Labyrinth of reflections (37 page)

– Don't tell him that me is me, – I asked quickly.

– I won't. He didn't tell me any details either. Just questioned me about 'Warlock'.

– Zuko recognized your virus! – I exclaimed remembering Wiz's joy.

– Well, yeah, I showed him around a month ago… – Shurka narrowed his eyes, – Secrecy, damn it…

– Can he tell anybody?

Maniac shook his head.

– Not this is the real problem Lenia. Information has a property to slip away. Some stupid little blunders and coincidences like this one… They'll find you.

– Let them try to prove!

– Lenia… if you really did stomp on their tails so hard, they won't bother to prove anything. All of us are tied too closely. Somebody knows that Gunslinger and Leonid is the same guy. Somebody suspects that Leonid is diver. Somebody guesses that Leonid is Russian. Virtuality is living by information, by truth, rumors, guesses. And the most important thing is that any information can be easily gathered and analyzed. If to try really hard, one can learn everything!

– So what do you suggest?

– Get your ass out of here. – suggested Shurka pouring in the remaining cognac. – It'll be bad that I won't be able to drink beer with you anymore but… if you're dead, it'll be much worse… Shit, what, what the hell are you doing?!

– I'm rescuing a person.

– One should do it until he's not in trouble himself!

I nodded. Maniac is right. There's the normal hacker's logic in his words, not the one of the self-assured diver who can surface from the Deep.

Where would I surface if overtaken in the real world?

Complexes of physical weakness are strong in all virtual folks. It hurts too much to feel that you're God in the virtual world, but just one of the billions of ordinary people in the real one. That's why we all love martial arts and war games, buy gas and pneumatic pistols, stubbornly attend sport clubs and pump ourselves up in the evenings. Of course we want to feel ourselves as invincible in the real life as we are in virtuality, sure so. But we fail to.

And sometimes one can hear in the Deep: "Remember that guy? Some punks had stuck a knife in him in the alley… got poisoned with fake vodka… jumped out of the window, didn't even leave a note… crossed mafia's path…"

We remember, we know.

Only in the world beyond the screen we're Gods.

– I need just a day more, I suppose, – I said quietly, – Then I'll get out somewhere… to Siberia or the Ural Mountains.

– And don't tell anybody where you go, – nodded Maniac, – Don't even tell me.

The cups were empty and he suggested:

– Should I run to the kiosk for more?

– I still have to draw the body.

– Shit. Run 'Bioconstructor'.

In a minute we were sitting side by side fighting over control for the mouse and drumming against the keyboard. The first drawn body we had to reject – it was way too provoking: two meter high hefty chap, with a huge sword on his belt. All adventurers would pester him as Shurka noted and I had to agree with him.

The next personality was harmless and even pitiful: a tattered old beggar… maybe nobody would touch him, but he won't be able to carry Unfortunate for five miles either. This time it was me who vetoed without explanations.

But the third attempt was successful. The guy on the screen was quite strong but with such a babylike innocent face that I felt sick. We dressed him in the ground-long light-green chlamys and hung a rag bag onto his shoulder.

– A healer! – said Maniac satisfied, – A human, healer. Nobody will hurt you there without a reason, neither Elf nor Orc. Medicine is the thing everybody needs.

He started to stuff some jars, retorts, dry leaves into the bag, taking them from accessories menu.

– Will I be able to heal in the role-players' world?

– Sure. The situation there is like this – you come in this or that image and initially have some strength. For instance, a martial art or wisdom or gift of healing. The longer you live in that world, the stronger your abilities are. If you call yourself a healer, you'll be immediately able to fix small wounds or fractures, dislocations…

– How interesting, – I said looking at my new personality, I even started to like it. – Thanks, I would dress as a warrior for sure.

– Yeah, and would get knocked on the head by some old-timer's sword.

– Well, and in what image did you go there?

Maniac was confused.

– You won't tell anyone?

– No.

– I was Ariel the Elvish warrior.

