fare to a cheaper Green Paradise, and allow me to chill there almost indefinitely. I had options, all of them were good. So I thought. This piece of plastic - blue with a dragon, embossed on it in gold, still laid somewhere in my pocket like a cruel joke.
"I really don't have much time," the Martian said, "I can wait another fifteen minutes. Then I would need to ask you to sign the forms."
The forms laid on the table. Those were medical forms. On the top laid the one, describing the characteristics, quality, and estimated market value of my liver. On the right side of the form was printed in black and white the ultrasound image of the liver. The remained space was filled with fine print, interspersed with figures and formulas. Apparently, this information was supplied by the healthcare bureau that put all the immigrants through medical examination upon arrival. It felt like an eternity passed since then. Below the liver form laid a thick stack of papers describing my other organs, tissues, and systems. It would take a while to sign them all.
"I never received warnings about those overdrafts. What had been promised in your contract." I said just to maintain the conversation.
"Yes, sometimes they don't come due to technical issues. We work on that." The Martian said indifferently.
I could guess those promised warning messages never existed in the first place. As well as notifications about all the legitimate and phony paid subscriptions and services that accumulated on the Standard Martian Golden Card like the polyps on the underwater part of the ship hull. When the card went into overdraft the debt accumulated interest that accumulated interest upon interest, so this process quickly started to grow exponentially. I didn't know about all that when I arrived at Mars 5 Asteroid. What looked like a normal banking system to me, turned out to be something utterly different and weird. Still, I thought that I caught this unfolding spiral of accumulating debt just in time. Before it reached the wrong side of the exponential curve and shot into infinity. I had already owed a significant sum, but I still could cover it by the money I had on the Blue Dragon Card. It would consume roughly half of what I had on that Card, which was sad, but what remained still was enough. Or so I thought.
When I first tried to make a transfer from the Blue Dragon Card, the system froze for five minutes. Then it showed impassive "transfer failure" message. After the third failed attempt I started getting nervous. The Blue Dragon Card Customer Hotline returned silence. I experienced this spooky silence in the phone lines on Mars 5 several times before. It was something strange and unnerving. The line was empty, but there was also something else, some sounds on the brink of perception. I felt like I heard the sound of cold ocean waves, interspersed with the laughter of hyena, and chirping of dead birds. Or maybe it was my imagination. I couldn't tell for sure.