– Why?

– Tried to score Goromir.

For a second I froze. It's none of my business of course, but…

– Goromir is a girl, – explained Maniac quickly, – It's a bloody mess over there, girls play men often and guys play women. I tried to score her for half a year…

– Any success?

– No… Goromir befriended Dianel.

I don't dare to ask who was Dianel in reality: a guy or a girl, too gloomy Shurka's tone was.

– If you meet Goromir there, say hi from Ariel, – adds Shurka, – We parted quite… well. Friendly. Shit.

– I need the server with the city of Lorien, ruled by Legolas. Is this a place where he… this Goromir of yours pastures?

– It's a 'she'! – cuts Shurka off, – I Dunn, haven't been at role-players' for ages. We'll find out.

He loaded Vika and started to browse through servers using terminal. In around five minutes the search was successful.

– Look! "Fair Legolas invites the wise Elves, the brave Humans and the quick Hobbits to the great city of Lorien, for the days of the last battle of the forces of the Good against the Orcs and the Dwarves have come!" They'll meet you with an open hug.

– This isn't necessary.

– Uh… what about some more beer? You have an hour and a half more.

A beer after cognac? Well, but I really have a lot of time, with Shurka's help we were through the drawing really fast.

– Okay, – I decide.

I locked the door after Shurka, fixed the door chain very-very accurately, looked into the kitchen to make sure gas is off.

I didn't feel myself drunk. Four bottles of beer is nothing and cognac doesn't count at all. Some odd wires, old slippers, scattered books were tangling under my feet all the way to the computer – Shurka stumbled and overturned the bookshelf when clung to it trying to keep balance. What could that mean?

– Vika, any mail? – I growled.

– I didn't understand you, Leonid.

– Any mail? – I repeated slowly.

– Yes.

Maybe two liters of dark beer, drunk in haste is not that little after all if Vika doesn't recognize my voice?..

I suppressed the fit of guilt and started to look through mail: some crap only. I should also take a look at the Bulletin Board.

Of course, none of my employers or friends knows my real address. If somebody wants to contact not just Leonid, but the diver, there's only one way – to post an ad at the Bulletin Board which is just a computer with a modem and lots of disk space to which anyone can connect and read all ads. A coded label allows to filter out unnecessary posts, the code doesn't allow lamers to fake the messages and the vague phrases of the letters themselves will be clear to the addressee only. Complete anonymity and reliability. Go ahead and try to extract secret information from love affairs, commercials and idle chat.

It's not often that I find messages for me on the Bulletin Board, but it was two of them today.

"Ivan! In the eve of the forest journey I'll wait for you at the place where we did division. Gray."

This is Romka. We "did division" in "Three Piglets", and the eve of Al-Kabar operation was a quarter of hour ago.

I sobered suddenly. Why would Romka look for me so urgently? He wrote the letter this night. Did he do it himself or at somebody's bidding I wonder? Man Without Face's, for instance?

The second message was expected.

"Seventy-seven. Where usual, as usual. Brothers."

Seventy-seven is my number. Brothers-divers are outraged…

According to the Code, I told my diver's name (also being the real one, by the way) to Anatol and Dick.

According to the Code, they filed a complaint against me: I intruded into their working territory and used weapons.

This can't be forgiven.

– Unfortunate… – I mumbled, – Bastard… What the hell are you doing with me?

Damned the moment when I was lured by the Medal of Complete License and rushed to rescue you!

– Vika, submersion, – I ordered, – Personality number seven… Healer.

I know three Romka's personalities, even four if to count the wolf. But today he appeared in a new one: a little scraggy youngster in glasses and with tousled hair. He stands by the bar, gazing around and in no way reminds an accurate Roman. I recognize him only when he drinks a glass of pepper vodka in one shot.

– Romka?

– Lenia?

We shake hands.

– Wanna drink? – asks the guy.

– No… I've… already, in reality.

– Alcoholic, – mumbles Roman. Yeah, says who? Considering his immunity to alcohol… – Len'ka, do you know in what deep shit you are?

– Yes. How deep?

– A complaint was filed against you… by somebody called Anatol' and Tosser. Details of the charge were not yet made public.

I nod. – I know about that.

– What, there are more troubles expected?

– Tons.

We often work together, I sympathize the werewolf and looks like Romka returns that.

– Lenia, what's the matter?

– Think a little.

Roman frowns and suddenly takes off the glasses nervously.

– Is "Warlock" your work? – he whispers.

– Good guess.

– It means that "Labyrinth"…

– Shhhhh… – I remember Shurka's words about spreading of information,

– Let's not talk about that.

Romka calls the bartender – today it is a program obviously – and refills his glass.

– Gee Len'ka, this is cool… – he mumbles, – Man you're in trouble… Up to the neck!

I suddenly understand that the werewolf is not scared by the severity of my troubles, neither does he worry about me – he's admired! He's ecstatic of such turmoil of action, of being himself lighted by a sheen of the scandalous fame. If we, being completely selfish, still can see an idol in another diver then I became one for Romka.

– If you need my help during sorting the things out, you'll get it, and not from me only!

Maybe I'll need that… maybe I'll get it. Roman is a very social guy, and a recognized leader in a narrow circle of divers-werewolves.

– I'll have to leave anyway, and for a long time, – I confess honestly.

Roman blinks quickly:

– What? From the Net? Are you serious?

It can't be more serious… I nod.

– Oh… and how will you live? – asks Romka in confusion.

Only we, the virtual world dwellers, can understand each other.

How can one live without the time, compressed by the Deep, without instant travels from the cool of the restaurant to the hot sand of the beach, without drawn jungles and imaginary mountains, without endless boiling flow of information, without ancient anecdotes and just finished books, without masquerade of bodies and costumes, without hundreds, thousands of friends and acquaintances living in all parts of the world?

How?

One must visit Deeptown to understand what he loses.

– I don't know Romka… But "Labyrinth" and Al-Kabar…

He nods. Everything is clear: elephants fear mice in tales only, and against these corporations we're not even mice, but just plant-louse.

– Lenia, if you need money… – says Romka suddenly. – I can return my part. You did almost all the job after all, and it was you who suffered. You'll need it if you're going to hide.

I shake my head, Romka is a good guy but I don't need such sacrifice.

– If possible… I'd like to ask you for a different thing…

– Whatever you need!

– I'll have to flee, to tangle my traces. I don't want to use hotels… if it'd be possible to stay at your place for a couple of months, until the noise calms down…

I don't know myself why do I ask for that. Maybe I just don't want to leave the Deep completely? To be able to watch the virtual world at least through Romka's eyes? To feel the electronic pulse, to swallow information…

– I won't be a burden… – I add.

But looking at Romka's face I understand that the offer didn't pass.

– No.

– Sorry. – I shrug, – I understand.

We fear each other anyway, it's easier for us to sacrifice huge money and to calm our conscience with that than to disclose who we are.

– You don't understand a thing… – mumbles Romka, – Do you want me to give you my real address? A city, a street, a house?

– No.

– I really can't receive you, – he averts his look, – These are… family problems.

We build palaces for ourselves in the Deep, but what about the real world?

For instance, I can accept guests despite the size of my apartment, but what if for the one of the same size Romka has a wife, mother in law and three snotty kids?

– Understood, – I put my hand on his shoulder, – I really understand, no offence.

But Romka looks past me anyway.

– I should go, – I say.

– Will you be at the meeting?

– Sure.

– And where are you going now?

It's a great temptation to keep mysterious silence and this surely would be the most reasonable choice, but I reply anyway:

– To scare the Elves a little. I need to go, Romka. See you.

When I leave "Three Piglets", he takes one more glass of vodka. Lord, this is atrocious! Or is he such a strong diver that doesn't feel intoxicated of so much alcohol?